There’s been a mistake. Flank Treat is playing tonight at the Pixlar with that other band, Drove OverBill. Somehow my name is not on the list. The longhair in the box office pretends to have never heard of me. He must be new. In town. Someone will hear about this later, but in the meantime I’m having him phone up to Joe for an answer, namely in the form of an all-access pass. Having dated Flank Treat on and off again for the last few years, I’ve become someone the band thinks of as one of the core. Over these years I have acted as manager, of sorts, and of course number-one fan, but also friend, landlord, accountant, bondsman, confidant, sister, mother, and lover. In a word, muse. Flank trusts me and knows that, when mood permits, I am more than happy to be of any help. Perhaps morale is sagging: that’s where I come in.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
The longhair in the box office asks me to wait while he runs upstairs. And hurry up. I don’t enjoy drumming my nails. But having waited this long to show the world what I’ve got, I suppose I can wait another …ten minutes is how many seconds? Anyway, I don’t know why he doesn’t take me upstairs with him, I’m sure Joe will want to say hello. Instead the longhair leaves me with his little friend the nose clip. Excuse me, nose ring. She can’t be 21. Look at her. Sad little gloom girl. I can see from here she paints in those dark circles under her eyes. I remember when I was that age we wore dark circles under our eyes too, but we got ours the hard way, through sleep deprivation and self-starvation. They call it integrity. As far as the current neo-Cervenkan aesthetic goes, I guess you could say we laid the bricks. She looks away when I smile. Oh what is the holdup with that pass? The longhair returns with a roll of sticker passes, one for me. Thank you God. I have him write my name in on the list and then cross it off. Good. Now I can focus on my debut without all these red tapes binding me.
All this is conveyed not so much with words as with the eyes. Flank doesn’t talk much. And believe me it’s just as well. The musical artist has better things to do with, how shall we say, its mind. Energy must be concentrated.
I’ve asked the photographer, an impossibly effervescent queen-bee type, if there isn’t time for Flank to have its picture taken also. Already they are into my makeup bag and the suitcase I’ve brought with costume changes, forcing dresses to fit and smearing lipstick on their faces. One of them has written SLUT across his chest. Interesting. A man in drag exposes the notion of his own interior feminine. Am I wrong? Someone has put a cigarette out in my Dippity-Do.
