Ironic Jukebox

The first year of college for most kids is a traumatic time. I made it especially hard on myself by spending my first year at an all girls college in rural southwest Virginia. I had gone there with visions of becoming a great academic, eschewing the lesser desires of fun and parties and boys with what I believed to be the true college experience- old fashion studyin’.

It was a terrible mistake.

One month of testosterone deprivation had turned me from a well socialized American kid, a girl who had boyfriends and friends that were boys, into a Victorian era shell of myself. If I ever saw a boy I could only twirl my hair or giggle or stare for inappropriate lengths of time. But luckily I was not alone. This strange phenomenon affected all of my friends as well – together we were a bunch of gaggling pre-liberation idiots. So we did what any girl in our situation would do, we became obsessed with male celebrities, especially musicians.

While I focused my insanity into fantasizing about Ben on Felicity and listening to Pink Floyd on repeat in the dark – my best friend Rachel could talk only about her love and devotion to the young Mick Jagger.

And oh boy how she did love him. She loved Jagger’s swagger and hip swivel. She would have, like, totally had a million of his babies.

So, of course, when we found out that a Rolling Stones cover band was playing at a nearby college (a look-a-like band no less!) we were the first fans to arrive.

Although I have never been that fond of Mick Jagger, young or old, I was willing to go along to see boys. Especially boys in a band (ahh hair twirl).

We made the 45 minute drive in 30 minutes flat – all giggles and smiles and bouncing renditions of “Paint It Black.” We flew up the frat steps and frantically asked a pimple faced frat brother where the band was. He muttered, “basement” and down we went, Rachel leading the way two steps at a time.

By the time I made it downstairs I knew something was awry. Rachel turned a pale and disappointed face to me and then invited my gaze to follow hers back to the band.

And there they were. Not young look-a-likes,not even young at all, but modern day, old look-a-likes sitting on a set of wooden bunkbeds. There was a saggy and hollow Ronnie Wood, a Keith Richards that looked like he had snorted whatever the real Keith had snorted, and the worst of all, a sickly thin and world warn Mick Jagger.

My heart sunk. I didn’t even like the young Rolling Stones and now I was surrounded by dirty old men with earrings and scarves who happened to play “Wild Horses” to drunk college girls for a living.

“Hi,” the band looked at our flushed cheeks with elderly enthusiasm.

“Hi,” Rachel responded.

“Want to smoke some pot?” Keith asked.

“Sure,” Rachel said.

Now I must point out that at this moment a normal set of girls would have declined and gone back upstairs to meet boys our own age.

But normal we were not.

Rachel, much like her idol Mick, oozed sexuality out of every pore. Heads of both sexes turned when she walked by and Rachel loved the attention, laughing in her low throaty way. She loved sex and drugs and writing poems about boys named Ezekial who had torso-long scars from knife fights.

I was star struck and enjoyed living vicariously through her since I was terrified of sex and drugs and boys named Ezekial who got into knife fights.

Rachel grabbed the joint and inhaled deeply, tossing her loose blonde curls around her shoulders. All eyes were on Rachel, which I considered a blessing since I was now sitting next to the Charlie Watts doppleganger (who, thankfully, had the same “how the hell did I get here?” temperment of his real life counterpart). I had braces and a pink J.Crew t-shirt and I had curled my hair for the event. In short I looked like an eighteen-year-old way out of her league. And to make matters worse, I had somehow ended up holding a plastic tub that the Ronnie Wood guy would vomit/spit into every couple of minutes from the upper bunk.

Finally, after the joint was finished, Rachel saw the misery in my eyes and the vomit in the plastic tub and realized it was time to go. She must have seen what I had seen – our Edward Hopper tableau – a mixture of our desperation, the sad men’s lost musical hopes, and a spit bucket, blurred into one hazy scene.

With heads hung low we trudged up the stairs, got in the car, missed the show and drove home.

I began the transfer process the next day. Rachel got tired of my prudish ways and we drifted apart. I devoted the rest of my year to the intense study of Felicity and to learning everything I could about Pink Floyd, who, when you really think about it, is so much cuter than the Stones.

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