Friday, April 25, 2008

Axl Rose...speaker of the central Indiana experience.

Axl Rose grew up 30 minutes north of my hometown. Thus, perhaps it's un-ironic that his lyrics relate so well to the stories of people I've known.

He lost his mind today
He left it out back on the highway

It was a late November day when Eric L. drove the thirty miles north up I-65 to Purdue University where he desperately hoped to win back his ex-girlfriend, Sarah. As one can imagine, Sarah stayed safely locked behind steel door as Eric, in the midst of “I can’t live without you depression,” begged, kicked, and threatened suicide.

After being run off by some of Sarah’s male friends, Eric, now drunk and enraged, returned to Lebanon where he first procured a shotgun from the Wal-Mart at the edge of town…and then shells from the Big Lots across the street. Suicide on the brain, he drove to a cornfield outside of town and began chugging a bottle of Wild Turkey. Just as he was loading the shell meant for his temple, the cops cruised by, noticed his oddly parked car and generally fucked up his plans in the immediate.

Not in the mood to deal with any kind of authority, Eric cranked his engine and flew out of that field with cops in full pursuit. The cops chased Eric through backroad Boone County, past pig farms, and cornfields, and abandoned schools and random country marts. At some point, Eric hit a patch of railroad tracks at 100 mph and crashed his car into a cornfield. The cops closed in. Eric, hoping to be gunned down in a haze of police bullets aimed his shotgun right at them. "Stay the fuck away, or I swear I'll fucking shoot YOU!"

Now, had Eric been in a different town or the son of a different family, his actions most surely would have gotten him shot...killed...dead just like he wanted. But Eric was not so lucky. Instead officer Rex H., a friend of his father's, approached with the hope of talking some sense. Eric shot him in the arm...full on begging them to end it. Instead the cops arrested him and he was sent him to prison.

While in prison, Eric was diagnosed manic-depressive. "Halleluia," cried his mother, Susan. "I've been asking doctors since he was five for help." After his release from prison, Eric walked about town glassy eyed, perfectly postured, heavily medicated. It was only a matter of time…but his parents were hopeful. In fact, his mother was so hopeful that she believed that Eric’s prison buddy should live with them after his release. “People who’ve been in prison, need help and support,” she would say when people questioned her judgment.

Michael moved in with Eric’s parents the day he was released from prison. Michael got a job with Eric’s construction crew. Everything was fine until Michael broke into the home of Eric’s grandmother, Ruby. Robbery may have been the motive…but when Ruby surprised Michael, he beat her nearly to death…and went back to prison.

A few years later, Eric finally succeeded in accomplishing his long held goal. He went quietly...pills and liquor...and carbon monoxide. No chance for failure. No need for a note. By then everyone knew it had only been matter of time.

I imagine that each day Eric lived, his only comfort was the thought that suicide was always an option...until finally it was his only option..."finally," he thought, "finally." That's what I'd think anyways.

Here I am, I'm you're rocket queen
I might be a little young but honey I ain't naïve.

Like Rabbit of famed John Updike novels, Scott S. was a big fucking shining star! Not only was he the perfect stereotype of the small town high school athlete with his his solid B minus average and membership in National Honor Society but also he volunteered his precious star time to various church organizations. A star who licked Jesus's asshole on the weekends...could he be any more perfect, the town wondered aloud?

So, imagine the orgiastic excitement when, after 4 years as a star college athlete at a nearby university, Scott returned to Lebanon to coach basketball and, in his spare time, teach math to high school students. One of our own heroes had returned to nurture new heroes for the future. The town glittered with pride. Several girls, who as 5th and 6th graders had witnessed Scott's heroics on the court, glittered too.

In the summer prior to Scott's first year as a teacher, he enjoyed his small town trophy status by buying liquor for teenaged parties populated mainly by kids soon to be his students. Two of his favorite party mates Julie and Alicia, 15 and 16, respectively, were the chosen ones. To their delight, they were invited to meet Scott in a most intimate fashion. Although the affair with the younger girl was short-lived, thus securing her the prideful reputation as a teacher fucking slut, Scott carried on an affair with the older girl until her dad found out...18 months later.

Fortunately for Scott, the town was in love with him and couldn't bear to let him go down in flames. He was allowed to quietly resign without a public shaming...and two years later, he married the girl in question. An inevitable divorce followed. No longer able to teach, and too drunk on his small town fame to leave, Scott frames houses and fucks 20-something divorcees who bow at his rock star cock with reverence. “Oh Scott” they probably stammer, “I remember when you played football in high school…me and my friends used to stare at your ass in those tight pants…and now here I am…here we are…you…me…that tight quarterback ass in my hand. Who’d have ever imagined?”

I used to love her
But I had to kill her...again

It was 3 a.m. one morning in 1990, when a startled trucker called Lebanon Police to report blood all over the checkout counter at the Holiday Inn. When police arrived they found Vicki H., the night desk clerk dead. Next to her body was a golf-putter covered in blood.

In the 1970's, Jacob R. was the married father of a hot perky titted adopted daughter. Everyone knew he fucked her but no one ever did anything about it. I mean she was it wasn't quite as bad...not bad enough to butt in and save a child...but certainly gossip worthy.

One night after yet another argument with his daughter regarding her repeated attempts to run away, she threatened to call the police...this according to the neighbor who overheard the argument. Instead, the girl was never seen again. Jacob didn't frantically search for her..."she just up and ran away again, I guess," he said, while dragging on a marlboro and sipping a Bud.

Due to her history of such attempts, the police accepted this as a logical explanation and the case was dropped. Two years later, Jacob's house mysteriously burnt down, killing his wife. It happened in the 10 minutes after he left the house to visit the Dairy Queen for a Dilly Bar.

Accelerant was found in the basement, arson was suspected but couldn't be proven.
Jacob was Vicky H's boyfriend at the time of her clubbing. He was the prime suspect in her murder...the only suspect...he did it. It's a quietly known fact amongst the police officers. But again, Jacob, the perfect criminal, had left only enough evidence to point to him but not enough to convict him.

The case remains unsolved today due to that convenient lack of evidence. Jacob continues to walk about town a free man. He might drink coffee at Titus' Donut Shop on Sunday mornings while reading the paper, play pool at Boone's Pub with college students home for the weekend, or shoot the shit with travelers who exit I-65 to stop at the convenience store, where he works.

Once as drifting 16 year-olds on our way to yet another concert, my friend Staci and I stopped at his convenience store...she wanted smokes, I wanted chocolate. "Are you 18?" asked Jacob of Staci, when she asked for her pack of Marlboro's. "Yeah," she lied. "Well, you girls sure are pretty enough to be 18," he slickered, eyes on her tits as he took her $5 and pushed over the cigs." "Whatever," we said, eyes we turned, taut teenage asses in too short skirts and heels...his dick erecting as we sauntered off.

Welcome to the Jungle, Baby.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Frock Rocker Rants - the background and disclaimer

So, let's just get one thing out of the way...I am a huge fucking cliche. Songs have been written about me...I have been immortalized in film...I am every daddy's nightmare. I am the girl who packed her car and drove west for the shining lights of Hollywood to become a fucking rock star. That's right I'm mama's fallen angel who after growing up tall and growing up right headed west 'cause she thought a change would do her good. That was almost seven years ago...and it's high time I started writing about it...if for no other reason than to make sense of what has become of my life. I should warn you...I have a standard issue musician essence I speak in trailer hooker tongue. If this offends you...go read a fucking blog about gardening or debutante balls...both subjects I personally find deeply interesting...but only if I can talk about how fucking beautiful the rhododendrons look lining the walk way of hand laid stone. Anyways, more to follow about gardening...but for now...quick background for the purpose of perspective.

I'm the daughter of a midwestern judge. My mother is the kindest person I know. I have an older brother, who is now also a judge. It is my brother's fault that I pursued rock stardom. When I began to express an interest in playing guitar at 14, my brother said...and I quote "you'll never get a guitar...and if you'll never learn to play...and if you do learn to'll never play in a band." I was an obstinate child. Such doubt as my brother expressed sealed my future as a musician in a family full of lawyers. Had my brother never uttered such words, I'm certain I would be a high powered divorce attorney raking in bigtime Chicago father would be brother would be mother would still pray for me. As is, they all pray for me...and they still want me to go to law school. I took the LSAT to whet their appetite...I scored a 167. Then, instead of applying, I joined a punk band. I'm still trying to decide whether this was the smartest or the dumbest decision I've ever made.