JUST LIKE A WOMAN. [zippy]

[jade]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color:white, border: solid #ffffff 5px; width: 400px; height: 500px;] The clapping hands were too much to bear. He had to get out of there as quickly as possible. No ifs, ands or buts. Grossman had warned him against treated his fans unfavorably, but he couldn’t help the crawling sensation that crept up his spine tagging along to the overwhelming feeling that he was slowly being choked. Of course, none of this would ever be uttered from his mouth. He was a protest singer. A label that he’d grown to both love and loathe – however constraining it was. The duet was set up for a close friend of his, who backed out at the very last minute leaving Dylan dumbfounded and slightly on edge – quite an unpleasant mix for those around him. And as he had set up to begin, slinging his guitar around his shoulders, mentally preparing himself to tackle the full deed alone… Zippy. Replacement. What? Those were the only words that reached his ears – automatically tuning out the details of the conversation almost involuntarily. He was the master of selective hearing, without a doubt. Knocking back glasses of whiskey on the rocks as his version of a pre-game, by the time he set up to play his words were little more than incomprehensible (not that he was any easier to understand sober…the audience most likely couldn’t tell the difference). The timing was skewed as was his entire train of thought. Undeniably distracted from the set altogether it took whatever will power he happened to possess to keep from throwing down his instrument and storming out of the building. After all, he was not in any state of mind (nor socially) to pull another stunt like he did on Ed Sullivan. Grossman would never allow him to live that down…neither would the press, the fucking hounds. He cursed the current situation silently to himself. The end. He was off, tucking his guitar underneath his arm and snatching up his case in one quick (but fumbling) movement he slunk away into the dressing room area where he then struggled to put his instrument away. Hand eye coordination had never been a strong point, and it was now even less – inebriation was both his best friend and his worst enemy, and right now it seemed to be working against him in the worst possible manner. ”C’mon you stupid fucking…” He barely had the words to complete his sentence, not that it matter any at all. The babbling that he uttered under these states was literally just mindless and should never be paid much heed. At least that’s what he concluded. Why was she here? What gave her the right to pull the carpet right from under him? It was a shame that she was so hung up, really. Although he knew that was just a lie he made himself believe. Nevertheless he refused to admit to himself and kept circulating the same notion over and over and over again until he was forced to sit down in a chair for fear of collapsing onto the ground. Or maybe that was just the booze. Placing his hand over his forehead he rested his elbow on his knee and bent forward, squeezing his eyes shut trying desperately to make sense of this. Grossman was sabotaging him, no doubt. The show went miserably, and it was all her fault. It was always her fault. Stupid chick. He swore in that moment to rid himself of all female attachments, starting with Zippy and concluding with Joan. Yes, even Joan. He would not leave any stone unturned. Of course, it would be heartbreaking, as he did possess a small (large) soft spot for Baez, but that was just the way it was going to have to be. ”I’ll be god fucking damned…” Continuing to mutter to himself, he lifted his head and shakily pulled a cigarette from his pocket, promptly lighting the tip and taking a long drag. Hold it. Count to ten. Much better.

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TAG: Zippy/emmy NOTES: lolwut OUTFIT: naww WORDS: dude

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[ZIPPY JUNE MCKENNA]

Grossman had called. Naturally Zippy hadn't picked up. Not because it was Grossman, Dylan's manager, but because she was rarely ever near a phone let alone settled enough to pick one up. Though Zippy could appreciate the wonder that was 'modern' technology she just couldn't find it in herself to sit down and gab. Many girls loved it but Zippy? It was just rather difficult to talk about anything, let alone animatedly, when you couldn't see the face in front of you. It was just a voice... Even robots had faces... Or so Zippy assumed.

Luckily for the manager his pleas finally reached her ears through a complicated network known as 'stoned musicians talk too damned loudly about other people's business'. McKenna had actually been in a rehearsal session with another band she was filling in for: Nothing serious just laying down a few basic beats so the damned lead singer wouldn't go off on belting tangents. Zippy's ears practically bled by the end of that one and not too soon either because when one of the studio recorders spread the word to her she had been halfway to knocking herself out on her own snare.

So Bobby's duo partner for the evening had fallen ill. Or had he just gotten sick of the man? This was debatable and Zippy sure planned on debating it once she got there. Grossman fronted the cab fare (of course her set rode shotgun) and Zippy found herself well on the way to the venue. Of course they stopped for a gyro first: Also on Grossman's tab (he wouldn't mind). However being left alone in the backseat also left a lot of room for thinking. Of course Bob was too proud to invite her him damn self. Or... At all... That was it... He had no freaking idea. He surely would have squashed the notion like a bug. He HATED her. Well, just enough to dislike her and not enough to not speak to her. In fact, she wasn't exactly sure how to explain their relationship other than 'ridiculous' and 'Well, Joan digs me and she wears da pants'. Well if he wanted to be that way... FINE. Another stop was in order (to her hotel).

By the time she arrived on the scene it was an hour to showtime. Zippy always arrived ridiculously early. Despite the carefree persona she reflected she was actually a stickler for time. However she didn't want to ease Bob's nerves any so she wandered about until the ten minute mark until showtime rolled around. Then the five. By the 30 seconds she found her way backstage and right behind that familiar tuft of messy hair. Reaching out she poked him bravely on the shoulder.

"Hey there Drunkee." She greeted with a cheeky little grin. Upon Bob turning around he would see her ridiculous outfit: Dark blue bike shorts, a tshirt, sweat bands, and a bright neon yellow headband. Standing there with a completely straight face there would be no right way to process this. But Zippy knew: She had done it for a laugh and to spite the man. The thoughts came hand in hand. Either way he couldn't argue it.

Making her way on stage as she twirled her drumsticks she was quite happy to be a good ten feet behind the powerhouse. For one everyone knew who HE was and could give a rat's ass about her. Two, it'd keep Bob, in his inebriated state, from whacking her one... Or two. Or three. He wasn't really a controlled sort. Either way the show actually went by rather well. The crowd was receptive (they even laughed at some of her antics, though she toned it down out of respect to Bob), their set went alright (though Zippy found her beats in this folky stuff HORRIBLY mundane), and the applause was pretty loud. Bob of course... Took in none of this.

Walking off stage a good portion of time behind the man she twirled her sticks again standing all alone in the dark backstage area. Where the hell had he gone off to? It hadn't gone *that* bad. Who was she kidding? It was Bob. ANYTHING involving anyone other than him always went 'badly'. Furowing her brow she frowned for a moment before swallowing any apologies and making her way right to his dressing room where she stepped inside without any fear.

"I'd say that went rather well." She broke the silence, a beaming little smile on her features as she swayed back and forth on the balls of her feet. "I was freaking adorable either way." She waved her stick at him before helping herself to a seat on the floor across from him, her dopey smile still on her face, bright brown eyes trying to crane into his line of vision.

[jade]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color:white, border: solid #ffffff 5px; width: 400px; height: 500px;] His eyes had slipped shut in the process of lighting the cigarette. Not that it helped the situation much – the only thing it really aided in was causing the room to spin upside down; right side up. Left and right and down and around and… Jesus Christ, he was going to be sick. As soon as he would set one foot into his home he would be sick. He couldn’t give it to it now. Not because the feeling wasn’t there, but because he was in no frame of mind to take a verbal licking from Grossman. That man had enough up his ass, and the last thing he needed was a drunken buffoon puking in the dressing up. Although the motives may seem generous, it was all for a selfish purpose – to save his own goddamn ass. Hearing the faint sound of someone entering, it took him quite some time to register the fact that whoever it may have been had taken it upon themselves to remain in the room. And not leave. Look, he was content with whatever decisions everyone else chose to make, so long as it did not affect him. And as of right now, any choice that was made to remain any longer than a decent ten seconds was affected him in a light that he did not deem positive. In fact, he dared call it detrimental. To his mental health, of course. He needed another drink. ”Whatever the fuck you think you’re doing, you…you better do it and get the fuck out. I’m not putting up with no shi-“ And it was then that he peeled his eyes open, focused his wavering vision and was able to (somehow) decipher the slender figure of…her. Blinking back at her with a rather washed out expression slapped upon his face, it took nearly all the self control he could muster in order to stifle the small smirk that threatened to curl up the corners of his lips. Not that he bothered to care about any such feelings or emotions…or heartfelt sorrow…he really wasn’t sure what was going on in the first place. Something new? Please. He was a veteran who just managed to keep himself under wraps for the past few years. That’s what he got for playing the dark horse card. He supposed. There was a trick to fame – to find the balance between personal and public. He though he’d mastered it, however his strength was beginning to wane, and he felt as if he was teetering on the brink of failure or something akin. Dylan couldn’t be too sure, and if there was one thing that mattered in life it was this: Assumptions were for the ignorant. Lies for the wise. ”Well, that all depends on how you look at it, babe,” he muttered under his breath, ashing his cigarette with a sharp flick of his fingers into the tray on the small table beside him. Slouching forward once more, he rested his elbows on his knees. Again. Allowing his gaze to trail from Zippy onto the floor, locking on a single fiber of carpet. Dirty, dirty carpet. Symbolic? Perhaps. But probably not. Sometimes a dirty floor was just simply a dirty floor. And sometimes a whore was just simply…a whore. Rubbing the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb, he squeezed his eyes shut yet again, almost silently wishing that if he didn’t look at her she would disappear. Like a horrible figment of his fucked up imagination. It made him sick. Well, sicker. But it was her last fleeting comment that cause him to nearly burst out into outright laughter; defiant of nature, the scoff type sound came heavy with the tone of a strain voiced – one that sounded as if it was ready to crack at any given moment. ”Yeah, babe, you looked smashing up there. Adorable, as you say…y’know…” He stared back down at his cigarette, peering at the smoldering tip through narrowed bloodshot eyes. ”There are some things more important than looks,” He was unsure of whether or not the words were even coming out of his mouth. He could hardly think them, much less speak them. He needed a pick-me-up; something strong. Something very, very strong. Playing show after show and signing album after album and hearing his name shouted time and time again…he was growing weary. Very weary. It was quite literally all he could do to get out of bed in the morning – his stamina had dwindled and he was counting the hours in which his health would start failing. Not that he had the best track record to begin with, but the subtle hints that left traces on his outward appearance would without a doubt only deepen. To keep the façade of dignity and poise was well beyond his reach now. Creasing his brows into a frown, Dylan gave his head a quick shake trying to brush off the night’s occurrences. He couldn’t let this ruin his entire night. Well, he could. Easily. But the more he dwelled on this the more bitter he grew – and lord knows he spent too many years living in anger. Although from the looks of it, he had plenty more to go. ”Y’know, Zippy,” he began again, for once addressing her by her real name – it made him cringe. Names humanized people. That was something he refused to allow himself to do. As far as he was concerned people were better held at an arm’s length – especially women. Humanizing humans wasn’t a healthy practice; and vulnerability was nowhere near his comfort zone. ”Why the hell are you even here, I just gotta ask you. I’d venture to say Grossman put you up to it, but the man loves me too much.”

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TAG: Zippy/emmy NOTES: lolwut OUTFIT: naww WORDS: dude

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[ZIPPY JUNE MCKENNA]

Zippy was most likely one of the rare few who could sit in the same room as Dylan in such a laid back manner without feeling an ounce of nervousness or tension. At least out of the people that he didn't consider a friend and Miss McKenna certainly knew better than that. Her and Bob, much like her and John Lennon, had never really gotten along. Though she would stick up for Lennon if he ever got into a jam with Bob it was quite different. He wouldn't have it. He wouldn't allow it. Most, Joan Baez included would all too eagerly point out that Zip and Bobby were the oddest friends that they had ever seen. Bob was always quick to argue it thus making it quite clear to Zip where they stood... Er... Sat. And Zippy enjoyed being friends with just about everyone but that wasn't the case here. They weren't friends. They weren't anything. Yet they spent time together. She helped him out (or hindered him, one or the other). They could sit like this and chat... No, definitely not friends.

Her arms draped loosely over her knees her drumsticks now resting on the floor at her side. Close by to keep tabs on them, close enough to throw them if things got out of hand. Still she sat there, rather relaxed all things considered. She even began to boredly drum on the tops of her knees out of lack of anything better to do with her body. Sometimes it was so damned difficult just to sit still. At least at a drum set you were moving constantly.

"Has anybody told you how much of a god damned downer you are?" Zippy rolled her eyes. How had she let Grossman trick her into thinking that this man, of all people, needed help: Let alone hers. In fact he seemed about every other emotion in the book other than thankful. He was making it VERY clear, as he tended to, that she had only gotten in the way. And frankly... It was pissing her off. She got the clue about ten snide remarks ago. "Don't call me babe." She warned with narrowed eyes, her flat american accent showing through and through. This was a reminder she often had to exchange with Bob either when he was inebriated or determined to irk her. This evening he seemed to be of both mindsets.

"It did go ok. Better than ok. Open up your ears once in a while." She scoffed. The drumming on her kneecaps had long ceased and she stared seriously at the man watching him extinguish his cigarette. Watching him look to the floor she made no restraint as she once again rolled her eyes. He was pouting. It didn't suit him.
"If you weren't so damned determined to hate the set before you even started you wouldn't be in this mess of your inner dillema crap. Get over yourself. You write words.. You don't save lives." Oh yeah, she'd probably regret snapping at him with that one but oh well, he was a big boy (or was *supposed* to be) he could handle it. And besides! She wasn't going to quite literally sit there and have him insult her. She had helped him out after all!

Her dark brown eyes narrowed again. "Call me babe again and I swear..." She warned. Honestly so mad about the nickname and how he was treating her (which was honestly how he usually did) that she didn't even think to threaten with a consequence. She then mirrored his action by letting out a sigh and rubbing her own forehead as though her doing the action enough would make the man disappear or, at the very least, shut up.

Him using her first name caused her to look up with a confused blink. He rarely ever did that... Or at all if she could remember. His on again off again lady Joan was much more likely to be the motherly one of the two and use her surname. Bob usually resorted to nicknames or taunts like the spoiled brat (in Zippy's mind) that he was. Joan was one of the few reasons Zippy actually considered coming. She was on good terms with the folk singer, enough to call her friend, and well... Zippy would always monitor Bob's behavior when Joan asked. If there was one thing Zippy was... It was loyal to a fault.

"Grossman put out the wire. You know him." His question, strangely, was innocent enough. So of course she answered though she knew that wasn't the specific answer he was seeking, so she did her best to elaborate though spoken word was not her strong point. "You needed my help. Course I'm gonna come." Hopefully that would be enough...