aoife

I love rock'n'roll, so come and take the time and dance with me.

Joan Jett is the patron saint of my room. My Shepard Fairey print hangs in the central position. She's flanked by David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust, Gael Garcia Bernal as Che Guevara, Meg White behind her drum kit, and Bruce Springsteen on the cover of Born To Run.

Some of my sister's posters are still up as well. The four-part from Fight Club with Brad Pitt and Edward Norton leering at me, the huge Robert Smith "Boys Don't Cry," and John Cusack in Say Anything holding up the boom box.

My ex once told me that once he'd left his wife he'd do that outside my window. He didn't, but it was sweet when he said it.

Cameron Crowe's career trajectory is one I'd like to emulate, though I wouldn't have touched Vanilla Sky with a ten-foot pole. (Definitely the best film title ever wasted on a mediocre movie). I could go from rock writer to screenwriter to director, and if I'd written and directed Almost Famous I'd probably be able to die happy.

Marrying the fabulous rock star wouldn't hurt, either.

So, anyway, Monday night. Met the girl. She's cute, didn't speak to me much, and is not physically striking enough that I feel like he's just been taken in by looks. They seem really happy together. Good for him.

Huge hugs and drinks bought for me by J. and M. (the singer, whom I've known since I had to scoot between his legs in a dance number during our high school production of Grease).

And then they played. And they really are good. And I can't help bobbing my head and tapping my fingers and smiling with a huge shit-eating grin because these guys are MY friends and hell, two out of the three of them have gotten songwriting material out of me. M. broke three strings, so he got offstage and just let N. and J. rock out by themselves. Those two boys have such chemistry--even watching them sit at the bar and talk, if I didn't know them I'd swear THEY were together.

Tried to convince J. that they should make out and let me watch. I'm such a perv. I failed.

And then this little old black man with three teeth took M.'s three-stringed guitar and J. stayed behing the drum kit and he played old blues and R&B songs and went from sounding glossy and perfect to rusty and haggard as the song called. He had a donation can and I gave him the rest of the money in my pocket. That guy fucken ruled. Everyone in the place wanted onstage with him.

And N. left with the girl, who had sat at the bar by herself rather than joining Tori and I in a booth, and M. drove home with their equipment, and J. stayed and rode home with Tori and I. Tori flirted with him and he raged at me about being in love with Chris still ("he's too dumb for you! you should be with someone like....me! but not me.") and he lectured her on her music tastes (generic funk-rock-hip-hop radio shit. but she's up for anything and I like that.)

And the next day while I got a massage and my phone sat in my car, I got a lovely message from J. thanking me for taking the time to come see them and support them. While N. just shrugged and gave me that look that says "thankyoubutIcan'tbringmyselftosayit." And tried on my sunglasses and looked like Damon Albarn.

I love seeing people do what makes them happy, what they're passionate about. Most of my passions are not so visual, you can't really get excite watching someone write, so being able to see the creation of art is exciting for me. The last boy that I fell for and that fell in love with me was the one who wanted to read everything I wrote. Even read my notebooks when I left him alone in my room.

Even if he didn't hold up a boom box outside of my window to declare his love, I know. And it's over, and if we ever spoke we'd be friends, and that's cool.

His best friend called me Monday night at about 1 AM to tell me he misses me. He's getting married two days before my birthday, and the girl better be good enough for that boy as well. He makes me smile. I know so many wonderful boys.

love. rock'n'roll. art. sex. it's a continuum, really.