After leaving Tommy I lived in hotels and on the road before I was finally able to make ahome for myself. I came very close to buying Barbra Streisand’s exquisite1, palatial2 CentralPark West penthouse in an impressive Art Deco building. She famously has a passion fordesign; her home was decorated with impeccable taste that was totally compatible withwhat I loved. After all I went through to build Sing Sing it would have been a relief tohave a gorgeous turnkey home. But alas3, the conservative co-op board was afraid therewould be too many rappers, and their entourages, aka big black men, milling about, anddidn’t approve me. I eventually found a perfect building downtown, in Tribeca, andmoved into the kind of home I dreamed of as a child. Having my own glamorous5, giganticNew York City penthouse apartment was exciting but also totally disorienting. I wasfinally in my own space, but I often didn’t know where any of my stuff was or where itwas supposed to be yet. And I had no time to get my new place in order because I wasworking nonstop. I had a reputation in the industry for being a beast when it came toproductivity. I went hard in the studio, and I went equally hard promoting and marketing6. Iwas an all-in artist, and everyone I worked with knew it.
Having a new project on a new label was taking all I had, and I was giving as much asI could. There were all these new people at the label, and my personal management teamwasn’t properly restructured to accommodate the new demands. And quite honestly, allthe change and new, higher stakes overwhelmed them. My schedule was brutal8. I wouldhave a shoot or an event until 3:00 a.m., then a 5:00 a.m. press call. It was relentless9.
Nowhere in my itinerary10 was there R-E-S-T, and at the time I didn’t know how to demandit. When you’re working like a machine, there has to be human care built into the process:
nutritious11 food, bodywork, vocal12 rest, but most importantly, sleep. (I knew this, even if thenotion of “self-care” was a decade away.)
Of course, the timing13 of the soundtrack’s release couldn’t have been worse —something no one could have foreseen. People didn’t go see the movie. I still believeGlitter was ahead of its time. People may not have been ready to deal with the eighties inthe early 2000s, but I knew it was going to be a thing. And then it was! And I still love thatsoundtrack. I am so glad and so grateful that almost two decades later, the Lambs and I got#JusticeForGlitter, making it go to number one in 2018. I’m also glad I get to performthose songs now. The fans gave Glitter new shine, new dazzle—the life it deserved.
It was late in the summer of 2001. The few critics who were able to preview theGlitter movie almost unanimously panned it. The anxiety caused by its bad reception, andthe label’s reaction to the single only hitting number two, was seeping14 into my psyche15.
Honestly, the only other artist I’ve seen under so much pressure to perform above andbeyond their own phenomenal success was Michael Jackson. Like him, I was also used tohaving unquestionable smashes. It was my idea to make a whole-ass album called #1’s!
But still, number two on a new label, on a soundtrack (not a studio album) didn’t seem sotragic, if you ask me.
And still the stress was mounting. It didn’t seem like the label had a strongpromotional strategy, and I didn’t have a coordinated17 management team in place yet. Ididn’t see anyone around me taking control of what was becoming the “single situation.”
Worry seemed to outweigh19 planning and problem solving; internally the project waslooking a mess. So my creative survival instincts kicked in. I felt like I had to dosomething—somebody had to do something.
High anxiety made what little sleep was allotted20 for in my schedule nearly impossible.
I couldn’t get to sleep. I couldn’t find my things. I couldn’t seem to get anyone to pull ittogether.
So I made my own move. Admittedly, it was too late and a bit messy, but it was somekind of action. I concocted21 a last-minute little publicity22 stunt23 to garner24 excitement for“Loverboy”: I staged a “crash” of TRL on MTV.
In keeping with the vibe of the video and the audience, I thought it would be festive25 tohave a little nostalgic summer moment. Running on pure panic and excitement, I showedup on set with a spunky ponytail, pushing an ice-cream cart full of Popsicles and wearingan oversized airbrushed “Loverboy” T-shirt with a surprise underneath26: an eighties Glitterlook. It was an innocent and silly stunt and highly unrehearsed. I very much freestyled mydialogue, as I tend to do, and I was hoping Carson Daly could play off of me, riff, andinvolve the audience (as one would expect a host to do). But he didn’t play along. (I knowhe was probably told to act surprised, but he didn’t act at all.)I realized I was living in the moment all by myself. So I thought, Okay, let me pull outa little costume trick to get the energy going. I awkwardly removed the T-shirt to revealgold sparkly hot pants and a “Supergirl” tank top. But in response, Carson, acting27 allaghast, said, “Mariah Carey is stripping on TRL right now!” (Oh, now he decides to act.) Icertainly was not stripping—I was revealing. Granted, my performance was a bit sloppy,and came off as silly. But instead of ad-libbing, Carson was looking at me like I wascrazy. My adrenaline was dialed up to 1,000, and Carson asked me, “What are youdoing?” Really?!
I nervously29 answered, “Every now and then, somebody needs a little therapy, andtoday is that moment for me.”
The truth is, my fans are a part of my therapy. Some people have retail30 therapy, somehave chocolate therapy; I have fan therapy. I have always gone directly to my fans forenergy and inspiration. I established an independent relationship with my fans beforesocial media was even created. I used my website to personally talk to them; I would leavevoice messages for them and tell them what I was doing and how I was honestly feeling.
It was unfiltered, how I communicated with my fans, and how we communicated witheach other. So when I made that infamous31 call to my fans, while freaked out and feelingalone on a boat in Puerto Rico, leaving a sad message saying I was taking a break—theyunderstood. The way it was reported in the press was as if I had a meltdown and made adesperate, random32 call. Back then, people didn’t understand, and wondered why I talkeddirectly to my fans. The media had no concept of the bond I had with my fans. None.
My fans care, and they take note of everything I do and make it their own. The pressdidn’t understand how the fans named themselves “Lambs.” The fans paid attention towhen Trey Lorenz and I would go into our old-Hollywood affectation and say things like,“Be a lamb and fetch me a splash of wine.” We would call each other “lamb” as a term ofendearment all the time—and that’s how the Lambs (the deeply devoted33 fans) were born!
Now we are Lambily! My fans saved my life and continue to give me life every day. Sohonestly, I don’t give a fuck if publicists or press thought I was crazy for bringingPopsicles or making phone calls to my fans. The Lambs are everything, and every song,every show, every video, every post, every festive moment, everything I do as an artist isfor them.
TRL. Was. A. Stunt. Gone. Awry34. And let’s be clear and logical, there’s no way I,Mariah Carey, or anyone could actually crash any MTV show, with an ice-cream cart noless. Maybe Carson Daly didn’t know I was coming, but producers had to schedule myappearance—coordinators, publicists, security, whole-ass teams of people knew I wascoming. It was a stunt. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Any idea was good at thattime. I was like a stand- up comic who bombed a set. All performers bomb, but mybombing set off a chain reaction that placed a target on my back. The tabloids35 and thecelebrity press at large acted like I’d actually stripped butt38 naked and given Carson a lapdance on live TV (which is now a mundane39 routine often performed by reality TV starsand rappers—oh, how the standards have changed)!
The press devoured40 my silly TRL stunt and me right along with it. It was the first timeI had experienced the phenomenon of a public fail that woke the monster in the media,that vicious vampire41 that gains its strength by feeding on the weaknesses of the vulnerable.
The bombed stunt mushroomed into a big, nasty, never-ending story. Some mainstreammedia is a glutton42 for negative energy and fear. It places a mask over pain and presents itas entertainment news. It was visible, and I was vulnerable. And when the Cinderella ofSony took a fall, no king’s horses or men tried to set the record straight, pick me up, or putme back together again. Rather, they fed on the spectacle and just wanted more—morestumbles, more embarrassment43, more breaks, more ridicule44. The monster in the media isonly satisfied when you are destroyed.
This was all happening before the phenomenon of social media. There was noclapping back on Twitter. No “Drag them, Queen!” No organic love mob of the fiercelyloyal Lambily to rush to my defense45. Thousands of fans and Lambs did show me love andsupport through letters and comments on my website, but the “outside” world didn’t takenote of that. There was no YouTube and no ’gram. (Although a surprising ally also rose tomy defense: Suge Knight46 (who was so powerful then), in an interview on Hot 97, said,“Everybody needs to leave Mariah alone, or they’re going to have a problem with me.”
Trust, back then nobody wanted to have a problem with Suge.
Today it’s easy to coordinate18 a promo moment or change the narrative47 through socialmedia. It was freaking hard to penetrate48 pop culture back then. It was a huge undertakingto get on major TV shows and devise my own “moments”; practically every move youmade as an artist was controlled by the “corporate morgue” (as I lovingly call them). Now,when some celebrity37 mishap49 goes viral, there’s generally a twenty- four- hour mediatakeover; then it’s over. Back then, you did one thing, and it dominated the press for whatseemed like an eternity50. TRL was that one thing.
And the press hunted me, ferociously51. This was five years after Princess Diana’s death bytabloid. I studied how the press hounded her like hyenas52. I once had a brief butunforgettable moment with Lady Di when our eyes locked at a Vogue53 party. She was in astunning sapphire-colored gown, neck dripping in the same blue gems54. And she had thatlook—the dull terror of never being left alone burning behind her eyes. We were both likecornered animals in couture. I completely recognized and identified with her. We sharedthat understanding of how it felt always being surrounded by people, all of whom mightnot be trying to hurt you, but all of whom are trying to do something. They all wantsomething. I didn’t know she would be caught and killed shortly after our encounter. Icertainly didn’t know I would soon be in a dangerously similar position. The hunters wereclosing in.
With the August heat, my troubled sleep quickly deteriorated56 into no sleep at all. Sleephad disappeared, as had proper meals. I was barely eating. The panic around “Loverboy”
at the label was real, and they were desperate to make another video for the second singleright away. We had just spent several exhausting days shooting the “Loverboy” video inthe scorching57 California desert, in harsh conditions, with no water or basic necessities.
There had been no covered area to wait in and block me from the sun between takes,which not only fried me, it wasted time, because my makeup58 kept melting and had to bereapplied. I may have looked super peppy, but “Loverboy” was a technically59 gruelingshoot, and the label wanted me to get on a plane right away, fly back to New York, andstart shooting another video for “Never Too Far” the following day!
I was utterly60 exhausted61, baked, fried, and frayed62, and certainly wasn’t in any conditionto make another video. I should have had, at the very least, a three- or four-day bufferbetween shoots. Besides, there was a whole glamorous performance of the song in thefilm, which they could’ve and should’ve used as a video (ultimately they did). But thelabel wasn’t hearing me.
It didn’t matter that I was completely spent—what mattered was that they had spentmore than a hundred million dollars on “Mariah Carey.” They wanted all their glitteryproducts ready for sale now. There was no one around to intervene, to help coach the labelon how to pace the projects and my productivity. No one had the strength or power to sayno to unreasonable63 requests on my behalf, and the pressure was steadily64 rising. I wasexhausted. And the most difficult part was the diabolical65 delight the tabloid36 media wasmilking out of my moment of weakness. It was a nonstop, never-ending circus. I recallwatching one entertainment show after the TRL debacle where they were talking about mein the past tense. It was so surreal, as if I was watching an “In Memoriam” of MariahCarey. And all I really wanted was to rest in peace.
This, on top of dealing66 with Tommy and my family, was just too much. I was beyondtired. I was in urgent need of sleep. Sleep, this basic human requirement, this simplecomfort, became impossible to obtain. I tried to find refuge in the emptiness of myenormous new penthouse, but the label and “management” were calling me constantly,trying to convince me to do the video. I simply couldn’t do it. I had been working foryears without a break. It was totally out of the norm for me not to show up, but I reallydidn’t have anything left. I couldn’t think. And they couldn’t hear me. The phonewouldn’t stop ringing. No matter what room I was in—none of which were familiar orcomforting to me yet—I could hear the phone, ringing and ringing. Wait. Did Tommyknow where I was? Was Tommy trying to torture me too? Were his people following meagain? I was getting scared.
I had to find a safe place. I had to find sleep. Who could I trust? No one working forme was going to help me find somewhere to go. All I was asking for was a little bit oftime. All these people on my payroll67, and no one lobbied for me to have one day off. I wastrying to tell them I just needed a couple of days blacked out, some time to rest,recuperate, and procure68 a bit of beauty sleep.
In desperation, I went to a hotel near my penthouse. I thought if I could just get aroom, draw the curtains, crawl under the covers, and go to sleep, things could be all right.
I had lived in hotels for long stretches of time, and found comfort in knowing peoplewouldn’t bother you. And I had stayed at this particular hotel several times before whilemy penthouse was being worked on. It never occurred to me to instruct the front desk notto contact my management or tell anyone I was there. Why should I have to? I stumbledinto my room and promptly69 hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob. Eventhough I’d just been run out of my brand-new, spectacular penthouse to a modest hotelroom, I began to feel relief. I drew a bath, slowly sank into the warm, scented70 water, andput on some soothing72 gospel (“Yet I Will Trust in Him” by Men of Standard), hopingsome of the trauma73 would dissolve. I began to calm down. The TRL incident was stillweighing heavily on me. I felt the whole world thought I had lost it. I wrapped myself upin the hotel bathrobe and curled up in the bed. But before I could shut my eyes, I heard aknock at the door. And then there was a bang!
I jumped up and stomped74 to the door, ready to cuss out whoever hadn’t read the sign. Iopened it to a crowd of people—management people, Morgan, even my mother!
“What the fuck is going on?” I yelled. “I gotta go to SLEEP!” I was panicking. I washysterical. I was caught. I began to scream—just scream. I couldn’t talk. A whole damndelegation had arrived to drag me back to work. All I wanted was a couple of damn daysoff. So I screamed.
Suddenly Morgan grabbed my arms and pulled me toward him. I became still. Hestared at me and quietly said, “This whole thing is just birthdays at Roy Boy’s.”
I immediately snapped out of it. “Birthdays at Roy Boy’s” was an inside joke we hadabout our father, because he always mixed up our birthdays. Morgan brought me back toour innocent familial language: the jokes and the silly sayings that only we shared, theway we used humor to cope. The words that existed before all of this, all of theseoutsiders. In that moment I believed Morgan understood how I felt, that he even caredabout my well-being75. “Birthdays at Roy Boy’s” took me back to when I felt like he couldbe an actual family member to me. It was personal and funny, and I was in distress76. It wasas if he had given me the secret code for “I got you,” appearing like a lighthouse in thestorm. Emotionally, I had cracked wide open—and Morgan slithered in.
I had been run out of my home and a hotel. There was an entire team of peoplehunting me down to pull me back to work, including my mother. I was beyond desperateand still in need of sleep. My record deal was an over 100-million-pound leash77 aroundeverybody’s neck.
I needed to find someone without any business interests or investments in me —someone who knew me and cared about me, who would help me or hide me. My mindimmediately went to Maryann Tatum, aka Tots. She’d been with me as a backgroundvocalist since Butterfly, and we became like sisters after her sister died. She was one of myfew friends who I thought knew how to contend with really fucked-up situations (and thisone certainly qualified78!). She was solid and came from solid folk. Tots grew up one ofnine children in the projects in Brownsville, Brooklyn. And even though her mother had todeal with raising nine kids on her own, she was always clean, always put together. Totswas sweet and God loving but also knew her way around the streets. I thought she couldhelp me get away from all the people coming after me, and help me get some sleep.
We decided79 I could go to her apartment in Brooklyn because no one would think tolook for me there. By the time I managed to pull it together and sneak80 out to Brooklyn, Iwas riddled81 with anxiety. Not only did I know the label was looking for me, who knew ifTommy was following me too? It wouldn’t have been the first time. (Robert Sam Anson’s1996 exposé “Tommy Boy” in Vanity Fair reported on just some of his antics, but ittotally helped justify82 my claims of his maniacal83 control and surveillance.) And the tabloidswere hot on my trail and salivating for my slightest misstep (still are).
I took a private car service to Tots’s apartment. It was certainly a good place to goincognito, but not to sleep. It was cramped84 and wasn’t exactly comfortable for me, plusmy angst and exhaustion85 were giving me nervous energy. I suggested Tots and her nieceNini, and I all go for a walk to help me wind down.
She said “Girl, wait. You do know you’re Mariah Carey?”
I guess I couldn’t just go traipsing through the streets of Brooklyn. I needed a disguise.
Nini braided up my hair, and I put on her Mariah Carey Butterfly T-shirt, sweatpants, anda baseball cap with the brim pulled down low. Hiding in plain sight, the three of usstrolled down the Brooklyn streets in an attempt to recover some of my last, lost nerves.
No one noticed me comfortably flanked between two Black girls in the diverse Brooklynneighborhood.
Tots assured me I had nothing to worry about, joking, “They probably just thinkyou’re some cute Puerto Rican girl who went to a Mariah Carey concert.”
We had a little laugh, a little comfort, a little escape—but I still felt like I was beingtracked. I couldn’t find any relief. I couldn’t remember the last time I had slept or had ameal.
Time was collapsing86 in on me, the days and events all running together. Mymanagement and the label somehow discovered I was in Brooklyn with Tots. They calledand asked her to convince me to agree to do the video. My emotional instability, as aresult of sleep deprivation87, was starting to take hold of me. I was cornered and confused.
Morgan was again dispatched to come and get me, since the “delegation” at the hotel hadsurmised that he was the only one I trusted. No one knew that, for me, trusting Morganwas a dangerous proposition.
I never knew what to expect with Morgan; he’d been so unpredictable, volatile88, andviolent for so long. And yet, my mother trusted him the most. He’d become her strongman, her protector, almost a father figure to her—a position that should never be filled bya son. And though he had frightened me so many times as a child, I, too, saw him as asmart, strong man. Morgan was very intelligent and impressive and had developed atreacherous set of survival skills.
He was in the downtown New York scene in the late eighties. He worked in some ofthe hippest89 bars and clubs. He was strikingly handsome and occasionally worked as amodel. He was well known and well liked. He discreetly90 supplied the beautiful peoplewith their powdered party favors. He was diabolically91 charismatic.
At the beginning of my career, Morgan was on a mission to be known as the one whowas responsible for “discovering” me. (Seymour Stein, founder92 of Sire Records and signerof Madonna, actually had an opportunity for that distinction, as he was one of the first tohave my demo. Alas, he said, “She’s too young”—but that’s another tangent.) Morgan hadseveral sketchy93 contacts in the music industry but also introduced me to some importantplayers in the fashion scene, like the late legendary94 hairstylist Oribe. In some circles, I waseven known as “Morgan’s little sister,” though he hadn’t seen me as his little sister in avery long time. I was his little ticket to wealth and fame.
I’ve often publicly recognized Morgan for being the one who loaned me five thousanddollars to pay for my first professional demo, for which I remain grateful and which I paidback five thousand times over. And I would continue to pay and pay.
I never thought that modest initial loan made me beholden to him or should allow himto have any say in my career. I was very young, but I knew not to do business with any ofthe questionable16 music folks my brother tried to get me to work and sign with. I knew forcertain, that for me, business with Morgan would come with serious strings95. Like a noose96.
Less than a month after I signed my first recording97 contract, my mother and Morganproposed a family gathering98 at the shack99—maybe to celebrate? Who knew? I really didn’tlike going back. The shame and fear I had endured while living there was still sticky onmy skin. Against my better instincts, I agreed.
The shack was as bleak100 as ever. The air in the tiny living room was thick with ananxiety and manipulation I could taste. The “wood” paneling had faded and worn down tolook more like cardboard from men’s shirt packaging. Dingy101 white polyester lace dime-store drapes hung over the murky102 windows; the heating vent4 on the floor coughed up alayer of gray soot71 that climbed from the hem7 to midway up those pitiful panels of Irishrespectability. My mother and Morgan sat together on the dreary103 blue corduroy couch. Isat across from them on a run-down beige recliner. Neglect was the overall accent color.
My mother was expressionless, occasionally darting104 her eyes over to Morgan forapproval. He was clearly the “host” of this suspicious homecoming. I could tell he was instraight scheme mode. His eyes had a wild, piercing focus. I could sense his tension, yethe had perfected the art of casting a smooth veneer105 over his emotions and over hisintentions.
Morgan launched straight into a rant28 about what a conniving106 lowlife my mother’ssecond husband could be, and how they were concerned that now that I was on my way tobecoming famous, he was likely to pose a “problem.” Warning me that he knew all of ourfamily’s dirty secrets and threatening that he would spill it all to the press. That he wouldtell the world about Alison being a drug-addicted prostitute and having HIV. What? Mymother was silent. I recall Morgan saying that I needed protection—that I needed to becareful, that this guy could end my career before it began—and that he could “take care ofit.” He could take care of him.
In less than ten minutes in the shack, I was back in that familiar storm cloud of fearconjured up by my brother. I certainly didn’t need convincing that this man was a horribleperson, but I couldn’t understand why my mother and brother dragged me back here totalk to me about some alleged107 threats from her terrible husband. I had just signed my firstrecord deal! I had just pulled myself out of this crazy, scary family drama. What were theyeven talking about? Why were they doing this? Why was I even there?
The vibe was getting increasingly creepy and claustrophobic. I remember Morgansaying in his quiet sinister108 way, “I got this plan to shut him up. You don’t need to knowthe details, but believe me I can make him shut the fuck up.” He went on to say that all heneeded was five thousand dollars. There it was.
I looked over at my mother, hoping to get some clarity. She just kept her eyes fixed109 onMorgan, who had obviously convinced her to let him run the show. He continued toremind me how mean and vindictive110 her husband was (and indeed he was—he’d beendisplaying opportunistic behavior since the moment he met me) and that the press wouldshame me and destroy my career. All I had ever lived for was to be an artist and I had justsigned a record deal. Maybe it all could be taken away in an instant? And he said it again—for “just five thousand dollars,” he could protect me and take care of the threat. “It’s justfive thousand dollars. No one will ever know.” Five thousand dollars for what? To dowhat? A sickening panic began to bubble in my lower belly111.
Morgan had a long history of violence, of being mixed up with shady characters andshady situations, and there was no telling what he might do for money. In 1980, he wasinvolved in a scandalous Suffolk County murder case. John William Maddox wasmurdered by his wife, Virginia Carole Maddox. Their son was an acquaintance ofMorgan’s. Before the night she shot her husband in the neck with a rifle, she hadpropositioned Morgan to kill him for her for thirty thousand dollars. He accepted a $1,200advance but did not carry out the job. According to the court records, her solicitation112 ofMorgan (he was compelled to testify before a grand jury) was key evidence in disprovingher claim of self-defense and helped lead to her murder conviction.
I was barely in the third grade when Morgan was involved in a plot to murder a manfor money. I remember him and my mother talking about it, and I have a vaguerecollection of seeing courtroom sketches113 in the house. Morgan snitched, so he didn’t getany time for accepting the payment.
“C’mon, it’s only five thousand dollars, no one will ever know” kept ringing in myears. I sprang to my feet and began pacing the five or fewer steps between the little livingroom and the even smaller kitchen; both seemed to shrink an inch with each passingsecond. “You don’t have to do anything but give me the money,” he said again. I wasstruggling to process what was actually happening here. I don’t even think I’d receivedmy first advance check and already, already my brother and mother were trying to getmoney out of me?! And for what? To fuck up my mother’s husband?! What the fuck.
Tragically114, I wasn’t surprised Morgan had begun to try and screw a siphon hose intome right away, but what got me to my feet and blew my mind was that my mother wasgoing along with it. She remained savagely115 quiet the entire time Morgan spewed outconspiracy theories about blackmail116, exposing and humiliating both her daughters, and herson arranging to “fuck up” her husband for money. Was she really willing to agree toplace all of her children in such grave emotional, spiritual (and possibly legal) peril117? Or,equally terrible, was she in on a plot with Morgan to extort118 money from me? Maybe shewas just rendered powerless under his spell.
I was not prepared for the implications all this was having for me and for my positionin this family and in this world. Under no circumstances could I ever, ever entertain beinginvolved in physically119 harming anybody, even a despicable dickhead like her husband. Icategorically refused to even entertain their sick scam. Yet what was really beating medown was that I knew that if I gave Morgan this first five thousand dollars, and if he didsomething violent or criminal, he would definitely blackmail me. This would be the firstfive thousand drips in a faucet120 he would use to drain money from me forever.
How delusional121 of me to even entertain the notion my mother and brother were goingto toast me for making my only dream come true. Instead they called me back to gut122 me. Iwas in a sad shock. I don’t recall exactly what I said, but I remember walking in tightcircles, that sick feeling now in my heart and pounding up to my eyes, and I was shakingmy head—“No, No”?… and something unseen inside me snapped, and I broke away fromthat pack.
I stumbled out of the shack, knowing, without a doubt, that I did not belong to any ofthem. My father was estranged123. My sister burned and sold me out. And now there was nomore brother and no more mother. Standing55 alone.
Still bruised124, still walk on eggshells
Same frightened child, hide to protect myself(Can’t believe I still need to protect myself from you)But you can’t manipulate me like before
Examine 1 John 4:4
And I wish you well?…
—“I Wish You Well”
So, by “normal” standards, a record label reaching out to family for help incommunicating with an artist was not a risky125 move. But they did not know the bad, badmoves my family could make.
You, dear children, are from God and have overcome them,Because the one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world1 John 4:4
To say I was on the edge by the time Morgan got to Tots’s would be generous. Exhaustedand hungry, I was deprived of all care. Looking into my wild and weary eyes, he temptedme: “Hey, how about a nice trip up to Pat’s house?”
Though I hadn’t ever had a nice trip to my mother’s house, in my shattered state, mybrother made a convincing argument. Nobody, he contended, would dare to disturb me atmy mother’s house. His voice was sugary sweet, and I was too drained to access my gutinstincts. If I were at full capacity, I would’ve known my mother and her son were the lastpeople I should be around when I was so vulnerable.
Even if she cared for me, at that point, my mother knew nothing about me, and nothingabout what I was currently going through. She had absolutely no idea of the burden andresponsibility of being an artist who generates so much money and energy: To have somany people living off of you, counting on you, and pushing you to constantly work andwork. To sing and smile, dress up and twirl, fly and write and work and work! She had noconcept of the humiliation126 I was suffering from the ravenous127 media monster that wasfeeding off of me. She couldn’t imagine how wounded and hunted I felt. My mother nevercould acknowledge my fear. In fact, she often triggered it.
But now, I was going to go back with them. Any house my mother was in never feltlike a safe haven128, especially if Morgan was present, yet I was far too fragile to resist. Inmy fogginess, it actually made sense to me to go upstate to the house I had bought her, thehouse I knew so well, where it was quiet and comfortable and there would be plenty ofroom for everyone. Stripped of my better instincts, I agreed to go. But if I was going, Idecided, we all were going. Safety in numbers, I thought. So Morgan, Tots, and I went offon a ride upstate. Over the river and through the woods, to my mother’s house we go.
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exquisite
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palatial
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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vent
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glamorous
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marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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8
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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9
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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10
itinerary
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| n.行程表，旅行路线；旅行计划 | |
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nutritious
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| adj.有营养的，营养价值高的 | |
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12
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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13
timing
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| n.时间安排，时间选择 | |
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14
seeping
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| v.（液体）渗( seep的现在分词 )；渗透；渗出；漏出 | |
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15
psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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16
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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17
coordinated
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| adj.协调的 | |
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18
coordinate
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| adj.同等的，协调的；n.同等者；vt.协作，协调 | |
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19
outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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20
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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22
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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23
stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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24
garner
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| v.收藏；取得 | |
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25
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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26
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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27
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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28
rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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29
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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30
retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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31
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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32
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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33
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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34
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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35
tabloids
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| n.小报，通俗小报（版面通常比大报小一半，文章短，图片多，经常报道名人佚事）( tabloid的名词复数 )；药片 | |
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36
tabloid
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| adj.轰动性的，庸俗的；n.小报，文摘 | |
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37
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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38
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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39
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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40
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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41
vampire
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| n.吸血鬼 | |
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42
glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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43
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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44
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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45
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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46
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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47
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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48
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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49
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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50
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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51
ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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52
hyenas
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| n.鬣狗( hyena的名词复数 ) | |
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53
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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54
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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55
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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56
deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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58
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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59
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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60
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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61
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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62
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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64
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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65
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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66
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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67
payroll
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| n.工资表，在职人员名单，工薪总额 | |
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68
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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69
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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70
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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71
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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72
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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73
trauma
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| n.外伤，精神创伤 | |
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74
stomped
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| v.跺脚，践踏，重踏( stomp的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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76
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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77
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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78
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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79
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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80
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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81
riddled
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| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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82
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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83
maniacal
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| adj.发疯的 | |
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84
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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85
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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86
collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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87
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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88
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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89
hippest
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| hip（（衣服、音乐等方面）时髦的，赶时髦的）的最高级形式 | |
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90
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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91
diabolically
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92
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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93
sketchy
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| adj.写生的，写生风格的，概略的 | |
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94
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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95
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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96
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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97
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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98
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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99
shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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100
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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101
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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102
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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103
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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104
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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105
veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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106
conniving
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| v.密谋 ( connive的现在分词 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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107
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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108
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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109
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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110
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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111
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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112
solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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113
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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114
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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115
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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116
blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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117
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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118
extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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119
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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120
faucet
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| n.水龙头 | |
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121
delusional
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| 妄想的 | |
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122
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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123
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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124
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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125
risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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126
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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127
ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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128
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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