Shortly after I moved to NYC after graduating college, while I was becoming who I’d be when I grew up, I was waiting on my ten-thousandth table at the Grand Hyatt Hotel and a young man I was serving told me he was with the Wilhelmina Modeling Agency and he liked my look.
He said that if I met him the next day on the corner of 12th street and 5th Ave with a headshot (or any other pics that would suffice), he’d walk them in to the agency. Although what I wanted to be was a songwriter I knew there would be other versions of me along the way. And modeling would definitely beat waiting another ten-thousand tables. Plus, I was flattered, gullible, INFLATED!
Why he asked to meet him on a street corner and not at the agency itself, I didn’t know, but I was 22. I was flammable, and he had a match. I didn’t ask questions. Besides, it had to be true. It was destiny!
I remember what I wore to that corner — a Pebbles Flintstone-esque mini-skirt and pink leather kitten-heels that I bought at Unique Boutique. I arrived and I waited. And I waited. As you might have guessed the dude never showed. He was probably watching me (in my ‘unique’ attire) from a window booth at a diner across the street cracking up with a buddy.
All he did was promise me a chance. He never touched me. I was made a fool of. Humiliated. That’s all. I was 22. I survived. I lived to tell. I can’t imagine how I would have felt if I were 14 and I granted him sexual favors in exchange for a break that never came. I surely wouldn’t be laughing about it decades later.
Which brings us to Ryan (another-one-bites-the-dust) Adams who, as we all know, is being investigated by the FBI for graphic texts he allegedly sent to a teenager and a New York Times report that several other young women accused Adams of helping them with their career in exchange for sex.
Of course he’s one of gazillions with the same disease — I’m untouchable. They won’t find out. I’ve been lucky so far so I must be immune. Maybe there’s something about the thrill of getting caught? Or not getting caught? Thing is, recording artist are protected by their managers and labels. Fame doesn’t live in reality.
But even with powerful handlers, one has to have a fatal flaw if they actually believe in current cyber culture they’re not going to get busted. There are simply too many traceable screens.
It’s occurred to me that anyone with genius has got to be a little bit dysfunctional. And it’s that dysfunction that makes for material worth listening to. It does for me! Beige is boring. Still, no excuse. I can subscribe to dysfunction. I can’t subscribe to sick.
But how much sick have we unknowingly subscribed to already? So much.
But sick with a naive yet consenting adult, is not as unforgivable. It’s mean. Gross. Pathetic. Psychologically abusive perhaps. I’m not defending it. But it’s not illegal.
Maybe Ryan’s self esteem is surprisingly so low that he’s afraid if he engages with someone his own age they’ll see through.
Whatever. I’m really bummed about Ryan. More so than others because selfishly, I WAS A FAN. I loved his stuff. Even the reboot of Taylor’s 1989. And…“Come Pick me Up”??? The best! I refuse to link it, though. I don’t want to give him another click. Can’t I hear it just one more time?
Sadly, Ryan Adams has deprived me of the very thing he worked so hard to cultivate. I invested. I got involved. He screwed over everyone who bought into the sensitive sad-boy message. How ironic. Today I swiped all his albums from my Spotify Library. What a waste. Everything’s different now. 😟I hope he gets the help he needs.