[Originally written on this date in 2005]
For the past two months I had been looking forward to seeing the King of Surf Guitar at Asbury Lanes. It’s no secret that I love surf music and consider it to be one of my favorite genres, and I have been a fan since I was thirteen when introduced to Dick Dale through Pulp Fiction. At that oh-so impressionable age, I saw excessive violence and drug use backed by the most amazing music I had ever heard. The title track struck a chord within me that left me wanting more, and I remember listening to the soundtrack on repeat until discovering the artists on-line. When the opportunity came to see the man who provided that opening song, I knew I could not miss it and bought a ticket three weeks in advance fearing the show would sell out. It was going to be in a South Jersey bowling alley after all.
The afternoon was spent dying my hair, and though I just had it done a few weeks ago, I saw some photos from a recent performance and did not like the way it looked as much as I initially thought. At first the difference between the colors was obvious, but they have faded with time and went a bit murky – I was not keen on what the re-dying process would entail. Instead I sectioned out my hair, dying half of it black and the other half red [there are six ‘stripes’ total] and instantly felt it suited me much better. Plus my ‘hawk will look pretty cool when I put it up.
For the occasion that evening, I installed matching hair extensions which cascaded like a mane and I laughed at the thought of being a punk rock pony. Which may have led to leaning back so the hair tickled my shoulders as I imagined my real hair being that long. After a few giggles, I applied my makeup: shades of green and purple shadow; thick black cat eye; blue mascara; dewy cheeks and glossed lips. Dressed in a black lace skirt, red silk blouse, platform vinyl Mary Jane’s and added red roses to my hair. Wearing flowers when I go out or perform has become sort of a trademark and some day I hope to have a huge collection of them.
The drive was a total blur, but that might have been on account I was thinking of all the times I had gone to Asbury with Jon, and how our last adventure there ended in an accident. Incident is more appropriate. Upon arrival I sat in my car and drank the Sambuca/vanilla Coke concoction I mixed earlier, where the alcohol overwhelmed the soda yet was still quickly consumed.
Outside the Lanes were some a-fucking-mazing hot rods and rat rods that must have belonged to members of a local car club. It was rare to see one on the road, but to have that gorgeous collection of metal machines right in front of me took my breath away. Spent a moment checking them out, waiting for the commentary on where a part of a particular rat rod came from, but there was only the dull noises coming from the Lanes and maybe the distant roar of the ocean that filled the night air beside me.
Inside was packed with many people, but that was to be expected. Somehow I grabbed a spot on the right side of the stage where I had a clear view of Dick Dale wailing on his guitar. The show itself does not lend itself to description. There is something incredibly beautiful about songs driven by a stringed instrument that can sing like angles, rhythmic drums humming along with low bass as a vision forms inside the mind. These notes tell a story, though whether it is filled with love, adventure, chaos or sadness is left to be interpreted by the listener. Many hours have been spent assaulting my mind with this music, and even though I suddenly felt incredibly drunk, I was having the best time.
Somehow I managed to record about a minute of guitar-playing that was saved so I could share it with James, though the quality is questionable since I have not listened to it yet.
The show was over and I felt like it went by too fast, but that tends to happen when you are having fun. Feeling a little too drunk to attempt driving, I walked down to the beach where I did some star-gazing and drew hearts in the sand. Summer would be coming soon and my heart was dreaming of traveling highways in search of adventure, taking a break from what has been my life thus far and really making an effort to establish a concrete relationship with Jon. Why do all my thoughts wind up going back to him?
There are many reasons that I have documented over time, so I already know the answer.
Driving back in the darkness, I wanted to have the courage to go a different route. Instead of returning to the house I was a stranger in, I would have the familiar warmth of my best friend and the comforting aromas that were carried on his skin. Together we would ride into the sunset and dared not to look back, always ahead to what the future held.
Since Jon’s whereabouts was presently a mystery, I took the proper exit and came back anyway.