A Pleasant Smelling Confession

“Wind me up and watch me spin.”
- The Foo Fighters

My hair has abandoned ship; my fingers can no longer tame the reckless curls. My eyes are dull and my lips are dry. My nails have grown beyond their filed shape and my t-shirt is stained. Forgive my appearance, for tour has taken my beauty, and the post-tour hag is all that remains. I have stripped of my inhibitions and modesties, and although I am no longer confined to a box of human waste, a confession can still commence, a pleasant smelling confession removed of its clothes. I have veered from the title of my blog and I must bring myself around once more, and so I drop my garments to the floor and tap my fingers across the laptop. Come in close and gather at my feet. Hush your voices and listen to another Harley tale from the tour de white trash.

Friday night I sat on a wooden bench balancing a Miller Lite on one knee, drops of sweat fell into the valley between my breasts, imprints of mascara stuck to my eyelids. A blank page lay before me; I struggled to grasp inspiration from the bikers and eye candy roaming the pasture of asphalt, but they failed to provide. Ryan was on stage tuning his guitar to seduce the masses. I greedily stared at him wanting to scoop him up and press him against me. I talked to my imaginary friends in Kindergarten and thus never learned the valuable elementary lesson of sharing – imaginary friends never ask their material counterparts to share. For the sake of a timeline and a sequential story, yesterday’s port-a-potty confession was a recollection of Wednesday. Thursday was strewn with Noodles & Company, spent under a ceiling fan, and wrapped in the scent of sheets. Friday follows Thursday, and then we arrive at today’s blog destination.

When the set had finished the band hung to the merch table on the hooks of fan’s fingers. Defying laws of prudence I extended my seated figure across the bench and drummed my fingers on my taut stomach. Clusters of groupies closed in discussing the wedding ring on the guitarist’s left hand, the naked chest of the drummer, and the appeal of Ryan’s raspy voice. The speed of the voices increased, the bodies walking past blurred in their hurry for an autograph, and the environment began to pass at highway speeds while I remained horizontal and still at a stop sign. Ryan’s face interrupted the scene and an involuntary smile spread across my face.

He asked, “Are you being strange again?” I looked away in shame and prepared a sarcastic remark, but he silenced my innate sass with a kiss to one salty cheek and lifted me from the bench.

The pack moved forward from the venue, with the band members leading, hands enclosed with those of the wags (wives and girlfriends), and the media boys bringing up the rear. A collection of paper bands had grown in the skin of my wrist, the newest sprout bestowing upon me close proximity to Dave Grohl. I alternated bites of a hot dog with sips of beer and the occasional fist in the air, followed by spilt beer and falling bread crumbs. I am not an avid fan of The Foo Fighters, but Dave Grohl possesses a shiny head of hair and Milwaukee humidity was created for head banging with curls.

I danced squares around my air guitar playing boyfriend and air drumming friend Ari mouthing lyrics to the handful of songs I could summon from my deteriorating memory. We left after the predictable encore; after a quick powder of the nose and glance in the rearview mirror I found myself in the haunted lakeside mansion of a flamboyant gay man. In awe of the chance happening I wandered through the rooms touching the expensive furniture, and commenting on the self-indulgent and overstated traits of the décor. Feeling out of my element, those of us less excited by aesthetics made our way to the beer pong table to watch the only remnants of classlessness. I grew tired of the framed diplomas and intentionally placed celebrity photographs. With a long sigh met by Ryan’s mutual eye roll, myself and an entourage of the less impressed individuals made our way to the car and strapped in, the silence broken only by laughter at the ludicrousness of our night. Once home we ended with a grand finale of burnt pizza and un-brushed teeth – a celebration of our cling to the lower rung on the ladder of class.

My tired blog children crawl into your shared bed and tomorrow we shall continue the story. Once I have collected the monthly check and purchased a 12-pack and cigarettes my lips will once more fall slack.