My Myspace page becomes a giant collage depicting my undeniable love for Dana and Tegan and Sara. I’m not hiding anything. In fact, I think I’m making it pretty impossible for anyone who knows me to say, “that girl MUST be straight.”
Even in the world of don’t-offend parenting, I got as far as I did because I tell the fucking truth. I might have the only parenting book to regularly drop the f-bomb. My entire brand is built on being not-blend-in-able.
Ad-Rock screams into my ears, penetrating my muscles, compelling me to play the notes with precision. Kunal's on the drums, locked in a trance that makes his hands a blur. The energy radiating from the giant speaker next to me threatens to knock me off my feet.
I ran the glass over my lips, spreading the burn of the lingering liquid, and pulled out a black sweater that would be demure if not for the particular interplay between its semi-deep V and my own advantages.
“You’re gonna enjoy it, I’m sure. It’s so Stephen King-ish,” he said to me during one of our summer chitchats. The book fell into oblivion then, mostly because we were too busy making out.
It has been a ruthless summer and we have plenty of pent up aggression towards the cosmos, but there is no anger in the air. We’re engaging in one of punk’s most sacred rituals out of pure love for our fallen comrade.
Alyssa was a cocktail waitress. A tall, thin woman whose prowess in the art of seduction bordered the fine line of black magic; she used full lips and gentle curves to usher an orphan into her twisted maternal grasp.
“Where the money at?” The ringleader walks around the back of the couch, letting the barrel of the gun drag across the tops of the cushions and brush against our shoulders. The cold steel scares the shit out of me.
The soft, thick leather of the steering wheel begged for a gentle touch; the engine's natural rumble was backed up by Audi's turbocharged powerplant; and the 505-watt Bang & Olufsen sound system bumped harder than anyone would ever need.
It’s a New York spring morning: hazy, dim, quiet. From the bottom of the staircase I hear these new sounds: wailing, then choked silence, then gasping for breath. It is 6 in the morning and my mother is in tears.
As the whacka-whacka guitar intro of Van Halen’s “Atomic Punk” fills my head, I pick up the pace and David Lee Roth’s shriek segues into Led Zeppelin’s strutting “Black Dog.”
My dad tells me to get the Kingsford lighter fluid which they use to marinate the CDs and tapes. Then they ask if I have anything to say. I just stand there silently. Then, with a drop of a match, our music is transformed into melted notes.
They loved Frank Sinatra and cigarettes and bell-bottoms and platform shoes and sneaking out in the middle of the night and being all kinds of Dazed & Confused. Absolutely brilliant.
The score thumps: a primal leg stomp, like a slowing heartbeat. A friend reaches over and places two comforting hands on my shoulders, as if the movie is a projection of what’s going on in my head.
Apparently the boys felt ripped off that the “Thank You for all your help” drinks they had bought me at the Clubhouse bar had not purchased my pussy. Or even a BJ in an empty stall.