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First 10 pages of Lying Flatt

 First Ten Pages of Lying Flatt.

Ok, you all want to finally hear my story and do it justice? Well, that’s great, man, it really is. You can say whatever you want to make yourself feel better now that I’ve been banished!? But for decades, I let you drag my name through the dirt—no more! You freaks got it all wrong. You called me a liar, an identity thief, a fake rocker, and everything else under the sun! But I’m none of those things, man. But I'm not dead. I've been here all along, man. Unlike all you sell outs now, I never changed for no one, and it’s time to set the record straight! You talk about letting me finally get to tell my own story—well… here it is, man. Take it or leave it.

It all started at the origin of all bullshit: New Jersey. Ewing Township, 1973. I was born in the eye of the bullshit storm. Nothing crazy, I wasn't raised by wolves; I just had the classic soul-crushing New Jersey upbringing. But I get it, you came here for the guts and grime, the green room sleaze. You probably don't wanna hear about my totally lame childhood—where I grew up, my siblings, crushed dreams, the rents, all that Freudian crapola. Well, too bad! It’s my life story, my rules. If you don't like it, get lost! Well, anyway, where was I… oh yes! The rents.

For starters, my parents were both overly Catholic, mindless TV-dinner mavens, libertarian taxpayers with two chips weighing down on their shoulders. Trust me, dude, I'm just as bored as you are, but it gets worse. They were both remnants of the ever-fading middle class, left in the current, ever-resentful working class, working ever hard for totally microscopic pay as both housewife and autoshop slave, respectively. Burt and Florence Flatt were two grody freaks straight out of an all-American test tube—nothing but two squares with sticks so far up their asses that I'm shocked they weren’t made better puppets of the state. And as the proud rock ’n’ roll sage you see before you, I'm still deeply ashamed and shocked to be descended from such a bloodline. Dude, it haunts me to this day. Even now, I get visited by the ghost of Bono in my sex dreams just to prove to me that I'm adopted and I’m actually his biological son! Anyway, they were both raised Mennonite in Pennsylvania's famously racist and cheese-friendly Amish country. I believe Burt’s father was Amish but still let him marry my mother, a Mennonite, which was very controversial at the time, somehow.

They married in their late teens, in ’64, but unlike most young people at that time, they were absolutely afraid and wholeheartedly determined to convert every last hippie on the face of the earth. They hated them. They wanted hippies, Black people, Jane Fonda, cars, modern medicine, technology, and just about anything outside of their own little sheep farm to either join them in pious boredom for all time or burn in hell. But naturally, since being religious zealots is a lot of work and doesn't make much bank if you're starting out broke and all, especially in the swinging sixties, it was even harder for them growing up in Amish country when most people in yee old Hershey, PA, didn't wanna join their cult—I mean church—especially the hippies or even the normies and townsfolk. So, my rents—God fuck their souls—as the middle children of two massive families, both with 15, 16 children each, felt compelled by the Lord above to do the next best thing to make up for their lack of hippie converts and disappointed families: have a fuck ton of kids. And so they did go forth and multiply, just like their parents (or at least they tried). Because that sure turned out… great for them the first time around. My “wonderful” parents and brothers are clear evidence of that. For the record, I'm never having children. Eight billion of us is more than enough. Besides, being a father of rock is already so much responsibility; there's only so much one guy can take.

But, even though my folks tried to have children, life doesn’t always go as God plans. So, after years of trying to conceive, my mother must have been desperate for kids to brainwash. She really was pushing 25 now and still hadn't popped out a little rugrat. What was going on in Wombville? Trouble in paradise, one might say? Well… at this point, you might be wondering why my folks were so gung-ho about making babies and why they didn't attempt to pop some offspring earlier in their lives? Why didn't they adopt or have any other purpose in life besides procreating, other than the whole replacing their failed hippie converts thing? Having kids was always gonna happen, but it was always gonna be for the wrong reasons. To this day, I wonder, did they have some kind of scheduling conflict? Burt’s blockage, or was Florence maybe out of bullets, or vice versa? You know, the truth is, attempts were made. My mother was never the warm, nurturing type. I like to think the holy ghost of Janis Joplin cursed them for wanting kids solely to be hippie haters, but either way, dude, shit was getting outrageous because now they were both starting to sweat and turn to some weird shit.

Their baby-making attempts were getting so wild. In fact, God must have started feeling bad for them, which is a scary thing when you're starting to feel bad for the worst two squares on the geometry board. Even though I still wouldn’t be born for another three years by this point, some days I wish they had kept it that way and gone off to convert poor suckers in South America or something. But by now, my poor, awful mother was so stuffy and bitter even her eggs turned to dust. She would never give birth to the perfect baby boy to impress her neighbors, pastor, and judgy parents back in the backwoods of Amish country. But both of them being too dirt poor to adopt, however, and too young to retire, put a wrench in things for sure. Not to mention my father being too drunk, useless, and pushy to remarry. So after all that, as a last resort, my narcs of origin decided the only option left on the table was to return to their second home: church. So they prayed to Jesus. Oh lord, they prayed for days and nights by the altar like they were chained to it. They wept, slept, and had revelations of the rapture at that altar—all for the Lord to bless them with a son because they didn't think a daughter would work for their overarching evil plan. After a lot of hard work on their knees, Jesus finally granted their wish. Nine months later, my parents returned to that same corporate Baptist church on the side of the interstate to baptize Kent, their first son. The next year, they returned again to baptize Kevin, and I was baptized there only a year later, in 1973, the same year my parents tried to ban us from listening to the radio because "Crocodile Rock" by Elton John came out that year and they were convinced it was promoting bestiality with actual crocodiles. Only church radio for us from then on. They weren’t shy about raising us from birth in their image. They had a burning hatred for what America had become. They wanted us to replace the “infidels” they saw walking the streets wearing slutty clothes, kissing in public, and listening to “the devil's music.” So to uphold the last remaining tenets of the American dream, they needed children to carry on their legacy. What legacy, you may ask? Just one of the boring Christian minority, living unlived lives in Newark, dying virgins, and loving Nixon—consisting mostly of yelling at hippies to get off their lawns. Either way, that was their plan: to raise their three “perfect boys” in their holy image. Boys who hate change, love America, and most of all, grow up to make a ton of money that they can use to retire to an overpriced, tacky Miami condo and never have to see us ever again.Oh, and how could I forget? Never question them in any way, or you'll suffer at the mercy of the belt and years of unrelenting Catholic guilt—not to mention guilt, dude. How do you think I helped invent the new genre of music “Church-Punk”? But I'm getting ahead of myself. Suffice it to say, they didn't really raise me; they more just brought me into the world hoping I’d be the “third miracle.” Instead, I was their third mistake they could never quite erase. If they knew how I would turn out at birth, I'm convinced they would have killed me right then and there, changed their views on abortion and everything. Not shy about it, they talk about it all the time. Because they hate hippies, but I'm worse than hippies. At least hippies have the decency to sing about peace and love and be happy in the face of injustice.

Instead of being angry about it. Instead, of being in the hardcore, punk rock, stantioc-loving, rock ’n’ roll crowd I run with. The rents really do think I'm the devil. Whenever I refused to go to church or do what they said, they burned my clothes—even all my shirts. They would go so far as to burn my neutral Guns N' Roses print pajamas for being “idol-worshiping.” cult uniforms, forcing me to have to go to the mailbox in Kent’s boring plaid all week, which is a fashion crime. Or that time they stole my DIO shrine, or my many, many photo FLEA stash, or old porn collection, or even didn’t give me a band-aid when Noodle, aka the bully from ninth-grade gym (we called him Noodle because he’d stretch your arms into noodles if you came on his turf, but everyone’s more afraid of his two little sisters everyone calls “Draw and Quarter”—they’re the real demons), pulled out my piercing after he tried to steal my bike. Or all those posers who work at Camelot Records who refuse to give me a job because I'm “not for real” and can't hold down a job. Or my folks saying it was my punishment from God. Everything in my life started going wrong, and no one did anything to help me because I was not… the type of thing you needed to elicit sympathy from other people then and… from what I’ve seen, now. From how my parents generally were with me from birth, I have every reason to believe they think I am the reincarnation of the devil himself, in a totally non-joke, somehow serious way. But they just told me I was a baby and to walk it off. Even though rock 'n' roll was in my blood, no matter how much they tried to spill it.

It was around this fateful era, the summer of ’84, my parents realized I was the odd kid out. They just couldn’t handle my raw animal magnetism. Legend has it, when I was a newborn, the doctor dropped me on a pile of Black Sabbath CDs and it cracked my little skull right open. There was blood everywhere. My parents screamed and almost blew a vein or two. But after the surgery, a piece of my brain had been replaced—the one that controls impulse control, of course. So I was reborn, like a rock ’n’ roll Frankenstein. The rock gods blessed me to survive, and as I emerged from the operating table like Jesus Christ Superstar from the cross, the heavenly light flooded me as I sat up and cried tears of destiny. It was that moment I knew I was destined to be a rock star. But I didn't choose rock ’n’ roll; rock ’n’ roll chose me. That’s also how I got this gnarly scar on the back of my head.

Aside from thinking I'm the devil himself, my parents bought into the widespread panic around all things rock ’n’ roll at the time. They believed that satanic panic was running rampant and metalheads were sacrificing little girls to Satan, who was also being summoned by Dungeons and Dragons and playing Led Zeppelin backwards. So naturally, as the signs of my emerging rock ’n’ roll ethos became undeniable, my parents started to sweat and wonder if the Lord of Darkness was somehow involved. I mean, just look at my track record so far (these are just the highlights): When I was 10 months old, my first words were “Let’s get it on” (Marvin Gaye had the number 4 song of the summer). When I was two, I sharpened my teeth into fangs on my mom’s nail file so I could bite the hand that feeds me more successfully. When I was four, I stole my mom's eyeliner and never gave it back. And when I was five, I formed my first band with some first graders who couldn’t play for shit. Dude, they were babies. They couldn't keep up with my clear path to rock ’n’ roll mega stardom.

When I was six, I refused to get a haircut so I could grow out my full hair metal shag (as God intended). When I was eight, I broke a kid's leg in the schoolyard while pulling my hair. But there was a silver lining: that year, Mötley Crüe was formed, so I realized I was gay. But even when I was in middle school, my parents had already made it extremely well known to every family in the neighborhood that they “did not approve of my lifestyle.” They tried so many times to take me to church with them, Bible school, Boy Scouts with my brothers, football camp, put me in a suit, brush my hair, introduce me to neighborhood girls, burn my rock shirts—they were just fascists, dude, you have no idea!? From day one of parenthood, they did everything in their power to squeeze me into their oppressive, All-American mold that Kevin and Kent slid so neatly into. Well, I’ll give it to them; their brainwashing worked on my brothers for fifteen years, but it never worked on me, and they hated me for it. I was living proof America was a dying empire, and they wanted to hide the fat, rock ’n’ roll proof at all costs, in case I made too much sense to the neighborhood rejects. My parents, by this point, were desperate. They did what they always did in times of great desperation. They returned to the church’s doorstep to give me the appropriate number of exorcisms. And as you know, the church was known for its totally not traumatic treatment of children.

But when that didn't work, and the demons had refused to leave my body (probably because they were having such a great time in there), our local pedophile priest, Joseph Angles, decided I needed “professional help.” So after the electric shock therapy, hypnotizing, homeopathy, crystal healing, and helping to get a radio psychic’s ratings up, everyone declared that I was absolutely, totally, undeniably beyond help. But if anything, their futile attempts at “setting me straight” only gave me more ideas for rock songs. Also, demons are hot and cool, actually—funky red naked dudes who wanna take over your body and make you horny and evil, but in a cool way and give The Big J a hard time. I don't know, man, sign me up. Yeah, the church had a way of making sin seem totally gnarly each time they wanted us to fear it, like a way to backfire hard. Keep at it, guys, see where that gets you!

I was only thirteen years old…what’s the rush?! They had loads of time to try to shove me into that conformist mold. If they could have, they would've sent me off to war, but I was too young. Plus, the Vietnam War was over, and their patron Saint Nixon was old news. So for now, they were stuck with me and all that came with it. But on the “bright side,” they just elected this movie star guy named Ronald Reagan to the White House, so we’ll see how that goes for them. Meanwhile, my two older brothers were the most perfect little angels. They were as smart, obedient, Catholic, heterosexual, sexist, and boring as my folks could have ever hoped for. Then there was me, always cast aside, ignored, and put in a cage like a feral pit bull. By the time we hit middle school, my parents had totally given up on me, and man, they were not shy about it either. They constantly shoved their favoritism down my throat. They ran our household like a horse race, I swear to God. They would pit us against each other to compete for every little sliver of their approval, and you know just who the judges favored. They were so blunt; they even cut me out of family photos and burned my birth certificate on the back porch. My mom lied to her ladies at the hair salon that she only had two sons, and my dad constantly denied that I was his flesh and blood. As a cover, he started claiming I was an orphan from Las Vegas they took in briefly, out of the kindness of their hearts. My brothers themselves were absolutely pampered. My folks made sure they had the best tutors, the best schools, the best school equipment, even when they could barely afford either. Not to mention getting them both the prettiest girlfriends (mostly daughters of their church ilk, trying to marry off their eldest daughters before they developed a personality). My oldest brother Kent was, expectedly, a royal cunt. He inherited the douchebag gene from both our parents. Kent really was just an extension of our parents’ reign, getting straight A's and being a straight-A asshole from 1st grade to 8th. So of course, as soon as we hit high school, Kent was at the top of the food chain. He did all the classic bullcrap popular nitwits like him got up to in 1985, like bullying the nerds, being star quarterback, and banging and claiming every pretty virgin from here to the city limits. So, naturally, every teacher, parent, student, and McDonald's worker in town expected him to go to Harvard, even when their grades and coaches were all pointing them towards a football scholarship. Our folks always had to push extra hard. They wanted my brothers to become big-shot corporate lawyers and bring the township a bunch of money, or something. Which gives them a get-out-of-jail-free card for just about any crime you could think of. Never gonna happen if you ask me. Their heads are in the clouds, and either way, all that shit grosses me the fuck out. Sellouts like my folks and my brother are the enemy of a rock god like myself. Well, I had to learn early.

But then there was Kevin. He was a rare gold nugget in an ocean of mediocrity. I held off talking about him until now because he was the only fond memory of my childhood, so I had to save the best for last. He was absolutely crushed by our parents’ ungodly pressure to be perfect and get perfect grades and pull the family out of poverty. Kevin and Kent were in constant competition, our folks constantly pitting them against each other, because no matter how perfect Kevin was, Kent was always better. And Kent was anything but good—the douchebag of the year award went to him every time, future lawyer for corporate buttfaces no doubt. I hated his guts almost as much as he hated it when I blasted AC/DC at 3 a.m. But Kevin was actually a good guy, and after a while, he grew up and quit being such a kiss-ass. I mean, he still had to be perfect or else, but he managed to do it without being a raging dickweed in the process. He was the only person who didn't participate in the constant dog-piling and hostile climate against me that everyone seemed to be totally wrapped up in. He actually enjoyed spending time with me without being paid. In fact, he often fought to do so despite the pressure. And lucky me, he had good taste in rock music to boot! He wasn't satisfied with listening to Bruce Springsteen in the corner and sucking his thumb like the rest of them. He even stood up against bullies and our parents when they were bringing down the hammer on me. He was a popular kid too, so h

Lying Flatt AUTHOR BIO:

 My name is Elijah Singer Brahmi. (he/they) or my pen name, Buddy Devine. I draw cartoons for the SUNY New Paltz newspaper, The Oracle, many of my comics reflect The Op eds written for the paper as well as my own views on pop culture and current events I also have a web comic where I do much of the same. I'm a gay Jewish autistic, mentally ill, polyamorous, and nonbinary trans man. These things about me reflect my view of the world and life experiences. I have leftist politics and have been outspoken at many protests, such as Occupy Wall Street when I was younger, and NYC Youth for Trans Rights marches more recently, and I've also made political cartoons about many important causes I believe in such as trans rights, mad pride, women's rights, gay pride, neurodiversity pride, BLM, Free Palestine, workers rights/union strikes, and more. Im currently working towards a BA in Creative Writing at Suny New Paltz and a career as an author and professional illustrator. Im currently a published author; I published short stories and artwork in the CCNY City College of New York Promethean literary magazine and in the Writopia Lab’s literary journal, The Ellipsis and the Stonethrow review. Lying Flatt my debut novel, which I'm currently publishing, is also fully illustrated with my own original artwork and accompanying cover album.

OFFICAL AND FINAL QUERY LETTER (4 copy and paste while querying)

 Query Letter for Lying Flatt: The Rise of Mack Lasher

LYING FLATT: THE RISE OF MACK LASHER is a Rock n Roll coming-of-age epic set in the unforgiving 1980s at the height of MTV and the Hair Metal craze, set in New Jersey, the story centers on Lester Flatt, a teenage wannabe rock star and compulsive liar. His delusions of grandeur stem from his self-hatred, due to his constant rejection, from his home, school and the local Hair Metal scene. All Lester wants is to be loved for who he is, but is always denied love by everyone except his brother Kevin. Instead, he believes he can only live as his true self by being his rock god Alter Ego, Mack Lasher.  

Lester must force his band, Bad Decisions, to finally be a success despite their failure in the local rock n roll scene. He's willing to do anything to have the kind of success in the Music industry his heroes had, like Flea. All the while trying to stand out from the other cheesy Hair Metal bands he despises. But that is challenged when he falls in love with Rubin Smith, Axl Rose wannabe breaks Lester’s heart. His betrayal at the battle of the bands tragically reinforces Lester’s self-hating worldview. All of which drives him further down a dark Rock Star’s path. When he hits rock bottom and loses everything—his band, his future, his home, and the love of his life—all seems to prove the lies he was told his whole life, that he's a failure and the only way he can ever make it in rock n roll or be loved again is to be anyone but himself, continuing to lie about Being Mack lasher, about being famous he decides is the only way to be famous, to find love to get ahead in this cruel, un-rock n roll world, the question is, will his lies ceach up to him, or will (like most rock stars) he will fake it till he makes it, and all his, frauds and lies, will just become part of the legend of Mack Lasher’s rise:  the greatest rock star of all time* 

I was also inspired to write Lying Flatt during a dark time when I had no hope for myself or my future, so I wrote my way out. I was inspired to write Lying Flatt because of Jack Black, his films, music, and authenticity. Jack black inspired me to write Lying Flatt, especially his roles in School of Rock, and Tenacious D. I draw cartoons for the school newspaper, The Oracle, many of my comics reflect my life as a Jew, a working-class person growing up in NYC, as well as my experiences being an autistic, gay trans man, among others. I'm working towards a BA in Creative Writing and a career as an author. I have been published in several literary magazines. LYING FLATT: THE RISE OF MACK LASHER is also fully illustrated with my own original artwork.

LYING FLATT: THE RISE OF MACK LASHER is a 97,000-word, comedic, LGBTQ+ New Fiction Novel. Lying Flatt is a parody of Rock n Roll memoirs like The Dirt. It's like a combination of the books: Just Kids, by Patti Smith, Daisy Jones and the Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid,, and Lords of Chaos by Michael J. Moynihan 

I admire your wishlist and current collection of other queer, new fiction, and own-voices novels, from underrepresented and unique points of view, similar to my own. 

Thank you so much for your consideration.

Sincerely,

Elijah Brahmi.

First 20 pages of Lying Flatt

 CHAPTER ONE

GETTING HAD, GETTING TOOK

It all started at the origin of all bullshit: New Jersey. Ewing Township, 1970. I was born in the eye of the bullshit storm. Nothing crazy—I wasn’t raised by wolves; I just had the classic soul-crushing New Jersey upbringing. But I get it, you came here for the guts and grime, the green room sleaze. You probably don’t wanna hear about my totally lame childhood—where I grew up, my siblings, crushed dreams, the rents, all that Freudian crapola. Well, too bad! It’s my life story, my rules. If you don’t like it, get lost!

Well, anyway, where was I… oh yes! The rents.

For starters, my parents were both overly Catholic, mindless TV-dinner mavens—libertarian taxpayers with two chips weighing down their shoulders. Trust me, dude, I’m just as bored as you are, but it gets worse. They were both remnants of the ever-fading middle class, left in the current, ever-resentful working class, working ever-hard for totally microscopic pay as both housewife and autoshop slave, respectively. Burt and Florence Flatt were two grody freaks straight out of an all-American test tube—nothing but two squares with sticks so far up their asses. Im Shocked they weren’t made better puppets of the state. And as the proud rock ’n’ roll sage you see before you, I’m still deeply ashamed and shocked to be descended from such a bloodline. Dude, it haunts me to this day. Even now, I get visited by the ghost of Marc Bolan in my sex dreams just to prove to me that I’m adopted and actually his biological son!

Anyway, they were both raised Mennonite in Pennsylvania’s famously racist and cheese-friendly Amish country. I believe Burt’s father was Amish but still let him marry my mother, a Mennonite, which was very controversial at the time, somehow. So they were shunned and forced to move away to hell itself, North Jersey. 

They married in their late teens, around 67 but unlike most young people at that time, they grew to be  absolutely afraid and wholeheartedly determined to convert every last hippie on the face of the earth. They hated them. They wanted hippies, Black people, Jane Fonda, cars, modern medicine, technology, and just about anything outside of their own little sheep farm to either join them in pious boredom for all time or burn in hell.

But naturally, since being religious zealots is a lot of work and doesn’t make much bank if you’re starting out broke and all—especially in the swinging sixties—it was even harder for them growing up in Amish country when most people in ye old Hershey, PA, didn’t wanna join their cult—I mean church—especially the hippies or even the normies and townsfolk.

So, my rents—God fuck their souls—as the middle children of two massive families, both with fifteen or sixteen children each, felt compelled by the Lord above to do the next best thing to make up for their lack of hippie converts and disappointed families: have a fuck ton of kids. And so they did go forth and multiply, just like their parents (or at least they tried). Because that sure turned out… great for them the first time around. My “wonderful” parents and brothers are clear evidence of that. Afterall, The more little soldiers of god they had the less they had to do any self reflection.

For the record, I’m never having children. Eight billion of us is more than enough. Besides, being a father of rock is already so much responsibility; there’s only so much one guy can take. And as much as my family is a complete joke, we saved Dads gangly old life too. If he didn't have a wife and kids, he would have been dead in some Jungle in Vietnam.

But even though my folks tried to have children, life doesn’t always go as God plans. After years of trying to conceive, my mother must have been desperate for kids to brainwash. She was really pushing twenty now and still hadn’t popped out a little rugrat. What was going on in womb vile? Trouble in paradise, one might say?

Well, at this point, you might be wondering why my folks were so gung-ho about making babies and why they didn’t attempt to pop some offspring out earlier in their lives. Why didn’t they adopt or have any other purpose in life besides procreating, other than the whole “replacing their failed hippie converts” thing? Having kids was always gonna happen, but it was always gonna be for the wrong reasons. To this day, I wonder: did they have some kind of scheduling conflict? Was it Burt’s blockage, or was Florence maybe out of bullets—or vice versa?

The truth is, that attempts were made. My mother was never the warm, nurturing type. I like to think the holy ghost of Woody Guthrie cursed them for wanting kids solely to be hippie haters, but either way, dude, shit was getting outrageous because now they were both starting to sweat and turn to some weird shit.

Their baby-making attempts were getting so wild, in fact, that God must have started feeling bad for them—which is a scary thing when you’re starting to feel bad for the two worst squares on the geometry board. Even though I still wouldn’t be born for another three years by this point, some days I wish they’d kept it that way and gone off to convert poor suckers in South America or something. But by now, my poor, awful mother was so stuffy and bitter that even her eggs had turned to dust.

She would never give birth to the perfect baby boy to impress her neighbors, pastor, and judgy parents back in the backwoods of Amish country. But both of them being too dirt-poor to adopt and too young to retire really put a wrench in things. Not to mention my father being too drunk, useless, and pushy to remarry.

So after all that, as a last resort, my narcs of origin decided the only option left on the table was to pray, for days and nights by the church altar like they were chained to it. They wept, slept, and had revelations of the rapture at that altar—all for the Lord to bless them with a son because they didn’t think a daughter would work for their overarching diabolical plan.

After a lot of hard work on their knees, Jesus finally granted their wish. Nine months later, my parents returned to that same corporate Baptist church on the side of the interstate to baptize Kent, their first son. The next year, they returned again to baptize Kevin, and I was baptized there only a year later, in 1970. The last great year.

That was the same year my parents tried to ban us from listening to the radio because “Crocodile Rock” by Elton John came out and they were convinced it was promoting bestiality with actual crocodiles. Only church radio for us from then on. They weren’t shy about raising us from birth in their image. They had a burning hatred for what America had become. They wanted us to replace the “infidels” they saw walking the streets wearing slutty clothes, kissing in public, and listening to “the devil’s music.”

So, to uphold the last remaining tenets of the American dream, they needed children to carry on their legacy. What legacy, you may ask? Just one of the boring Christian minority, living unlived lives in Newark, dying virgins, and loving Nixon—consisting mostly of yelling at hippies to get off their lawns. Either way, that was their plan: to raise their three “perfect boys” in their holy image. Boys who hate change, love America, and, most of all, grow up to make a ton of money that they could use to retire to an overpriced, tacky Miami condo and never have to see us ever again.

Oh, and how could I forget? Never question them in any way, or you’d suffer at the mercy of the belt and years of unrelenting Catholic guilt. How do you think I helped invent the new genre of music “Church-Punk”?

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Suffice it to say, they didn’t really raise me; they just brought me into the world hoping I’d be the “third miracle.” Instead, I was their third mistake, one they could never quite erase. If they’d known how I would turn out at birth, I’m convinced they would have killed me right then and there, changed their views on abortion, and everything.

They’re not shy about it either—they talk about it all the time. Because they hate hippies, but I’m worse than hippies. At least hippies have the decency to sing about peace and love and be happy in the face of injustice.

Instead of being angry about it, instead of being in the heavy metal, rock n roll, roll crowd I ran with, the rents really did think I was the devil. Whenever I refused to go to church or do what they said, they burned my clothes—even all my shirts. They went so far as to burn my neutral Guns N’ Roses print pajamas for being “idol-worshiping cult uniforms,” forcing me to go to the mailbox in Kent’s boring plaid all week—a fashion crime if there ever was one.

Then there was the time they stole my Dio shrine, my many, many photo Flea stash, and my old porn collection. And the time they didn’t even give me a Band-Aid after Noodle (aka the bully from ninth-grade gym—we called him Noodle because he’d stretch your arms into noodles if you came on his turf) pulled out my piercing when he tried to steal my bike. Everyone was more afraid of his two little sisters, though. We called them “Draw and Quarter” because they were the real demons.

Or how about all those posers at Camelot Records who refuse to give me a job because I wasn’t “for real” and they couldn’t hold one down? Or my parents sa that was my punishment from God. Everything in my life started going wrong, and no one did anything to help me because I wasn’t… the type of person who elicited sympathy from others. 

From how my parents treated me from birth, I have every reason to believe they thought I was the reincarnation of the devil himself, in a totally serious way. But rock ’n’ roll was in my blood, no matter how much they tried to spill it.

It was around this fateful era—the summer of ’80—that my parents realized I was the odd kid out. They just couldn’t handle my raw animal magnetism. Legend has it that when I was a newborn, the doctor dropped me on a pile of Black Sabbath CDs, and it cracked my little skull wide open. There was blood everywhere. My parents screamed and almost blew a vein or two. But after the surgery, a piece of my brain had been replaced—the one that controls impulse control, of course.

So I was reborn, like a rock ’n’ roll Frankenstein. The rock gods blessed me to survive, and as I emerged from the operating table like Jesus Christ Superstar from the cross, heavenly light flooded the room. I sat up and cried tears of destiny. It was at that moment I knew I was destined to be a rock star. But I didn’t choose rock ’n’ roll; rock ’n’ roll chose me.

Aside from thinking I’m the devil himself, my parents bought into the widespread panic around all things rock ’n’ roll at the time. They believed Ssatanic panic was running rampant and that metalheads were sacrificing little girls to Satan, who was also being summoned by Dungeons & Dragons and playing Led Zeppelin backwards.

Naturally, as the signs of my emerging rock ’n’ roll ethos became undeniable, my parents started to sweat and wonder if the Lord of Darkness was somehow involved. I mean, just look at my track record so far (these are just the highlights):

When I was ten months old, my first words were “Let’s get it on” (Marvin Gaye had the number four song of the summer).

When I was two, I sharpened my teeth into fangs on my mom’s nail file so I could bite the hand that feeds me more effectively.

When I was four, I stole my mom’s eyeliner and never gave it back.

And when I was five, I formed my first band with some first graders who couldn’t play for shit. Dude, they were babies. They couldn’t keep up with my clear path to rock ’n’ roll mega stardom.

When I was six, I refused to get a haircut so I could grow out my full hair metal shag (as God intended). 

When I was eight, I broke a kid’s leg in the schoolyard while pulling my hair. But there was a silver lining: that year, Mötley Crüe was formed, so I realized I was gay.

But even when I was in middle school, my parents had already made it extremely well known to every family in the neighborhood that they “did not approve of my lifestyle.” They tried so many times to take me to church with them, Bible school, Boy Scouts with my brothers, football camp, put me in a suit, brush my hair, introduce me to neighborhood girls, burn my rock shirts—they were just fascists, dude, you have no idea!?

From day one of parenthood, they did everything in their power to squeeze me into their,  All-American mold that Kevin and Kent slid so neatly into. Well, I’ll give it to them; their brainwashing worked on my brothers for fifteen years, but it never worked on me, and they hated me for it. I was living proof America was a dying empire, and they wanted to hide the fat, rock ’n’ roll proof at all costs, in case I made too much sense to the neighborhood rejects.

My parents, were desperate. They did what they always did in times of great desperation—they returned to the church’s doorstep to give me the appropriate number of exorcisms. And as you know, the church was known for its totally not traumatic treatment of children. Most people only know about Exorcisms now from horror flicks, but back then, real ones were actually way more metal. They performed them on me only after weeks of fasting and prayer, mostly my mother hysterically praying instead of taking care of us…you know like a mom or something. They bring me to the church practically in a straightjacket, against my will to be strapped to a table like they were gonna sell my Kidney fro drugs it was real sleezy just out in the open of the church then the priest comes out to expell the demons, or rid me of my possession by Satan, wicth ever was more in vouge that week,but the preiset had to wait for the direction of the Diocesan Bishiop, even though werent Lutheren that was the method to their madness and, spoiler alert, no demons were expelled as a result of their horror movie torture curcuis. But, it did give me a super sick Idea for a metal cover album, and a future band name, get this: THE EXOCROSISTS!! Probably taken right? 

So after a while my mother finally saw that nothing was going to work, and the demons refused to leave my body (probably because they were having such a great time in there), our local pedophile priest, Joseph Angles, decided instead I needed “professional help.” So after the electric shock therapy, hypnotizing, homeopathy, crystal healing, and helping to get a radio psychic’s ratings up, everyone declared that I was absolutely, totally, undeniably beyond help. But if anything, their futile attempts at “setting me straight” only gave me more ideas for rock songs. Also, demons are hot and cool, actually—funky red naked dudes who wanna take over your body and make you horny and evil, but in a cool way, and give The Big J a hard time. I don't know, man, sign me up. Yeah, the church had a way of making sin seem totally gnarly each time they wanted us to fear it, like a way to backfire hard. Keep at it, guys, see where that gets you!

I was only thirteen years old… what’s the rush?! They had loads of time to try to shove me into that conformist mold. If they could have, they would've sent me off to war, but I was too young. Plus, the Vietnam War was over, and their patron Saint Nixon was old news. So for now, they were stuck with me and all that came with it. But on the “bright side,” they just elected this movie star guy named Ronald Reagan to the White House, so we’ll see how that goes for them.

Meanwhile, my two older brothers were the most perfect little angels. They were as smart, obedient, Catholic, heterosexual, sexist, and boring as my folks could have ever hoped for. By the time we hit middle school, my parents had totally given up on me, and man, they were not shy about it either. They constantly shoved their favoritism down my throat. They ran our household like a horse race, I swear to God. They would pit us against each other to compete for every little sliver of their approval, and you know just who the judges favored. They were so blunt; they even cut me out of family photos and burned my birth certificate on the back porch. My mom lied to her ladies at the hair salon that she only had two sons, and my dad constantly denied that I was his flesh and blood. As a cover, he started claiming I was an orphan from Las Vegas they took in briefly, out of the kindness of their hearts. My brothers themselves were absolutely pampered. My folks made sure they had the best tutors, the best schools, the best school equipment, even when they could barely afford either. Not to mention getting them both the prettiest girlfriends (mostly daughters of their church ilk, trying to marry off their eldest daughters before they developed a personality).

My oldest brother Kent was, expectedly, a royal cunt. He inherited the douchebag gene from both our parents. Kent really was just an extension of our parents’ reign, getting straight A's and being a straight-A asshole from first grade to eighth. So of course, as soon as he hit high school, Kent was at the top of the food chain. He did all the classic bullcrap popular nitwits like him got up to in 1985: bullying the nerds, being star quarterback, and banging and claiming every pretty virgin from here to the city limits. So, naturally, every teacher, parent, student, and McDonald's worker in town expected him to go to Harvard, even when his grades and coaches were all pointing towards a football scholarship. Our folks always had to push extra hard. They wanted my brothers to become big-shot corporate lawyers and bring the township a bunch of money, or something, which gives them a get-out-of-jail-free card for just about any crime you could think of. Never gonna happen if you ask me. Their heads are in the clouds, and either way, all that shit grosses me the fuck out. Sellouts like my folks and my brother are the enemy of a rock god like myself. Well, I had to learn early.

But then there was Kevin. He was a rare gold nugget in an ocean of mediocrity. I held off talking about him until now because he was the only fond memory of my childhood, so I had to save the best for last. He was absolutely crushed by our parents’ ungodly pressure to be perfect and pull the family out of poverty. Kevin and Kent were in constant competition, our folks pitting them against each other, because no matter how perfect Kevin was, Kent was always better. And Kent was anything but good—the douchebag of the year award went to him every time, future lawyer for corporate buttfaces no doubt. I hated his guts almost as much as he hated it when I blasted AC/DC at three a.m. But Kevin was actually a good guy, and after a while, he grew up and quit being such a kiss-ass. I mean, he still had to be perfect or else, but he managed to do it without being a raging dickweed in the process. He was the only person who didn't participate in the constant dog-piling and hostile climate against me that everyone seemed to be totally wrapped up in. He actually enjoyed spending time with me without being paid. In fact, he often fought to do so despite the pressure. And lucky me, he had good taste in rock music to boot! He wasn't satisfied with listening to Bruce Springsteen in the corner and sucking his thumb like the rest of them. He even stood up against bullies and our parents when they were bringing down the hammer on me. He was a popular kid too, so he could get away with that, but unlike most, he used his powers for good. Including playing with me in all my rock bands, even when it cost him big time. Kevin gave up a lot for me; this is just as much his story as it is mine.

CHAPTER TWO

PLAYING IN A ROCK N ROLL BAND

September, 1985

I was still a freshman in high school, yet by this point, dude, I had already been in and out of more short-lived bands than Robin Hood. I’d been starting, forming, and rocking in bands since I was in the first grade. Probably younger, but you know how stupid memories can be, besides the rents always said I was lying about my long legendary music career, while they always lied about me! Fucking hypocrites!? Mind you, through the early '80s, I was a rising star; every one of my bands pushed the needle. But of course, everyone else got the credit or simply pretended I never existed later on. But around this time, most of these musical operations were legendary, still not living up to their full potential because of the stupid, un-rock 'n' roll world that just couldn’t handle our true vision!? They all ended up being short-lived, just grody, experimental, unsuccessful shots in the dark with more shuffling in and out, like Fleetwood Mac playing a game of Musical Chairs.

But I had two standout members who were in almost all my bands since the beginning of time. Dude, I’m talking about my long-time drummer Beans, real name “Ulysses H. Frankfurt III,” youngest of ten children or some fancy crap. He’s the son of some German lord. He was old money, liveds in Newark, and stayeds with his best friend and our keyboardist Lenny when his family was away, which was most of the time. And lucky for us, he doesn’t seem to notice, nor do his parents.

Beans was a skinny, pale, shy, and introverted type, always wearing the same baggy, dark purple sweater with a skull on its, and his hair in a black pixie cut covering half his face. And then there’s my other man: Lenny, keyboardist, a wild, dopey, incredibly stupid wannabe California surfer type. He hads family out in California, including this uncle out there who workeds at Capitol Records, who he was always talking about. The ladies thought he was a joke; he thought he wa’s the greatest thing since the gnarly waves that he hadn’t caught since the summer of '82, but he liked to pretend he surfed in the Olympics and got his tan in San Diego, not at Long Beach over spring break, and that his buns didn’t burn.

Beans and Lenny were attached at the hip, best friends I could always count on to be in my band. It’s getting the rest of the lineup in this town that’s always a challenge. Sometimes my brother will fill in as lead guitarist; I’m hoping this will be one of those times. Some of our best bands over the years have been: Monkey’s in Berlin Man, those were the days. Ya see, Monkey’s was a psychedelic rock band. We were recording several songs entirely backwards, including our biggest hit “Moss Tank Sex Carmel Ride Back Home,”about why homosexuality is beautiful and should replace heterosexuality. We did a lot of acid the whole time, as you do. Acne Creamers, Ape Meat, and Time Out of Memoriam were some of the best bands we formed over the years. Honestly, mainstays on any respectable record collection, it would be pointless to even list them (however radical we were, dude…we were still humble, you gotta stay humble if you wanna have it made, that's why we were so respected. Even Iggy Pop (a good friend of mine) said he was jealous of our hit album streak, we were just so cool it... makes me kind of emotional, man, makes me tear up…–)

What?!

Rock stars cry too!?

God!

But out of all of those bands, despite our colorful history of rocking harder than anyone has rocked before in this galaxy or any other, we SOMEHOW still have yet to achieve long-term mainstream success. (I know) Yes, despite our legendary status, we never had an agent, a rock ‘n’ roll spirit guide, or anything like that to help us grow into the massive unit we are today. We are self-made, but there’s so much as a band we still haven’t done, as we were on the cusp of manhood. Puberty will make you rethink things like this. And the big times were basically calling our names, dude.

But Now that I was in high school, I was finally ready to heed its primal call. I wasn’t messing around anymore, man. I needed a real band this time, one that has what it takes to handle my overbearingly monumental talent, and I was ready to put in the work as bandleader to take us all the way. So Kevin and I had vowed to start that very band, Sunday, September 5th, 1985. 

But my fear of selling out loomed large, turning into one of those hair metal freaks that seemed to haunt every corner of the scene, especially the local radio, MTV, and whatever else people considered “IN” despite half those bands being total shells, dude! Ugh! I mean, if I have to hear the name Twisted Sister one more time, I think I might go full-metal jacket and start having flashbacks!? I’m serious! So, in our new era, dude, keeping artistic, rock ‘n’ roll integrity was paramount. We might be their only hope. So after a lot of pushback, our schedules had finally collided, and me and my lead guitarist were finally laying out our master plan, for full rock ‘n’ roll, to international, intergalactic godhood, where our epic rock ‘n’ roll destiny would lead, even if we had to get a little creative to get there.!? But like all the great rock gods before us, we had to start somewhere.

So, that leads us here. Kev was sitting on the floor in my room, reading my latest face-melting lyrics for our new band, as he often did, studying them with the precision of his Harvard-level studies to make sure they were up to the face-melting bar required. These lyrics were really gonna melt some faces, alright—like, dude, like…I could see his face just make that subtle, but impressed little eyebrow raise. Yeah, yeah. I can already tell Kevin is gonna totally dig these.

My room was the perfect place for great minds to incubate. My room, or “the tornado of shit,” as my mother tenderly referred to it, was the only place me and Kevin could ever get any peace of mind. (aside from the hill that is), (Peace of mind? You know, like the Boston song, one of their best next to “More Than a Feeling.”) Kevin was leaning on my bean bag full of old shirts and trash. The door was bolted shut and had a massive dartboard, a metal “keep out” sign, and several nails sticking out where I used to hang my rape whistles. I had two lava lamps on my desk (both stolen), all my school junk, binders, scattered pencils, and incomplete algebra worksheets next to my second-hand Sony Walkman. Next to my desk was my weed stash inside my piggy bank and my condom stash mixed in with my leftover Halloween candy in my empty NASCAR helmet. Next to that was all my rock ‘n roll equipment I couldn't fit in my closet, like my bass guitar, my drum set, amp, stereo, and stolen keyboard from music class. My messy-ass room was covered wall to wall with band posters, even on the ceiling: I got rare tour posters and full spreads of the Crue, Zeppelin, Europe, Guns N' Roses, T. Rex, Aerosmith, The Talking Heads, ZZ Top, The Misfits, Poison, The Dead Kennedys, The Cramps, Iggy Pop, Lou Reed, The Addicts, Suicide, Ratt, Meatloaf, Boy George, The New York Dolls, David Bowie, and of course, my favorite band of all time, my heroes, my gods, The Red Hot Chili Peppers. I had three giant posters of the Peppers covering up my windows. Out there, my family worshiped Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit. But here, I worshiped my rock gods and prayed to them nightly. I know if it came to it, I would do anything for them. Right now, Kevin is reading my lyrics.I know my rock gods would try to use, well they had to be that good, if not we would have a serious problem. Kev is no god, but his opinion is a lot more educated, and it's one of the only trusted brains I had to pick. He’s helping me come up with a name for the latest band, the one I was forming out of our garage. The same garage I was fighting Dad over since he still hadn’t found anywhere to relocate his auto parts. I ran some of my best band name ideas by Kevin, dying for his approval. He was the only person whose rock ‘n roll opinion I value other than Fleas. He's way beyond, all the rest.

Oh my god, Kevin was done reading. He let out a sigh of obvious passion and catharsis after reading what he clearly considered the best lyrics of his life!? I leaned in with excitement.

“Lester…are these all of them? What about your backups? Can’t we pull from one of those instead?” Kevin handed the list back to me, unsatisfied, reaching under my messy shelf for one of my many songwriting notebooks filled with badass, unused band names for the gods. But none of those would be right for this. We had to try something totally new. Is he serious? I thought he wanted to push boundaries, not…become a human boundary, right now!? Dude, totally you're being lame!

“Dude here read these too, Dude wake up these names are totally genius! They're gonna put our asses on the map!” 

“Well I-” I interrupted Kev, suddenly overcome with defensive passion. 

“No, no, your crazy dude look- these lyrics are like…totally perfect! They are literally so good, dude, what are you talking about!? Besides, I thought we were on the same page here, man. The band has to be something original, totally the most original we’ve ever gone! Our name has to be something new, like one of the names on there, or something sexy like ‘Polyamorous Python,’ ‘Lavender Scare,’ or ‘The Flying Purple People Eaters.’ You know, something bold and attention-grabbing!”

“Yeah, attention-grabbing, not…senses assaulting. Besides, is this a rock band or what’s left of one? What are we meant to do with a name like ‘Andy Warhol’s Explosive Holes?’”

“Man, did your good taste get ground to dust this week? What is with you!? That name is totally sick. I would listen to them!!!”

“Pfft, as a porno maybe. Hey, who’s to say you haven’t already?”

“Okay, look Kev, you don’t know—what you're even talking about—like—come on! Andy is so rock ‘n roll! He discovered the Velvets, man, the Velvet Underground?. That invokes sexy-mysterious-underground mystery. Okay, choir boy? Come on, that’s what we should invoke.”

“Yeah, dude, well, right now, with these names, all you're invoking is—that—we're completely lame and no one should ever see our shows! Pfft, that is unless they want to die virgins in New Jersey. Those are not the fans …I assume you want at our shows. But What do I know, right?”

“That’s like…totally not true. Everybody is gonna be getting laid at our shows, especially the virgins.” 

Kev just started laughing, not a good sign. Usually, this is the point in the process where we’re already selling out tours nationwide. I’m starting to think Kev doesn’t take the rock n roll lifestyle very seriously….

“Stop laughing at this! It’s like…life or death, dude!” I said, waving the paper in his face and feeling , becoming desperate.

“Okay! Like—DUDE! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! They just sound too goofy! I thought you told me we were going for a serious band now, not whatever this is! You wanted my honest opinion, right!? If you wanted someone to suck your dick and tell you how amazing you are, and goof off, why not call Lenny? Look, you’ve been saying for years, always talking about wanting to get a record deal, so does everyone around here. You want to make rock ‘n roll history or whatever. Well, we need to start over because, and I’m sorry, dude, this…just isn't the way.”

“And you have all the answers, huh? Just because you get straight A’s doesn’t mean you—”

“Hey, you asked for my help, dude. Some guys pay for advice this good—well, here it is…”

“Okay, man, well, this sucks. This actually blows…Oh my god, I think our lives…might actually be over, dude!” I flopped on my back, the agony of the situation sinking in, insecurity and self-doubt sinking into my wax-filled ear tunnels like Soviet spies. Kev just rolled his eyes and smiled. I started to rant, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with grand defeat.

“Okay, why don’t you just put me out of my misery? Don’t just stand there. Why even try if we already totally suck? We shouldn’t even add to the pile of slop out there. And you know, since you're now the all-knowing president of rock ‘n roll all of a sudden, you can royally…sentence me officially to life in exile. It’s okay, I’ll take it…like a man.”

“Get up…” Kev yanked my floppy ass up by my neck, propping me up like a droopy bean bag, preventing me from hitting my head on the back of my record player, all defeated and dried up. He made that “you’re not gonna give up now, you moron” kind of face that usually motivated me into all kinds of magical madness, but now just felt condescending. Like, what the hell was his angel? He said he wanted to help me, take a brief break from his backbreaking people-pleasing schedule to do so, but then all he does is crush my dreams. What gives!?

“Okay? Do you think you can come up with a better name? No, no, in fact, why don’t you ‘invoke’ a whole new list, huh?” I sniped crossing my arms.

“Real mature. You know, I think it’s a sign of a great man who can admit he needs to rethink…everything.”

“No, no, hey! Come on, man! Don’t you know I worked hard on this? I played hooky two weeks in a row!! I almost sucked off the asshole in the Camelot stockroom. I pretended to watch football, Kev. Football!? Are my sacrifices all in vain!?” Kev laughed.

“Sorry, just… I didn’t mean to diminish your very impressive accomplishments… These are clearly thea result of a very passionate creative process,.” He sarcastically went on, with visual condescension, flipping through my notebook like every page was a little kid’s stick figures, convinced he had just discovered art itself. He peeled the composition notebook page, very sticky and gross, something only between me and God. 

“If you want to appeal to crowds, build up a real fanbase, genuinely—we just can’t afford to be so messy, speaking of witch—ew? Really?” He peeled his fingers off the page, ancient white goo sticking to his fingers like glue as he gave me a shameful stare 

“What? Necessity is the mother of invention!”

“Gross. Oh dear, you know…maybe you're right though, maybe I’m being too closed-minded, heh. Yeah, names like ‘Friends Who Have Sex on the Full Moon,’ The Ass Machines, ‘Rasputin’s Russian Fiddle Kitten Diddlin' Riddlers,’ and ‘Loony Bin Hooker Hour’ could clearly only come from a very…deep and intimate place.No yeah, your right these names would totally be great for us! I’m sure they would sell out local crowds of hair metal fans in working-class, middle-of-nowhere New Jersey, who hate change, only see their wives on conjugal visits, and have never left their home state. Yeah, I’m sure our local scene would totally see a band called ‘The Prison Riot Doll Dumpster Divers,’ ‘Bait for Undercover Cops,’ or ‘The Serial Jizz Kings.’”

“Uh-huh. Okay, you know, maybe those names aren’t actually—” I blushed;, hearing them out loud sent a shiver of humiliation through me.

“They're not all bad, dude, they're just not our band, you see. I'm just trying to be realistic here. You know where we live, whether we like it or not. Could you see us getting announced to the stage as any of these?” I glared back at him, rolling my eyes at his stupid perfect smile you just couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at. 

“But hey, dude, on the bright side, at least they have fewer spelling mistakes this time…”

“Jesus Christ, Kev, what happened to us? At this point, why don’t we break our guitars, throw in the towel! Why don’t we just give up now, call our band the ‘Stupid Idiots with No Ideas! Hey, that’s not that bad—no, NO, THAT’S AWFUL! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH US, UGH!”

I threw my lyric book at the wall. My brain fog and lack of an endless stream of rock ‘n roll genius were sending me into a minor panic.

“Maybe we don't give up, it's our job to bless the world with good music, if not for us, what will the good people of Ewing do then? They need us dude” Kevin said sarcastically but I chose to ignore that. Before grumbling and making a series of angry faces before finally giving in.

“You’re right, whatever! Ugh! As always. But you're not helping, you’re just reminding me of shit I already know because I’m a genius and you’re a professional. We can do better than just talking in circles like this, man.”

“You know…I could not have said it better myself.” 

“Yeah, so what are we doing then, having a tea party!? Let’s think of some kick-ass band names or just save everyone the trouble and…—maybe some drugs will get our minds flowing?”

“You know I don't do that kind of thing” Kevin said half seriously. I glared at him growing impatient. 

“Ok then, uhhh. Let’s put on some songs that used to help grease the old idea engine back in the day,…” Kevin said with a smirk. 

I rolled my eyes at him as I shuffled through cassette tapes to put on for inspiration. Expecting to play some Chilis, T. Rex, or…even something we hadven’t heard in a while to shock us out of our sonic comfort zone. Damn it! Did Kent steal my Aerosmith again?!! I charged toward the bedroom door, fuming. Kent took his pompous meddling too far this time, just like the government. 

“KENT, GIVE ME BACK MY FUCKING AEROSMITH OR I’LL BURN YOUR FUCKING PRE-LAW TEXTBOOKS RIGHT NOW!!!” I raged through the door.

“FUCK YOU, LESSIE, I DIDN’T TAKE YOUR TRASH MUSIC! WHY DON’T YOU CLEAN YOUR FUCKING ROOM, STOP WASTING KEVIN'S TIME, SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I’LL TELL MOM YOU JUST THREATENED TO BURN MY SHIT?!”

“SCREW YOUUUUUUUU, KENT! YOU NIMROD BUTTPLUG! GIVE IT BACK OR I’M GONNA SHOVE IT UP YOUR BACKED-UP, POSER ASS, YOU FUCKING NARC!”

“No. You Know what, I don't think I will. Besides, Aerosmith is low art, and Steven Tyler’s a homewrecker, you know!” 

“YOU TAKE THAT BACK, MAN!!!!!!!!!!”

“MAKE ME, DIPSHIT!”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Shut the fuck up! Man, don’t you have, like… a test to study for or something?” I sneered, unlocking the door. I swung it open aggressively, ready to tackle him. Kevin rolled his eyes and intervened, as always, stepping between us and shutting down our fight. As he slammed the door, sending Kent away in a huff, Kevin crossed his arms and looked down at me with a mix of boredom and disappointment.

I blushed and blurted out, :

“Jesus, fucking Kent! What’s his fucking problem anway?! He gets everything he wants, and still, he takes my only tape. I have this tingly feeling in my gut—he’s still got my tape, man. I know his tricks! Like, dude, he’s not even gonna listen to it; he’s just gonna hoard it so I can’t listen to it. Just ’cause he can! AND WHO KNOWS WHEN THEIR NEXT ACTUALLY GOOD ALBUM RELEASE WILL BE!!” 

“Just forget him, dude. I’ll get you a new Aerosmith. They’re having a sale at Camelot this weekend, okay?”

“Whatever, man, just another distraction from the rock ‘n’ roll mission at hand.”

“That’s the spirit. Hey, Just hold on a second…” Kevin’s smile quickly disarmed me.

He stepped out of the room to talk to Kent, agreeing with him not to tattle to our parents about our fight. I overheard him warmly whisper something like, “God tells us to forgive thy brother or blah blah, something like that.”

I peeked out at them from the floor as Kent glared at me and rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. Then he turned back to Kevin, placating him with brotherly diplomacy, talking about fathers and God and keeping the peace and all that. Pfft, God? I forgot Kev still bought into that crap. One day he’dll wake up. My God was rock ‘n’ roll. The most important part of my religion wasis to play guitar. Lou Reed said that—or was it Jesus? Either way, Kevin wasis better off with me than with the church or our whack-job family. Just more broken promises. At least with rock, you could still have fun.

“So, what’s his damage?”

“We’re in the clear. He still denies having your tape, but I have a feeling it might be lost in your closet anyway. We really need to clean that whole vortex before it sucks you in whole. And no, he’s not gonna tell Mom, on the condition that I owe him a favor now. It’s always something with him, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, always some new nonsense he gets away with, leaving us in the dirt behind.”

“But trust me, he’s not worth it. People like him—it’s best to treat them with honey, not venom… generally speaking,” Kevin said in his classic comforting tone, giving me a noogie-hug combo as we sat back down, getting right back to business.

“Pfft, easy for you to say…”

“Anyway, is that it, man? Are you sure these are the best new band names you’ve got? Jeez, I can see the latex purple jumpsuits now,” he said, looking back at the list of wild names he rejected offhand for being too out there. 

“Look, if we want to do this for real this time, we gotta stay on track here and start asking ourselves the big questions.”

“Like what, Kev? Like what the hell are we doing with our lives?”

“No. Ha! I’m doing just fine with my life, thank you very much. Like, what kind of band are we trying to be? We figure that out and —the names will follow. Minus the latex jumpsuits, ideally. But hey—”

“This isn’t one of your stupid classes, man. This is rock ‘n’ roll—we can’t plan for everything! We just have to stop doubting our own destiny!”

“Do you know what happens to bands that never consider this question? They become one-hit wonders, man—just another shot in the dark. Knowing you, before we think of the name, we gotta know the basics. You know? I think that’s a great place to start—it’s almost like… making a band from scratch isn’t so different from a baptism. You get a fresh start.”

“And don't forget, it’s crucial we get arrested and record a protest album from our cell! We’ll get into bar fights at CBGB's and have backstage orgies that’ll make the front page of the Village Voice. We’ll live and die on tour, with no regrets, and we’ll die young from a heroin overdose at the age of 27!” I saidd, with crazy in my eyes, the passion seemingly consuming me, body and soul. Kevin suddenly pulled back, his hands running through his hair like a nervous broker on Black Monday.

“Whoa! Whoa! Wow… You really have this all planned out, huh? But, you know, maybe that’s a little far, Les. I mean, it sounds bodacious as hell, but our band can't just be about making bad decisions.”

“That’s it!” I said, snapping my fingers as a final lightbulb went off.

“What now?”

“Bad Decisions! Now, that's a name!”

“Oh my God, Lester, you're a genius! IT’S PERFECT!” Kevin shrieked as he lit up, lunging at me. He pulled me into a huge bear hug, swinging me around, jumping up and down, and cheering like we’d just won the World Series. Now there’s only one thing we’re missing!” I said as reality came crashing back.

“Dude, what? We’re not missing anything. We got this, we got it all. We’re ready to go right to the top right now!”

“No, I mean, you, me, guitar, lead vocals, Lenny and Beans are probably gonna come crawling back for keyboard and drums—not like they have anything better to do this year. But who’s gonna play bass? Remember what happened to last year’s guy?”

“Uhhhh, well, I thought we agreed not to talk about that ever again, man.” Let’s just say, just because someone can play bass, looks and acts like Flea, is hot as hell, and a total tease, doesn’t mean they don’t also have a very robust criminal record and won’t steal your record collection and your pants.

“We don’t need bass—yes, we do, we do. But we don’t know anyone. I hang out with you and obviously all the bands in New York who are totally famous, but they’re busy…”

“Don’t worry, I know just the guy,” Kev said with stupid, sly confidence.

“You? Who the hell do you know?” Kev, Mr. Goody-Goody who only hunghangs out at church, school, and in all his extracurriculars, with his stupid meathead friends on the football team. His friends sucked. Who the hell would he know to play bass, to be the final piece for our new, hardcore, heavy-metal rock ’n’ roll band to take the world—but first, our little shithole of New Jersey—by storm? I raised my eyebrow, ready to be proven wrong.

“Oh, dude, you don’t even know! Oh my God, this is too good! He’s actually totally perfect! He sits next to me in my biochem honors class. He’s a total metalhead—a classic freak. Trent is a beast on the bassline. He would be great for our new band, in the direction it’s going. Oh, and you know you two would totally get along. He also hates his parents—and society.”

“Wow, dude, we have sooooooooooooo much in common,” I droned sarcastically, coming down from the high of the moment. Now, I realized, came the hard part: actually forming the band. But in Jersey, there wasn’t a surplus of esoteric personalities or raw talent. So beggars can’t be choosers.

“Yeah, though he can be kind of intense—pretentious even. He might be just scary enough to play bass, keep Lenny and Beans in line, and take us to the next level just like you want. He’s just the extra edge we’ve been looking for! Like your ‘main man’ Flea, he’s pretty wild. Besides, he’s more Viking Death Metal than the badass new vision of hair metal-punk rock fusion we’re aiming for or whatever. I’m down to figure it out as we go. But I think he’d be a welcome addition. It’s a band decision, though, so dude, your vote: should we recruit him tomorrow?” 

“Is he a queer?” I asked.

“Pfft, wouldn’t you like to know?”

“He’s probably out of my league anyway. Sounds like he’s into some weird shit.” We had to be quiet. If anyone heard us talking about this stuff, we were both screwed. Kevin was the only guy I knew who was even a little chill about me being gay. Well he's also the only one I was out to. If anyone else knew, it would be rock ’n’ roll suicide (and not the David Bowie song).

“Dude, don’t be silly. No one’s out of your league. Trust me, all these cul-de-sac closet cases want nothing more than to play in your league. Especially now that our band is gonna be back, everyone is gonna be all over us—especially those guys.” Maybe Kev was right, but It didn't matter. 

Hell, even if I ended up dead in an abandoned swimming pool, loste my hearing and could never put the Led on again, or got caught in some kind of gay booby trap, at least I’dll still have my rock gods looking down on me. They’dve always looked out for me. I knew God doesn't give a shit about anyone, but they would never let anything happen to me. I know I wasam their prophet—a prophet sent to spread the word of rock and the teachings of Page, Lennon, Jagger, and Clapton, and all the other saints. Even if I never becaome anything more than a failure, at least I dedicated my life to rocking—something most people could never claim. A holy crusade, if you will. Well, It was a comforting thought, at least.

Kevin left my room, seeing I was…going into the zone. You know the one.

I turned the lights off and slid the Chili Peppers' second studio album, Freaky Styley, into my walkman, cranking it up to 11. Letting their holy hymns and Anthony Kiedis’s sultry voice wash over me, I drowned out the loud dinner prep chatter outside. In my room, alone with nothing but my music and thoughts, I briefly enjoyed peace on earth—or the closest I could get to it. But, of course, my perfect moment of tranquil oneness was shattered as soon as it began.

“LESTER, DINNER IS READYYYY! GET OUT HERE, EVERYONE IS WAITING ON YOU TO SAY GRACE. YOU CAN’T JUST LIVE ON CIGARETTES, PIXIE STICKS, AND THAT FAIRY MUSIC FOREVER, YA KNOWS!!!” my mother howled, her shrill command cutting through the musical harmony like a knife.

“AGH! I'm not hungry!” I yelled back, flusteredly shutting off the RHCP cassette. Somberly, I willed myself to play the game, as if that was 's all I was ever doing. Changing the music to Queen, feeling a melodramatic moment coming on.

“Leave me alone! You don’t love me!” I cried out in vain, every night the same back and forth.

“Feh, you know Lester, don’t waste your breath,” Kent muttered to my father.

“I had a hard enough day at work—why me, cursed with such a son!? Why does the boy do this every night? He’s getting special treatment! We can’t keep letting him just lay in his room every night, doing whatever he wants in there. What would Father Angels say? We do everything for that boy, and look what he does—”

“Dad, careful! Don't you think three beers is enough?” Kent said, his genuine worry making me scowl.

“I swear to God, that boy is gonna be the death of me.”Burt coughed.

“Just forget about it!” I could hear Florence turning to my dad, trying to turn down the volume on his inevitable rage and give him that nightly reminder that I wasn’t'm not worth the effort—or the meatballs.

“Honey, please, he’s not worth the energy. He can get fat off Pixie Sticks and smelling salts for all I care. He does this every night; good food is earned.”

“YA HEAR THAT, LESSIE? STAY IN THERE AND STARVE! AT LEAST THEN YOU’LL LOSE SOME GODDAMN WEIGHT!” My dad made sure I heard every syllable. Kevin’s silence was deafening. A sad song came on just in time.

As you can see, our household was clearly a functional one, just brimming with love and understanding. The kind of childhood that in no way becomes a tragic supervillain backstory too lame even for Batman. This was Pathetic, I felt like not even Freddy Mercury singing about pretty boys and bicycles could soften my grotesque reality. Dude, I try to prevent them from having power over me, but the truth is, the pain was unbearable. I couldn't escape yet and I had nowhere to go, but anywhere, anywhere would be better than here. I was just totally fucked.

That night, as Queen’s “Now I’m Here” came on my cassette player—as if to ground me—I remember sneaking out my bedroom window. Like every other night, I escaped, or at least tried too, harder than anything else. I went to the only place I can be truly alone, the hill. I let the music guide me wherever I went; this physical realm was a recording. The spliff I’d taken from my room didn’t hurt either. I took a few long puffs, getting as high as I could without flying away.

I took the classic road from our suburban strip of cardboard pop-up houses and white timeless quiet, only penetrated by crickets chirping, the distant din of highway traffic, and whatever New York City sounds like. I walked by the high school, overrun by ivy and bird shit; it almost seemed abandoned in the fading twilight, no doubt infested with zombies.

I knew it was bad, but I couldn’t resist vandalizing the front wall of the school. Whipping out my spray paint, I covered it with the gnarliest words I could think of. In massive letters, it read: “Bad Decisions—the most badass band of this or any other century. Bad Decisions, new band—Tryouts after school at the Flatt residence. Come if you dare.” I guaranteed that tomorrow at school, this wouldwill get people buzzing. Kevin would be proud—maybe. He might not have approved of my methods, but he appreciateds a good old-fashioned publicity stunt. After all, headlines are headlines.

I lumbered, heavy with decades of sulk, up to the hilltop we named “Flat Earthers' Point” because the hill wasis so high, it really felt like the earth wasis flat—so much so that it might have madeke you think maybe Galileo was wrong all along. The view of the highway and the river wasis always humbling, as well as the untouchable New York City skyline. Kevin and I always came up here to get away, especially on bad nights like tonight, like most nights—when home felt like a crime scene waiting to be investigated, like being trapped in a burning church, swallowed up in the fire and brimstone like a road with no end or a horse with no name.

If you had a brother, you’d understand. You know, you had your own private little backstage where the world just fades to black, and it’s just you two against the world.

We didn’t have a treehouse or clubhouse—just a flat- earth hill no one seemeds to care about. But the sunset? That was ours. Simply too beautiful to describe. I'd rather just watch it take its time and see it turn into bad moons rising.

I usually came here to think about the next song I’dll write, how pissed I wasam. But tonight, all I could think of was the future. Suddenly there he was.

Kevin.

“Hey, you survived dinner, dude! It's a ‘God-ordained’ miracle! Are you okay? Any wounds? Are you gonna make it through the night?” I joked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Oh, barely, Lessie! It was UNBEARABLE! I never thought I would live to tell the tale! Grace lasted longer than Aunt Carol's wedding ceremony. Kent kept rubbing his church fundraising efforts in my face, as if getting into Harvard couldn’t be any more daunting. Now I have to solve world poverty AND maintain a perfect GPA? I mean, how could you leave me stranded like that?”

We laughed, but then it really hit me.

“Left you stranded…? Yeah, you know what, actually um, I couldn’t go to dinner anyway. I’m still on that cigarette-only diet, remember? So I don’t know if going to dinner will really mesh with my current lifestyle… plus I’m pretty busy, you know, freeloading, being fat, flunking out of school, sucking cocok, so yeah, I’m going to have to check with my agent if we can move things around. So, sorry dude, I might not have time for—what did you call it? Dinner?”

“Les… come on, dude. You know I told him to go easy on you, but every time, they just say I’m soft and I shouldn’t keep ‘enabling’ you, whatever that means. You know I tried, dude, but what do you want me to say when they put me in an impossible position like that? You know I hate it just as much as you do.”

“No, man, I don’t. I’m pretty sure I hate it more than you… I’m so tired of this,. You could have at least told them if they’re gonna talk smack about me behind my back, to at least wait till I’m out of the house before laying in. God, they can’t even do that right. They’re not even trying to hide it anymore. Can’t you act like a real Rocker for once? And stop taking everyone shit, your a gutarist in a fucking badass, asskicking rock band man why dont you ever act like it, youd think after all these years you’d get it. Rock n roll isn't just a sound, it's a lifestyle, it's a state of mind, no its a religion, you either are rock n roll, or you aren't. And you my dude, are not rock n roll. I should kick you out of the band for this?”

“Letter…aww you don't mean that, then how would I have an excuse to hang out with you every week or escape my football pracicies, and extra cuaucucualrs, come on dude don't replace me over this…I said I was sorry? Tonight I'll pray for forgiveness, and this Sunday in confession, I promise, Les please come on, it's me. don't kick me out of the band, for a moment of weakness.”

 “Fine. I won't, but It's the principle of thin man, the principle!!”

“Ok, ok”

“Because the truth is, If you really want them to stop treating me like dirt, why not let them know once in a while, hmm? Instead of this self flaggaating, pity party-confession-for-your-sins bullshit. Because sorry, man, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Next time. I promise, I’ll—how do you say it—stick it to the man, I'll tell dad to knock it off and if I dont I will take whatever you dish out, but I will kill muster the strength and look him dead in the eye and say, don't treat my brother that way, because your right its the right thing to do, it's what Jesus would want, heh. You're right heh, it's not rock n roll, and it's not right. It’s simply probable they treat you with no common respect. Kent too. It’s not right of me to sit by, I know, but I’m trying to do it all, And it says in the Bible to respect thy father, to forgive. I know it’s hard, but can’t you just… give me that? Hey, don’t look at me like that… I’m trying.”

He was’ trying… wow, like I hadn't heard that one before. I rolled my eyes at him, annoyed. We both sighed as he stared at me with sad, longing eyes, while mine scanned the distant skyline. Hoping Kev would keep his promise this time, but feeling like I knew he wouldn't and I didnt have any other options then to grit my teeth and take it. What good are big brothers if they can't protect their little brothers, when they need them most, like…dude.

“I don't want to be mad at you Kev, in fact it's the most painful, incoveievent, feeling in the whole freaking world. I know it's hard and you're not the…hardened type, I get it, it doesn't come natural to you, you hate conflict and swear words and you don't even listen to rock n roll.”

“Yeah I do–”

“Christian rock, and hair metal don't count dude”

“Well that's…clearly not true”

“Like, It's just…I miss how things used to be between us, you used to stand up for me, but then you learned how the world works, you fell in line and under their boot. It just when you say your always gonna be here for me, it hurts when you never show up when I need you most in our own home, witch feels like a haunted house It stings because I know your just a room away and if you weren't so, paralyzed between two worlds, maybe you could have done more, maybe you could have been a better dude then the one you are now, worth looking up to, not just wasting time. God this sounds gay…but, i'm gonna be honest…I need you, Kev”

“Les…I…You know how guilty I feel, I know it's not what you wanna hear but it's true, I don't feel good about being a bystander, a witness to what goes on, It…tears me up inside. I know i'm not a good person, and I miss spending more time with you too- It’s just, you know how much pressure I’m under. I hate dad but I still love Dad, even though he’s an abusive, violent, ungodly, nasty drunk. And He doesn’t treat any of us well, but… I know he rides you the most and does other horrible things everybody wishes he didn’t do, and God will punish him for that. But until we turn eighteen, we still gotta… play by his rules, man. Or at least I do…”

“Man, would you listen to yourself right now? You are being the biggest bitch on planet Earth. You don’t have to take shit Dad says; you could have told him off years ago if you wanted to, but you don’t! You stand up tofor bullies at school. Since we were kids, you always stood up for what’s right, for kids who get picked on and for me, but now you're so worried about your grades and your future and keeping your head down -you can’t even do that? Your fucking pethtic man, your a fucking looser, what kind of rocker, no what kind of man- just sits back-” Kevin started to tear up

“Kev…”

“Im…I'm so sorry Lester, Honestly I am. I don't know what Else to say, i'm a horrible person, I don't even deserve to be here right now after what i've done, god will never forgive me, he won't, no matter how much I regret just staying in my room with the doors locked those nights, so many nights I got up and wa prepared to fight him off you, but then I got this…horrible pang in my head, this fear, that kept me in a gridlock, a fear I could be next and I'm not a strong as you—I couldn't have handled it”

“I'm not…as strong as you think I am, Kevin” I said in a seldom serious whisper tone, looking away from Kevin as he cried, and cried.

“Your right, I'm a coward for what really matters, I don't even know who I am, or what I want but you do, and – your right I should man up, next time dad does anything I don't care, I'll fix it. I promose, please dude I dont think I could take it you were mad at me, Im sorry…Im sorry.” I looked at him conficted and in pain being pulled in too many directions. No I didnt forgive him, yes I did but I didnt want to I wished there was something else anything else but this. But no, this was it, sorry wasnt enough, none of this was enough anymore. Suddenly, Kevin smiled, before pouting his lips and closing his eyes to sing:

“It seems…Sorry seems to be the hardest word…” Qouiting Elton Jhon!? Really he knew quoting songs was my thing! Sometimes I forget how nice his voice is. We locked eyes, something about the way he sung it was so over the top earnest, passinoite and reclcious, both of us just forgot we were fighting and started laughing hustrtcailly and rolling arround in the wet filthy grass like morons. 

I missed this 

I missed when it was always like this, just the two of us. 

I didnt want to be mad at him, dude and I had literally no one else, and I mean no one, and It sucked assballs to be putting more pressue on him then he already had I ould feel him getting crushed and deflating slowly like a woopy cousin under an astroid, But I wanted, no I needed this band to work out more then anything and he was the only person who believed in me, and despite my denial, between you and me, I couldnt have done most of it, without him and Id be nowhere now, without his help. So I just knew deep in my soul we had to figure things out, find a way to carry on, but this time stronger then ever. But we were a team even if I didnt belive he was gonna stand up to dad next time for one second, I believed in him, great rock stars dont usually get far without their right hand man, I wasnt gonna let them tear us apart. I grit my teeth and clench my fists and take a deep breath, before looking him deep in his stupid puppy dog eyes. As he wiped his tears on his Red and Yellow letterman jacket staining the sleeves with snot.

“I forgive you, just try to grow some balls man, Like come on! Operation Get Kevin some balls is now in session.”

“I understand, thats…thats a fair trade” Kevin nodded, compulsively leaning up on the grass to play with a ladybug on his pinky. God sometimes I swear he was gayer then me.

“Like remember, were a team man, a fucking team!”

“Absolutly”

“And we have been through fucking hell or high water together, weve been through evrything and weve been inside everything together and we —were gonna die together man”
“yes, yes, fuck yes.” Kevin nodded bitting his lip sarcaastly, and holding back a laugh, but I didnt care I was deadly serious, and thats all that mattered. I took his arm and fist in mine in armwresting position.

“From now on, we let nothing, no dads, no drinks, no girls no bands, not college, or high school, not the distances of state lines, or even The Red hot Chili peppers get our way. We will not even let Ragan or the russians Nuking us tomarrow keep us from honoring our sacred, brotherly bond, of rock n roll and…awsomness. 

“Amen!”

“and That we will be a team no matter witch way the wind blows, no matter witch Hair metal Band is clogging the airwaves, or witch Church is glogging your mind, no matter what chicks, or dicks may come into our lives, even if the earth turns into a hellworld with demons and raptors and robots eating the flesh of the entire human race, even at the end, we are still gonna be a team, Dude, is that a deal?”

“Wait, is what a deal?”

“Alright lets shake on it.” And so we did. The formal Oath, we never repeated again because we both forgot right away, was binding. And The brotherhood was reborn. For a new age, I could almost hear Dont Stop me now by queen playing in the backround –but quickly realized it was.

“Man you know what im craving right now?”

“Trent”

“Ew no shut up, I was gonna say a joint”

“Oh dont you always carry one arround”

“Yeah heres my last one, but its uh…I forgot my lighter-I KNOW!! Im an idiot!”

Kev rolled his eyes pulling out his hot pink lighter, like a secret key, and lit my joint.

“Ohh Kev you bad boy” I said sarcastically, forgetting he sometimes broke the rules like a human being.

“Shhhh dont tell mom”

“Besides, I dont have a crush on Trent…If I did I would have said so”

“Yeah you doooo, I saw the way your face lit up when we were talking about him earlier”

“Yeah when you said he didnt play for my team, aka..the best team”
“Who said that, I didnt say that.”

“Yes you did”

“No I said, He wasnt confirmed to be gay, but that doesnt mean hes straight!”

“What Kind of logic is that, by that mesure, dude you know…evryone is gay untill proven straight, becuase you never really KNOW untill your in his pants, right?”

“RIGHT! Totally dude why do we austomaically assume everyone is straight, its like…assuming everyone is straight is like, its like…assuming evryone is a republican” I always forget, high Kev is actually kind of a riot.

“No its like assuming…evryone is a Calvanist, like most pepole arent boring killjoys believe it or not, so why act like it!? I dont get people sometimes” He said passing me back the joint.

“You know, There are gay republcians, belive it or not”

“Dude what do you know about gays or repeublicans”

“To be honnest, nothing, Gays are…they like dudes, whats more to know, and republicans are Unrock n roll dicksleeves who should all go live on an island with no wemon and fuck eachother till they forget their polics and get tired, thats all you need to know.”

Kev giggled and lied back, taking in a long puff. Before saying something that caught me off guard.

“Les I want this band to be something special, A special time in my life I can look back when I sospsoduely have a wife and kids and a steady job and some hous esomwhere and doing what I can, you know but probably not much, and I can look back at this time in my life and be proud of what I acomsplished, and proud of who I was…for the first time in my life, I can say without any cavaiiatts, I had my contribution and it left the world better then it was before, going to sleep at night with no regrets. Just peace in my heart. No pressue to perfect for everyone and to never enjoy a second of my own time on my own terms, thats the legacy I hope we have. Of the one palace we can be who we truly are and get a taste however brief of the fruits of our long labors past, and finally give the world a gift, and show them anyone of gods children can sprad love to the world, no matter how broken they start they can become a movement most buteatful, one that no matter how hard they try, they can never truly erase. Maybe its loftly, But thats what I hope for this band, because im going to college soon I only got a year of highschool left and I want to make the most of it, try somthing truly different take some risks, be…rock n roll,as you like to say, for once. I wanna do it all, Les I want us to be truly great, great on our own terms” Kev sighed wistefully.

“Well dude you dont have to worry about that, I even got my old Freind Iggy pop to come by and-”

“Oh, Lester not this again, you dont know iggy pop. What did I tell you about the lying, it makes us seem untrustworthy, tacky and petehtic” 

“What no It doesnt, its an arsstic statement, I have created a legend arround my Alter Ego Mack Lasher-”

“A legend or sales pitch” Kevin crossed his arms. I shook a little dude never have so much of me been exposed, Kevin never integrated my legends of the band that had totally worked in our favor before now, why now try to climb back on his high horse.

“What the fuck are you talking about dude?”
“Why else would you lie, for years about knowing famous rockers, if not to try to get their attention!? TO fast track yourself to fame, without having to do the work of getting reconized!? For years you been telling stories at shows and backstage to anyone who would listen that your Best Freinds With Iggy pop, and the Chili Peppers, and you once affciated a marriage between Tommy Lee and a french Hooker named Masgsogy Budox, and that you invented the stage dive but gave iggy the credit or got ina legendary cocaine fuled thumbwar with Jim Morsion becuase he stole your song idea??? DUDE I have no idea if you thought it was a aprt of your character but Mack lasher was never even who you performed as onstage honestly he just seems like house where all these stroies live and exist to prop up, Who is mack, When have you premofmed as him last?” I had nothing. Kev smirked crawling cross the grass as I backed away from him, pointing at me like a coked up lawyer.

“Dude you always comlplained about our bands doing bad, and never getting off the ground, despite us having great records and being so much more fun to watch having better riffs,and equations then half the other middle school or high school bands, – its because you soiled our chances by lying like a luntic, for years straight!?? Id be surpised if anyone ever takes us seriously again!”

“Their not lies!?”

“What are you talking about!?”

“And Mack Lasher is real ddue hes just been in development, all those stroues are about him, I planned this all along Have Mack speak for himself through me, spiritually, then when Mack Finally rises everyone would already know him and worship him dude…Like Jeusus, The Dali Lamma or…Tammy Fae, or whatever”

“Man, Cant anything we do ever be normal. Why cant you have a normal Alter Ego like Ziggy Stardust. and keep him ONSTAGE WHERE HE BELONGS!!!!” Kvin yelled I was sure some of those jersey Housewives in traffic heard and honked in response. 

“You know It is, Just like Ziggy Actully, like fully dude. Besides Bowie totally told pepole stories of Ziggy outside the album”

“Yeah but evryone knew it was part of an album, no one thought it was real unlike…whatevr your doing. Not to mention, David Bowie didnt spend years Lying to anyone who would listen from his biggest fans to random bums on the street, THAT HE REALLY WAS AN ALIEN!!!???” 

“I mean David Bowie kind of his an alien dude like what is that guy doing, half the time, sometimes Im like that shit is not from this…solar system” We both cracked up, before Kev got serious for a second.

“You can work on Mack Lasher, develop him as a real fun alter ego for our future shows, I actually love the idea of you having a real alter ego, Ill help you, make him somthing the aduinces will never forget and can really channel your…evrything you got going on. But just…no more lying. Look I promised I would stand up for you next time, promose me, this. Please Les, you want the band to succeed dont you?”

“Yes of course I do its just—-” 

“Why do you feel the need to lie anyway, your so tallnted, man, I would give anything to have what you have.” Hes Jelous of me, yeah thats rich. AND he thinks im Talented. Heh, Tallnted, if only I lived in Kevs little world where it really was that easy. Man Kev really doesnt get it does he. I couldnt stop lying, I would never make it anywhere in rock n roll being honnest, some people could get away with that sort of thing, but not me, when your as much of a flauire, as pathetic, as hated, as sinful, as dirty as unmarketble, unsellable unseeable, you…realize the world wants less then nothing to with you as you are, you need to change everything about yourself to worthy of that stage, and if you cant change, you hide behind an alter ego that is everything you wish you were perosnfied,and you dream every night of inhabiting his skin, his calallir confidence, his long black hair, his skinny, tonned mucles, the men who love him backstage and onstage, and whenever elese he pleases, groupies and gentleman alike, regardless of what the media says, he does what he wants, sings what he wants fucks who he wants and has the power to be untouchable, to be proud and perfect. to be the greatest rock star of all time, each oneof his songs a hit on he radio forever, his body on every lonely kids pinup, worshiped loved, and repsected by everyone in the world even republicans. Even the president, even god and jesus will be rocking out to Macks tunes, that will cause world peace and end the cold war, will cure evryones cancer and mental illness and be the soundtrack to a new age of unprecidiened awesomeness. Mack Lasher, rock god savoir of the human race. I couldnt stop lying, becuase my lies would finally pay off, and become true, once I make Mack, once I perform as him his life story will suddenly translate into true stories and everything will fall into place, Kev would see. Besides rock n roll is all about creating legends not shoving your sad pathetic reality in everyones faces. 

“Lester, hey, did you…zone out again”

“No, But I promise I will never lie again, its a sin you know”

“Yes I know” Kev said knowlgly looking me up and down surpiclsiouly to prove my commitment to honestly at all costs I mustered my most passinoite serious face. He bought it.

“Shake on it?” I spit in my hand and shook his hand hard. Before putting my headphone in Kevs ear and the other in mine. And playing the next Queen song: Dont stop me now. We were gonna take on  the world, and the song only renfromed our motivated power.

Chapter Three:

Assholes Finish last

 

Kevin and I started walking home from the hill, feeling lighter than air, filled with hope—and high as hell. Having the sort of buzzed chats we usually have at 1am.

“Bribery? I’m here for it. You know metalheads don’t know biology; it’s in the Bible.”

“What? Uh…sure… And hey! He won’t even need bribing to join BD once he sees how sick your guitar solos are. Honestly, forget him being queer; Trent being in our band is really gonna get us some cred, especially because Rolling Veins has been unchallenged as the only high school band for far too long, and has been slagging in quality at some of their recent shows if I do say so, and competition in the free market tends to breed great results.”

Oh fucking RV, I almost forgot we’d be going up against them. Fuck Rolling Viens becuase their so used to being Kings, so dont tell them I said this, but their band chombs royal bit. Especially their lead singer, Rubin Smith, who can hardly Sing. But desipite my hatred of hair metal, hes still the hottest smoke show our school has ever been blssed with whos somehow still single, and definitely Not queer. But Kevs right they have been stale for a while now, so that could mean its the perfect time for Bad Desions to strike.

“Dude, how would I even know any of this!? I’m a loser, man. I have literally not friends…aside from Lenny and Beans. And even they have more going on than me, usually with a new sorry chick every week. You’re like one of the most popular guys in school; you’re my only source of gossip! Tell me everything, dude. What are they saying about Trent?”

Our extra band members always brought the extra spice that me, Lenny, and Beans lacked to fill out the lineup. They always had more to offer for the vision of the band at the time. Our bassist needs to embody everything we talked about earlier in my room—what Bad Decisions is gonna be. You were so quick to name-drop Trent, yet I’ve never even heard his name before. I think I need more convincing… and probably need to take an acting class, maybe hang out less with you and your preachy ass. Why does he actually have a record deal already like Rubin? God, he sucks.

Even though he’s so hot.

“Well… I don’t know much, but what I did hear was pretty juicy, I won’t lie. Last I heard, Trent used to play Battle of the Bands every year, and every time he wouldn’t win, him and his mall-metalhead friends—who we always see at Camelot, huddled in the darkness—would curse the ‘interesting individuals,’ their mothers, their friends, and even the devil himself for all eternity.

He still hasn’t won. And because he’s a senior this year, he’s looking to. He wants an edge, really wants to beat Rolling Veins, the undefeated high school band top dogs. He has especially vicious personal beef with Rubin Smith. I don’t know why—some drama from Battle of the Bands years ago—but Trent is feared and respected in the scene.

“And let’s be honest, dude, we aren’t all the way there yet. Trent is all kinds of badass. He used to carry a gun, and his bulldog bit that fascist pig in the neck after pulling him over on the way back from a gig. I heard legends that he went as himself for Halloween.” Kev said

“He’s Native American and will beat up any racist or white dude not worth his salt. He used to be in a street gang. Dude, he’s a total badass. The fact that he’s gonna be our bassist is gonna give us instant band cred! When he walks down the hall, legends have it, metal music is always playing. His headbangs have the strength and velocity of 30 headbangs and even put a mosher in a coma once. Not to mention his signature flowing, waist-length black hair. He’s perfect! I can just hear people at Camelot now saying, ‘Wow, Flatt’s, I still can’t believe you managed to bag Trent the Terorrizer for your lineup!’” Kevin Gushed trying to get me exited for Trent to be in the band, but now I found myself being exited for eneteriely different reasons. But I was to stubborn to admit Kev was right I was getting a crush on him, so I played it off.

“Wow, he sounds… like a fox—I mean a find, a find.”

My mind began to wander. Too much, but also not even close to enough.

“Yeah, he’s great to gossip with in class, even if he…scares me sometimes. You’ll love him!”

“Wow, he sounds like a real…stand-up guy,” I said, disgusted, as I started to sweat. My mind began filling with fantasies of Trent in some compromising backstage scenarios.

“Yeah, dude, like I said earlier, you’ll love him—very professional, dark, and intense.”

As the night went on, the sun began to rise. We had spent the entire night on the hill.

“Hey, that reminds me, tomorrow at school, I’ve got a surprise for you.” I snickered.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You’ll see—you and the rest of the school—before they realize the era of Bad Decisions' rock ‘n’ roll supremacy has truly begun. I hope Rolling Veins has the amps and tissues ready because it’s about to be on!” I said, trying to sound menacing, though Kev’s sensitive, Victorian-housewife sensibilities were not easily intimidated.

“Oh good lord. Let me guess: you actually did your homework for once? How shocking. I’ll have to prepare myself… surely Ms. C will have a heart attack.”

“No. Better. Much better…”

“Oh, good God. Well, on that ominous note, let’s start walking home. Mom and Dad should surely be in bed by now.”

So we did. We walked through the quiet neighborhood and finally opened the creaky door to find nothing but silence. The house was as quiet as a horror movie. Kevin Unlocked the door and we snuck inside. Before in the kitchen Kev freaked out, about some silly thing.

“Dad… Oh Jesus. Mom left so many groceries on the table. I’m guessing half of those need to be thrown out by now. No worries; I’ll take care of it.” Kev mumbled to himself, praying over the counter as we both tiptoed into my room, drained like a vamp’s victim of all energy.

I poked my head out one last time before he flopped into bed, reminding him of the most important thing of all.

“Night, dude! Hey, don’t forget: you’re the lead guitarist of Bad Decisions now, the next greatest rock band of all time, destined to take the world by storm. This is now the most important thing in your life, so all your church and Ivy League study stuff will have to… chill on the bleachers for a while. We need all your focus here if we want any chance of making it in this cutthroat thunderdome.”

Kev rolled his eyes.

“Hey, just relax. It’s just a high school band. We don’t have to change the world tomorrow. Well do that in a few months or so”

“No, it’s not, Kev. It’s history in the making. Don’t you see?”

“You’re always wigging out, man. This is just like the time Kent found out you were getting stoned and jerking off to that Chili Peppers guy—”

“Flea!? The greatest bassist and rock ‘n’ roller of all time? How Could You not jerk off to him, it would be like offensive if I didint-”

“OK OK, not so loud.” Kevbin laughed through trying to shhhhhhh me in vain.

“Hello—how could you possibly forget something as sacred as that? It’s practically like forgetting Jesus Christ’s name! His name is Flea not the chili peppers guy. Man Kev, How do you sleep at night?”

“Sorry, sorry. This is just like the time Kent walked in on you jerking off to Flea with your electric guitar, pretending it was him, and he told Dad, who then beat the crap out of you in front of the whole family in the backyard. You were grounded for a month, but you were somehow not even embarrassed.” How do you think I got so good at faking it, morron. 

“Yeah, it was literally the worst event of 1983. Aside from… you know, everything else.” I sniped. 

“Yeah, but then, for a whole month, you had to take it to a new level by swearing revenge on Kent. You told everyone in town and at school that he was involved in a cover-up of inappropriate sex tapes at the pet store in Riverside!”

“Because he was! I saw those bunny x lizard XXX love sessions with my own two eyes, man. Kent’s a dirty liar. He’s got skeletons—SKELETONS IN HIS CLLOEST MAN! Justice for Mittens! She was so young.”

Kev laughed. “It was kind of funny, though, seeing you mess with him for months. Watching him pull his hair out at school with his stupid preppy friends, dragging me around in their Jags to fancy dinners on the Upper East Side or in the Hamptons. You were all, ‘Kent, is it true you exploited pet store hamsters when you got bored in between advanced calculus?’ It was priceless. You really made him squirm. Good job.”

“Ha, dude, I know. I don’t even need to lie about him anymore. Half the real stuff he did to us would be enough to get those posers to toss him.”

“Yeah, but that’s my point. You don’t need to freak out or lie to be rock ‘n’ roll. You could talk about your real life for an Alter Ego, or just preform as yourself, and write songs about that. Lester Flatt and Bad Descsions, opening for Blondie, I can see it. and it wouldnt even be crazy. No lies required, especially. But Les listen to me, you don’t need make all these stories to make it, It’s not going to fall apart if you tell the truth”

“Kev Its late im gonna-”

“Evrything is gonna be alright, Les” he said with weak sisncietrty that made me squirm. To much honestly for one night, enough to last a lifetime. I wasnt gonna let Kevs Privilage Nieveity get in the way of my plan, or weaken my conviction, he could have his little fantasy of me, and Id let him think I was gonna do every chrtasin goody goody bullshit veturie he peddled. But truth is I was fithly, I wasnt gonna ever be like him and deep down he knew that.

“Well see about that. Goodnight Kev” I closed the door seemingly inurpting him wanting to say one last thing to me wrap up the dogshitt night with a bow, before shuffting off his light. 

As I climbed into bed, surrounded by my pile of mess, with no clue what I was gonna wear tomorrow, the dark blue night settled outside, crickets humming. Star Wars cover pulled up to my double chin, I picked at some acne and sighed, hiding how unsure I was. But still, I knew it had to work this time. It had to.

“Hey.” Kev popped back into my room, the door cracked halfway. Come on couldnt he just go to sleep like a normal teenage boy, jesus I almost told him to fuck off but he starting talking before I could let me asshole side spill out, blood guts and all.

 “I Just wanted to say,” he whispered, “You’re totally doing like 99% of the things right. You don’t need to freak out. You don’t need me or all these people—freaks. You don’t need to listen to them, especially not Kent and his crew.”

“Yeah, dude, duh.”

“But seriously, man, don’t forget—people like you when you’re just being yourself or whatever. You don’t need to lie. Why not try that this week, for the band?”

“For the band?”

“For me.” I thought about it. Kev is always asking me to do crazy shit for weird moral lessons or something.

“I don’t know.”

“Just see how it goes. If not, you can go right back to the whole myth-making thing. You’re the pro at the end of the day, not me. But if lying’s not working, you know, no harm in trying,” Kev said with a knowing smile.

“Whatever you say, man.”

“Now get some rest. Big day. And remember, God has a plan for us. Do your best at what you love, and things always work out in the end.”

Yeah, maybe for you, Kevin, but some of us have to work outside the box. You wouldn’t understand, but that’s okay; I still love you. Now get the hell out of my room.

“Oh sure, Kev, no more lies, nothing but real honest all-American rock ‘n’ roll, my truest true self, from now on, just as the Lord intended, and nothing less. Blah blah. Are you happy now?”

“Okay, well, you can mock me all you want, but trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

Oh, he was so innocent. Choir boy had no idea what was in store for tomorrow. As he closed my bedroom door, letting the darkness consume us, I started playing the Chili Peppers on my Walkman, preparing for the bedtime ritual. Why is he still standing there in the doorway? Doesn’t he have homework?

“Oh Lord, it’s late. I have so much homework due tomorrow. Uh, hey, dweeb, you still up?”

“Hmm?” Why was he still in my room!?

“Heyyyyy—Goodnight. And hey—just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

God, a third goodnight? How many does this sucker need!?

“Night!”

He did his signature wink as he turned off the light in my bedroom and shut the door quietly, still making that creaking sound old doors make. I started to doze off to sleep, mumbling to myself into the pillow loud enough for them all to hear. I didn’t give a fuck as the song “Black Eyed Blonde” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers poured into my ears—not nearly loud enough.

“Don’t worry, Kev. Whatever the hell you and your poser, straight-lacers get up to is the last thing on the agenda. But tomorrow is the first day. They’ll be like, ‘Oh dude, Lester, your band is so cool. We love you, Lester, you’re not a loser at all!’ Sweet dreams of Flea and his perfect bass on top of me, tying my arms up above my head with the amp cord on stage when no one else is around, so I’m totally submissive to him. Telling me I’m the greatest rock star of all time, only if I do whatever he commands, and that everything is gonna be alright…”

I murmured into my stained, dry pillow, drooling all over it, as the wet dream commenced. Forgetting about all the stress and strife of the day, I wished I could jerk off, but under this pillow, there’s not enough room. It’s so hot, and if I throw it off and someone walks in, it will be the same old humiliation bullshit. They took the locks off my door. I wanted them all to be down under, night after night, repetitive, frustration, anger with nowhere to go, pent-up and gross, unseen and unclean.

Mumbling my master plan into a dream, as every night I dreamed of something weird or simply the most awesome version of the next day, because if you should take anything away its that real life never quite measures up.

CHAPTER FOUR

HE STRUCK A CHORD

Sunday crashed and burned to a close; the weekend was over at last, and we were not prepared for Monday’s brutal return—not in the slightest. Now, it was back into the fray, leaving the previous night's bittersweetness behind and charging headfirst into the worst hell on earth with no protection, contraception, connection, support, or guidance:

High school.

Our father blew an air horn in our ears at 6 a.m. sharp, waking us up military-style, like he always did on school mornings and nights. He kicked me as I flipped off the sofa onto the cold, carpetless floor, rubbing my eyes and head in jilted discomfort. Mom threw the windows open.

“Chop, chop, get up! You're going to miss the bus!” she barked at us. having a private conversation with dad in the other room that didn't sound good, something about Pastor Angles's new church - alcohol policy. 

I carelessly snatched a pair of black jeans that barely fit, an oversized hand-me-down Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt, a black shirt with their iconic red logo in the center of my tummy like a bullseye—the shirt I wore almost every day, like a Mad Magazine character. Mornings in the Flatt household operated on the old tenet of “you snooze, you lose,” so I knew I would be missing breakfast again. I half-tied my old muddy combat boots and threw on my black trench coat, knowing it was going to be cold as a witch’s tit.

I grabbed my old Star Wars lunch box and tossed some stale candy and condoms inside to keep up appearances that I was being fed. I saw Kent stick his tongue out at me from outside the window as Kevin urged me to leave, dragging his bike and mine to the front lawn.

“Oh, Les, I think your bike might need some repairs; it has a weight limit, you know,” Kent smugly remarked as he mounted his bike.

“Eat glass, Kent! Rock ’n’ roll is a heavy burden to carry, okay?” I snapped back, chucking a muddy baseball his way as he hopped into a Dodge Rover with all his rich prep-school friends from Connecticut. All future evil-doers.

“Kent, why don’t you go, I dunno, prosecute your girlfriend’s Black boyfriend for being hotter than you, or whatever un-rock-’n’-roll villainy it is you get up to?!” I shouted as Kevin giggled, dragging his bike out. Kent glared at us both. His anxious blond friend in his banana-colored jacket revved up the car as if to signal to the entire block how small his dick was, adjusting his oversized Ray-Ban sunglasses and flicking a cigarette at my feet.

“Rock ’n’ roll? Is that what you did last time Jimmy and I pushed you down the Parish slope? Because you rolled faster than my eyes are about to—Lardy Lassie!” Kent sneered from the front seat.

“Bite me!” Ugh, that guy was a human HR violation in the making, already looking like he was dressed to prosecute innocent jaywalkers. I glared at him from across our driveway, making sure he absorbed all my death rays. He just scoffed.

“How can you? I’m not a cigarette. Either way, I won’t make you lose weight!”

“Hey, Stiff-weed, fuck you! Uh, uh, how about that one, huh?” I yelled, failing to think of a clever comeback in time. It ate me up inside instantly as we hit the pavement running on our bikes, chasing after his stupid car with his stupid prep-school friends.

“Come on! First one to school’s a rotten egg!” Kevin called, hopping on his bike, his little satchel bouncing by his side, obvious and jolly as ever. He patted my aching shoulder and rode off to school. I sped ahead of him, almost hitting a toddler as I pedaled so hard I could’ve lifted off the ground. Kent made a ridiculous swerve on the sharp turn ahead, blocking me and Kevin and forcing me to lose balance and fall off my bike. Kent cackled at my toppling as his clown car of richy riches sped ahead, out of sight.

“Ugh! Screw you, Kent! You won’t be laughing so hard when I slash your stupid tires, okay, you stupid fancy asshole! Because the only people who ride that car are assholes! IT'S AN ASSHOLE CAR, MAN! For running over the working class, ugh!”

“Catch me if you can! Ha ha, woo!” 

Kevin whizzed past me as we rode into Ewing Township, New Jersey, like we did every stupid, smarmy morning.

We passed cookie-cutter neighborhoods, forced to cut through Ewing’s plastic middle class. Everywhere I looked, I saw “childhoods” being slowly stripped away, sending kids off to be molded and brainwashed into good little unquestioning Americans, with small minds and predetermined morals. Hopping on their school buses, holding their parents’ hands, all of them having just finished a bowl of Cap’n Crunch with milk from the “missing child” cartons, knowing it could always be them next. I hate kids; I can't believe I used to be one. If kids were just allowed to listen to rock ‘n’ roll in peace, maybe they wouldn’t grow up to be so messed up. Rock ‘n’ roll saves lives.

I pulled my bike up to the schoolyard, snickering with glee as everyone in the whole school got to see my band’s ads plastered on the side of the school. Some of the cool seniors just nodded and said, “Alright, man!” as they looked up at it and laughed. I even caught—man, high school is for sure humanity’s worst contribution to the twentieth century.

As it neared the end of my freshman year, I started to really question what I was still doing there. Everyone knew that college wasn’t in my cards, and neither was any kind of “respectable career.” No teacher even half-batted an eye when I didn’t show up to class or recess. So, I always fell into the same routine that I’d been stuck in since second grade.

The days of my rock ‘n’ roll schedule were quite simple, really. It always went: Pull all-nighters, wake up early, don’t eat, smoke, be late to school, get beat up, get defended by Kevin in the halls (only when he felt like it), play hooky and smoke in the boiler room, chew old gum from the underside of desks, pick my nose, write lyrics in the margins of worksheets, ask Kevin which of the popular guys he thought were secretly gay, try to hook up with them, get beat up some more, draw Mr. Aston in compromising positions in the pits of pre-algebra, ride home, write lyrics, get chased out of the house for smoking, get called a failure, get a pep talk from Kevin on Flat Earthers Hill, go to bed hungry, fantasize about Flea and my inevitable future as the greatest rock star this world has ever seen. Rinse and repeat.

But Kev was right (not about the lying thing—that was way necessary and actually totally awesome, and there’s an art to it if you knew how half these other guys really got famous, which most casual rock fans totally did not). But he was right about one thing: our routine needed to change. If we wanted to make it big, we had to start shaking things up—majorly, dude. For so freaking long, we’d been stuck, wasting our talents. It was a deeply underwhelming rhythm; such a cycle needed to be broken eventually.

That’s when I ditched my Freshman year for the second coming of chaos. But in the meantime, chaos was always inevitable, despite our past with Ape Meat and various other super-famous bands in the ’70s. Again, you’ve probably heard of us. Our fame hadn’t carried over. We really needed to reinvent ourselves. Our new band would take the music world by storm and then change the course of human history! But first, we needed to make it to the first period on time.

See, Kevin was a sophomore, but he was taking honors senior classes—most of which Kent had aced last year. Meanwhile, I was still a freshman, stuck in the “retard classes,” all of which I was still failing. To be honest, man, it’s a miracle I made it this far. My grades were SO bad that some of the fellow lackeys in my grade—especially Lenny and Beans, who had played in my bands in the past—actually found it kind of impressive. But alas, my guidance counselor did not.

She had been putting off meeting with me for her own sanity, as the rest of the faculty had given up long ago. but in practice, she had about as much patience as Lou Reed in the studio. I had a freaking meeting with her today that I was dreading.

Ms. Mumphrey was a tall, slender, stretched-out sort of woman; she was as old as the school itself and had vowed never to retire (to the resounding groans of the student body). She always wore a different variation on the same ill-fitting, prudish blouse with a frilly apron design around her saggy tits and some kind of family heirloom cameo brooch poking out of her Amish collar. She looked like a sad turtle and always had the same saggy, disapproving expression, in an approximation of Mitch McConnell. She could murder you with her fancy letter opener and ruin your whole future with one stroke of her pen on her clipboard.

She spoke like the last person on earth you’d want to get at the DMV, talking so slowly sometimes it felt like you were entering a different time dimension. With a shrill, arched English accent that always sounded like she was sentencing you to the gallows whenever she parsed her drooping, flappy frog lips, she was constantly losing her dentures. She often conducted witch hunts among the student body to retrieve them—when they were almost always still in her mouth.

Her office was in a little closet. Her desk was adorned with every kind of collectible figurine, including McDonald’s Happy Meal toys. Awkward pictures of her dead husband and various dead cats were everywhere in tacky sapphire frames that were half-off at the home improvement depot. Her tiny office smelled like mothballs and mold. She always had a piping hot tea on her desk, and the bulk of the room was cluttered with an insane amount of paperwork, documents, files, and God knows what else. Of course, she had pictures of all her student “success stories” on her paint-chipping wall, with a special spot reserved just for Kent.

I flopped into the tiny folding chair before her, barely able to sit without falling off as I was too fat to squish my whole ass on this one little stool. I could hardly close the door all the way due to the avalanche of paperwork and yarn balls behind it. I started coughing the second I walked into the room as she gave me that prying look, like she could smell the cigarette smoke on my breath and the bullshit I was full of. I’m sure it was a putrid aroma.

Our meeting today went a little something like this (brace yourself):

“So, Lester Flatt, I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

“Well, I am a student here, so—”

“I’ll have no sass from you, boy!” I shuddered.

“I’m just going to come out and say it! Your academic performance this year has been nothing short of inscrutable! I have never seen such a report card. You strike me as impertinently insolent and generally lacking in function of the frontal lobe! Do you understand the words I am saying to you?”

I gulped, leaning back in my chair as she breathed fire into my face. “Yes, ma’am—”

“NO! You will address me as Madame Mumphrey! Or simply as ‘counselor.’ Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am—I mean, counselor.”

“Right, so let’s get right to the apple’s core, shall we?”

“Uhhhhh, yeah, dude, whatever that means—”

“You! Are on the precipice of academic dismissal, and as a freshman, that would look absolutely atrocious on your record and resume! But, my dear boy, it would be more disastrous for the school. This institution strives to preserve a legacy and partial reputation of excellence. And a freshman from a local, hard-working, low-income Christian family dropping out in such a fashion would be absolutely abysmal optics! Do you understand, Mr. Flatt?”

“Totally.”

“Splendid. Now, you may think that, due to my sympathies, I’d be obliged to hand out free passes willy-nilly. But I’m afraid that couldn’t be further from the truth! This generation has gotten soft! SOFT, I SAY! When I was a girl, education was a privilege, not a right, and certainly not a pastime to be frivolously ignored!

"After all, dear boy, both your brothers are straight-A students, set to be valedictorians this year. Kent, a junior, already has the Ivies buzzing. So, dear boy, you can’t resort to genetics as an excuse, nor can you fall back on the old nature-vs.-nurture safeguard. No, my boy, your stark lack of achievements are all your own.”

“Good to know…” I sniped, starting to wonder if her clock was slow.

“So, what are we going to do about this little situation we’ve found ourselves in, Mr. Flatt? Hmm? I have already recommended getting you a private tutor, despite the fact that your family has explicitly refused to pay for any expense of the sort—including school lunches!”

“I don't need a tutor, lady.”

“Don’t you dare disrespect me, Mr. Flatt! Your brothers never speak to me that way. My boy, you’re clearly very talented. It says on your record you’ve had over a dozen rock ’n’ roll music collectives since your youth, and many have stated that the musical integrity and compositions have tremendous potential! If you spent half as much energy on those vile lyrics as you do on your assignments, I have no doubt you’d catch up to your brethren in no time. In fact, you might not even be required to repeat your sophomore year!”

“Yeah, but I have to be honest—school just isn’t for me. I was thinking of dropping out, you know, to stop kidding myself.” Starting my rock ’n’ roll career early… stop keeping the world and all my fans waiting…

“No, dear boy, you have to listen to me. We will, by gosh, get your grades to at least a passing average by May, and that I swear to you. Alright, you have a place at this institution, son, and you know what I always say—”

“Everyone is special except when you're not, in that case, just give up?” I dryly parroted.

“Precisely!” she said, looking down at the sign on her desk that read that exact phrase in big pink bubble letters.

“Why? Why does this matter then- Because it would make the school look bad if I flunked out now? Somehow, even though that happens, like, all the time in this public school? Is it because of my brothers? Like, if you guys don’t get the pyramid of academic superstars, like, what? Your investors will think something’s off? Because all great things come in threes? Is that it?”

“Dear boy, what a bad, bad faith interpretation. Whatever happened to trust? Hmm? Whatever happened to faith, and love, and trust in the American education system?!”

“Uh, I don’t know. We listened to The Wall?” I said, half-serious.

“Just… promise me you will not drop out before we can effectively assist you in improving your grades, as well as actually graduating on time. As of now, that is the only thing of consequence. It does not concern me how, as long as you make the changes required. Alright, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

She barked as I escaped her interrogation just in the nick of time. I found myself back at my locker, a single island, a bastion of individual self-expression in a sea of profoundly un-rock 'n' roll mediocrity. I opened my locker to stuff my lunchbox and folder inside. Of course, my locker is covered wall to wall with tickets and pinups from a lot of the same bands that are in my room (mostly sexy posters of the Chili Peppers and little Polaroids I took of Flea on tour from my private collection hanging in the back where no one can see).

Ms. Mumphrey doesn’t know what she’s talking about, I thought to myself, still too short to reach all the way up to grab all my books out of the leaning tower of lyric composition books piled high, just one poke away from falling down on my face.

Why diddo these lockers have to be so fucking high?

I reached and reached so high that I could feel my jacket ripping, and then, before I knew it, Kenny Loggins and his gaggle of brick-brained jocks descended upon me like my future paparazzi swarm, knocking my books from the ledge right onto my head, just in time for the first period.

“Oops, did I do that?” he gawked, knocking me to my knees as I scrambled to gather up all my lyrics and school notebooks and papers scattered all over the hallway. Kids started pouring out of classrooms, gawking at my exposed butt crack while I groaned, trying to pick up my books before anyone could steal my Guinness lyrics or see my sensitive pictures and private rock 'n' roll material inside.

I blushed as Kenny and his apes cackled, slamming his Nike medieval cleats onto my back, pinning me to the ground.

“Ugh!”

“Awwwwwww, what’s the matter, fatty? Your brother’s not here to save you today?”

“You know what? You goons can beat me up every week all you want—because all this bullshit, man, it’s all just inspiration for my next rock 'n' roll hit! You know that, right? I’m totally a rock god right now, and you’re totally not! I bet that… helps you sleep at night along with all the head trauma from getting pounded all day on the field!”

“Not this shit again. Rubin, are you hearing this?” Bobby snickered.

“Yeah, I said it! Don’t be fooled! You are all beneath me, man. Right now, I’m on top, and you’re on the bottom. Got it?” Kenny Loggins snarled as he squished my skull into the cold, hard tile floor. He spit in my ear, as usual, failing to mask the vaguely homoerotic undertone of the whole thing. Him on top of me? Man, he wishes.

“I don’t even know why I’m talking to you right now… I’m on another level from all you losers! I played with Joey Ramone, Lou Reed, and Iggy Pop last week—ugh,” I mumbled angrily.

“Iggy Pop? Iggy Pop? Ya hear that, guys? He played with Iggy Pop?” Kenny mocked loudly to everyone in the crowd, pointing at me as he held me up by my hair.

“Sure, Lester, you played with Iggy Pop like I totally played with Pamela Anderson’s tits last night, then did her on a yacht and didn’t even pull out—”

“I did! He was a really nice guy too! I’m not lying, man, I swear to fucking God! Just wait and see!”

Kenny rolled his eyes, losing interest, as he dropped my hair and walked away with the mocking crowd. They left me with a bloody bruise under my eye where he’d smashed me into the hard floor. A lot of them walked off laughing and looking back at me, just like always, leaving me humiliated, the last word always just out of reach.

I flipped them off, picking myself up off the floor, gathering my books after they trashed most of them, and trying to keep a strong face. Rubin Smith stopped and looked back at me, winking. For a split second, my heart fluttered, but that wink was meant for Lacy, a blonde behind me, as she waved, bouncing up and down, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Ah, Rubin Fucking Smith, was there too. Did I mention still by far the worst and hottest guy in school. My crush since the 3rd grade, Kevin doesnt know that and I'm pretty sure i'll take it to my grave, but my hatred for Rolling Veins somehow makes me just so much more attracted To Rubin, a hair metal hater, lusting after the hair metal god, it's like forbidden romance man it practically writes itself. 

They suck ass like all stupid big hair metal bands but are still destined to make tons of money and rot tons of innocent brains. I would kill to be as cool as him—or to be with  him, or at least as cool as the crowds think he is. They swoon and affirm his illusion of coolness, probably because they haven’t discovered true cool yet. They’ve crowned him the King of Cool for now, but I know I deserve to be his right-hand man more than any of these dorks. It’s like a total no-brainer, man. Also deserve to be in his greenroom, those groupies could never understand him like I could. 

Besides, if Rubin and I ever played together, and he gave me a chance, no one would have any issue believing he was friends with Iggy Pop. Even if Rolling Veins sounds more like Whitesnake, Aerosmith, or Ratt—the kind of variety I hate, but everyone here loves. Ugh, but that’s never gonna freaking happen as long as our band is treated like a freaking joke, while he gets to be the golden-haired, future Van Halen, the token god. It’s not fair! Ugh! I pounded my locker, overflowing with sexual frustration and musical constipation.

I grunted, glaring at my future fans—those jerks who mess with me every day without consequences. They’ll grow up with the same crappy mindset about the world, but one day, man, they’re gonna be begging for my autograph, claiming, “In high school, we were such good friends.” I can hear them talking smack about me right now. What do they think? Sound doesn’t travel? The person they’re talking crap about is right here and invisible as Frodo baggins.

“Ha, ha, he’s such a loser… just look at him. Can you believe he’s related to Kent I heard he's Valedictorian, and Kevin, dude how is thai the same family tree man, thats wigged out”

“Yeah, I know, right? Eugenics are totally rigged. My mom’s convinced my bio dad is one of those sperm bank scammer guys. Weird science. Last year, I totally flunked. His music is a joke. Dude, I bet you in 20 years he’ll still be here in Ewing, cleaning toilets and shit… with shit. Haha.”

“That’s genetics, genius. Not Eugenics”

“Either way, that guy is too lame to even beat up. He probably likes it too. Haha.”

They walked away, their mocking echoing in my ears as I began to shake, losing my balance.

UGH! That’s it! This has gone too far. I don’t have to take this! Real rock gods are not treated this way. One more day of this, and I’m gonna fucking lose it. And I mean lose it. I don’t even know what it is!

I punched my locker harder this time, making people stare. I didn’t have time to think of a comeback. “Oh, Flea, what am I gonna do? How did you ever survive it all?” I stared into my locker. My shrine to Flea was my only refuge in these dark times. The look in his eyes and tender silence were all the answers I needed. Suddenly, my locker was slammed shut by the much taller, skinny, stone-faced Buster Getz—the band geek who sometimes took pity on me.

“Might as well face the music, Lester. Losers like us don’t get the girl.”

“What? First of all, dude, I’m not a loser, okay? That’s an invalid, involuntary label. I’m a rock god in the making. And second of all… girl? What girl?”

He just kept staring at Lacy, one of the hottest babes in school behind us. Rubin had winked at her earlier, even though she was supposedly going out with Kenny Loggins. Of course, this delusional dweeb had a crush on her. Again, It writes itself.

“Lacy? Really? Isn’t she with Kenny? You really think you, of all people, have a chance?”

“It’s okay, man. Your secret’s safe with me.”

I rolled my eyes, slamming my locker shut and flipping my heavy metal hair in his face, insulted that everyone thought we were in the same league.

“I gotta get to class.”

I slept through math and science, tuning out another sex-ed lecture about pregnancy, zygotes, and gametes. Ugh, gag me with a spoon. Who needs this stuff?! Who even gets pregnant anymore anyway?! Jesus, even the nerdy chicks were dozing off.

As you can tell, the first half of the school day dragged by. All I could think about was Kevin and bringing the band together. Finally, the second bell rang for lunch—the long-awaited salvation. I was the first to join the stampede of kids down the stairs, crowding the halls, racing to be first in the cafeteria line. I didn’t even intend to eat; I just wanted to sit with Kevin, see if he was with Trent, and figure out if he really was as perfect for the band as Kevin claimed.

I made it to the cafeteria on the basement floor, groaning at the thought that the school only cared about keeping me from flunking out because it would look bad on their records. America, baby—money is behind every door and every bullshit meeting, just waiting to flood through the closets and drown us all. Oh, crud! That’s a banging lyric. I wrote it down on my arm real quick.

“Yo, Les!” Kevin shouted from his Formica table at the back of the cafeteria, waving me over. I started walking, enduring the usual gagged looks and side-eyes from the popular kids. Some even stuck out their legs to trip me. I flipped them the bird as always.

“Hey, man, congrats—you survived the big M!” Lenny said, sneaking up behind me. His sidekick, Beans, wasn’t far behind.

“Oh, gag me with a spoon! See, this is why this country needs a mandatory retirement age!” I said, as they both threw their arms around me and we sat down at Kevin's table—a more diverse group than all of New Jersey.

“Ahhh, speak of the devil,” I said, looking at Kevin’s smug face as he ate carrots with reckless abandon. He somehow still sat at the head of a table, with Trent on his right playing with a dead moth and Marty, his study partner, reading an economics book during lunch. Overboard, even for him.

“Lester, are you calling me old? I’m a senior, not a senior citizen! I’ve been in your bands longer than any of them. This is my last year, so let’s make it count, huh?” Kevin said loudly, trying to be heard over the cafeteria din.

“Wait, Kevin’s in the band? How’s he gonna have time to suck up to the Ivy Leagues?” Lenny mocked. He wasn’t good enough of a friend to make that joke, but Kevin let it slide. Along with Kent, he basically ruled the school. Yet, he sat with all the “freaks” at lunch—though obviously, “freak” is just code for artists and closeted gay kids.

“STICK A SOCK IN IT, LENNY! He’s sitting right there, you know,” I said, keeping him in line.

“Please, Lester, no need to defend my honor…”

“What, what? But his whole upbeat Billy Joel thing doesn’t mesh with the band’s new dark and mature sound! What happened to finding a keyboardist in a mental asylum, man? Come on!”

“Okay, Lester, but the thing is, Lenny is your friend, and you’ve played together for years—”

“Again, I’m right here!” Lenny scoffed.

“Plus, Lester, I don’t know when you started underestimating his ability to gel and evolve his style to different musical genres. I mean, you don’t think he could learn how to play a spooky organ if you needed him to? And Lester, we have to be realistic here. We can’t just audition any random student who saw your little spray-paint advertisement. Then we’d have to be mean and break too many hearts by rejecting them if they can’t play, and you know I just don’t have it in me to do that. So, Lenny’s on keyboard, and Beans can be on drums again.”

“Y-y-yes!” Beans cheered.

“But Kev’, like…what about integrity?”

“Lester, we don’t even have that much time or resources to work on this band. You make fun, but we really do need to be studying. Making time for this band is my new priority, but we just don’t have the time to try and recruit the ‘perfect fits’ for the band. I mean, you said it yourself—confidence is everything. Have confidence in your friends!”

Beans and Lenny obnoxiously nodded along in unison at Kevin’s ruling.

“You see, a good band is like a cake: you had the right ingredients before; now you just need to slightly alter the recipe to create something truly delicious,” Kevin said, with the most irritating earnestness I’ve ever heard.

“Okay, fine! They can join. Again, you got me with your weird preachy metaphors. But remember, it’s my band, my rules!” I wanted Lenny and Beans to join. I was just giving them a hard time, evidently Kevin preferred not to waste time in our new shared regime.

“Right, Les, whatever you say.”

“Want some hummus?” Kevin said, offering me a fat carrot covered in chickpea paste, peppered with spices. Lunch today was fish and chips with carrots and hummus, and chocolate milk, of course—none of which I could eat. God Trent was even hotter in person. 

“Nah, I ain’t hungry.” Kev said, he really should try and bulk up, he was looking awfully pale, and toned, and not in the good way.

“Man, don’t worry, I won’t tell Mom… Anyway, it should be illegal for Mom not to pay for your lunches. I always tell you, I’m president of the student council; I could always launch a formal complaint…”

“No, don’t worry about it, man. Okay, how about that carrot then?” I said, comforting him. He tossed me a hummus-covered carrot, which I pretended to smoke, much to the eye rolls and mockery of the current round table knights.

Lenny just adjusted his posture, as well as his green leather jacket and dog tag necklaces. Lenny was a wannabe surfer, despite the fact he’d never set foot on a board in his life, let alone any beach. He was pretty great on keyboard in my last band; we even had a few collabs. Our most recent band, formed and broken up all before the end of 8th grade, was called The Guilty Party. We were very much wannabe Rolling Stones in every way, while also trying to be Elton John, Three Dog Night, and the Bay City Rollers all at once. We never played a live gig, never decided on a sound, never recorded an album. We saw a lot of faces, but never rocked them all.

But all that was gonna be different this time.

Kevin just kept on chatting with Trent. Kevin leaned across the table to whisper in my ear.

“Lester, I have got to tell you—I think we really struck gold this time. He’s exactly what we’re looking for.” Kevin had a talent for whispering loud enough for everyone to hear.

“So, Trent,” I inquired, cutting through the chewing and chatter.

“Yeah?” Trent said, looking up from his dead moth, looking utterly wasted.