February 1, 2012

Welcome To My Show

I said welcome to my show
It's just a-you and me baby
We got the whole damn night to go

You're holding out on me, while I'm on fire ...

This post is for Shruti.

It is 1983 I am nine years old. One of my most impressive skills is playing air guitar on the couch when no one is home. I grab scarves from my mom's closet, (shhh yes I sometimes put on some eye liner and taste the lipstick.) I have tight leather pants, not sure where those came from, and a sleeveless fishnet shirt.

The broom is my guitar. Pyromania my anthem. I snarl at the crowd. Throw my head back. Strut. Jump kick. Bang head. I am a rock star and of this fact there is no doubt. I will be alone until my parents come home from after work. I am alone a lot. The music is my babysitter, my best friend, hell Def leopard might as well be my parents.

I know every song, every windmill guitar riff, every drum solo. I see the mobs of fans. I smell the smoke. Feel the hot lights. I play the record over and over...It is all so important so serious so real. I tell these stories, sing these songs all by myself and as the  arena pulsates at the feet of the couch.

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