Life on the Other Side of Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll
Although it’s the 20th anniversary of the day I got married, I’m not celebrating 20 years of wedded bliss. I’m merely noting that 20 years ago this week, in the grip of optimism, I tied the knot with a lovely man who should surely have known better.
David was in the Pixies, and these days, when I mention him, it’s because I’m working an angle — chances are that if I’m talking about David, I’m trying to worm my way into the heart of a job-wielding hipster. I speak of David so infrequently that most of my friends don’t know I was married; the ones that do think it’s bizarre. I can barely commit to getting out of bed once a day — thinking that I was somehow capable of taking this man til death do us part was akin to thinking I could do neurosurgery or sit through a Black Eyed Peas show.
I could have deluded myself into marrying an asshole but thankfully, I married David, who was both kind and tolerant. He was thoughtful, compassionate, and, most of all, he had a sense of humor. (My favorite line ever may have come when the Pixies toured with David Bowie. Mr. Stardust was a Pixies fan, and he was showing up in the band’s dressing room every night. David was tired of my Lucy Ricardo-style attempts to be in Bowie’s vicinity, and he attempted to dissuade me from my I-gotta-meet-him mission. “At first, it was ‘holy shit, it’s David Bowie,’ David Lovering said. “Then it was ‘Look, David Jones is here.’ Now it’s ‘Hey, that guy in the catsuit is back.'”) When the Pixies were in season, we’d have a blast, hooking up in London, Paris or New York, and when they weren’t, we’d have a blast in LA. I liked being with David and, other than the time he forced me to see Rush, we almost always got along.
The Pixies broke up shortly after David and I got married, and I felt bad for him; he had to put up with both the loss of the band and the addition of me. David had been a drummer and a highly decorated Radio Shack employee when the Pixies got together, and, unfortunately, he’d never done anything else. He was gobsmacked, as was I: I’d been a girlfriend with a boyfriend on the road, and suddenly I was a wife with a 24/7 husband in the house.
My response to David’s status as a stay-at-homer was to travel as much as possible. I was a publicist, and I went wherever I could whenever I could get away with it. (I once piggybacked an Oasis gig in Manchester with a Celine Dion junket in Montreal and, rather than return to Los Angeles, I went to see Iron Maiden in Memphis, Tennessee.) It wasn’t a solid strategy, and, not surprisingly, our marriage didn’t last. We got divorced a mere 18 years shy of our 20th Anniversary.
David and I may have been mismatched, but my memories of our time together are pleasant. I’m fairly sure David would say the same. Afterall, both of us are good: he remarried, the band reunited, and I was a Pixie wife.