By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
The Moseley's [sic]
They are so lame.
Bunny says, "You gotta keep the motor running."
Someone says, "Dude, you said, 'Keep the motor running.'"
Bunny becomes insecure. "Is that cool?" he asks.
Bunny talks about his infection, about ointments and applying them liberally to the infected area and repeating as needed.
Grady talks about his rock & roll vendetta. "It hasn't given us a fair shake in life. It's made us the cold-tempered people that we are. But we're opening up. We're looking for justice."
"And our vendetta," Bunny adds, helpfully.
"But we're not angry," says Grady.
"We're just saying, 'hi,'" Bunny adds, helpfully.
BUILDING EXTERIOR, NEW YORK CITY,1993.
The grim faÁades of Alphabet City crumble before us. There, on Avenue B, is the Unconscious Collective—theater!—wherein actors perform a pseudoscientific, paranoid-conspiracy, serial comedy. The clean-cut young man starring as the professor is handsome in a scrawny, sandy way. But after the show, as he prepares to go home, he changes into his normal street clothes: blue tights; red, spandex bikini; in-line skates; cape and helmet; and a big, yellow A on his chest. He is Amazing Man, and I am smitten. My eyes dilate, my skin reddens, my breath shortens and I pant. Here, clearly, is my mate.
A couple of weeks later, Amazing Man tells me he can't see me anymore: he has to go away for a while, for a "rest." His parents are sending him for help. I cry. He tells me I am an amazing woman. When someone with a yellow A on his chest tells you you are an amazing woman, it means a lot more than when a random, middle-management schmo in a bar says the same thing. Much, much more.
Amazing Man was my first rock-star love, even though to my knowledge he'd never picked up so much as an oboe. And that is one of the many glittering facets of rock-starness: you do not have to be Def Leppard to be a rock star. You can be the most preposterous high school band ever to play a backyard kegger. You can be a bartender (especially a bartender) or a rodeo clown. Honorary rock stars are everywhere. For Christ's sake, you can be a bank teller, as long as when you go out at night, you walk with your legs far apart to accommodate your low-swinging man meat, and you look deep into the eyes of the nearest girl and tell her pretty lies. And she will fall for it every time. Girls are very stupid.
Back at the restaurant, Bunny and Grady are showing off. "I don't know who I'm cooking an omelet for in the morning," boasts Grady, the dimpled one, before discussing breathable fabrics for one's nether regions.
Rex, meanwhile, has been playing with my small son for an hour now, teaching him to jab, and Bunny sees me watching. "Maybe the wedding band's not so bad right now," he cackles. Rex speaks for the first and only time. He calls literature "the primal experience."
Grady is talking about the Man. "The Man? He's this guy. We've never seen him."
Bunny is talking about how this restaurant offers all-you-can-eat bread sticks. Grady tells the waitress he doesn't eat red meat. "It causes colon cancer," he informs her, helpfully.
They talk about their cornucopia of songs. There is "The Witch" and "Dungeon of Love." They've also got "a sexy little song called 'Jack the Ripper'" and one about how they just need Vitamin U.
"It's a multitude of cascading colors of songs. We're like a rainbow," somebody says.
The Moseleys love cocaine.
"We imagine it's beautiful!" Grady says.
"I haven't done it yet, but I would like to!" says Bunny. "We would like to do lines off chicks' asses!"
Rex plays with my son some more.
They are so lame, and it's all I can do not to rip off my skirt and let them do lines off my ass.
Like the popular e-mail that sortswomen into personality types by what she orders (beer: good; fruity, fancy drinks: high-maintenance; white zin- fandel: clueless, but thinks she's sophisticated), you can tell a lot about a girl by the rock star she covets.
Drummers, though the butt of all their fellow musicians' jokes (they are endlessly mocked as grunting cavemen), get wild chicks who look at them and can picture nothing but what that ceaseless, pounding rhythm would be like in the sack.
Bassists get cool, slightly standoffish girls who like them because they (bassists) are confident enough to let the singer get the attention while they (bassists) stand coolly still and smirk at the audience.
I don't know anyone who goes out with guitarists, though I'm sure there are a bunch.
Singers go out with women who think well enough of themselves to think they would look good in People Magazine. I don't know too many women who go out with singers: Could they ever love you as much as they love themselves?
There are women who have no set preference but fall recklessly in love with any and all of the above. I am one of these women. I can mock my girlfriends for being stupid enough to chase after rock stars. After all, I know better. But the flesh is weak.