Dear Wigleaf (c/o Sunset Music Management),
So I was thirteen, and I took my lawn-mowing money and bought your
first album, your best album, the one with the all-black cover, and I
ran home from K-Mart and slapped it down on the turntable and cranked
all nine tracks at Vol/Max, until my dad pounded on my bedroom door and
yelled Turn That Shit Off, at which point I plugged in my headphones
and pretended I was you, in that rainbow afro and kabuki make-up, lead
singer of my own band, singular focus of sold-out-stadium-fulls. I
pretended I was your drummer, Rocco, destined to drown in a shallow
pond of my own vomit. I pretended I was just your nameless dumb-ass
roadie, happily feasting on a steady diet of your groupie leftovers.
So what happened to you? KISS came along and stole your vibe, and you
did what, nothing? You just quit fighting, and you got fat, and now I
sit here at my kitchen table reading some human-interest garbage about
you coming to town on the Retro Heroes Tour, opening for Foghat and
Blue Oyster Cult (this Saturday, one night only, Lucky’s
Backstage, seating capacity eighty-five). What do you expect me to say?
That I’ll be there, all nostalgic and shit? Go to hell. You
remind me of my own disintegration. You turn me into my dad.
Yours (once, ago, why?),
- - -
Read JK's story, "Sleepless #3."
w i g · l e a F