Poprocks and Coke, chapter 1
Kerplunk, Nimrod, Dookie, Shenanigans, Insomniac...
"I'm not sure I should do this," Drew said, inspecting American Idiot's lyrics. "Hey, this sucks! No pictures... how are their chick fans supposed to drool over them?"
From behind her clustered desk, Piper watched her vivacious friend go through her pile of Green Day albums, old and new. She was shaking her head and making her short soft curls bounce around her face, scrunching it up at the lack of visuals, which, for reasons that evaded Piper, was important to her. But then, image was always significant to Drew.
"Here's the deal: I want a story detailing their history. A look at their career going all the way back to when they didn't have the major record label, about how their music's grown, how the band's character has grown, etc. etc. Think of it as, well, education for all the losers who've only noticed them since they've become mainstream." Piper paused as Drew screwed her nose up at some distasteful lyrics, probably written by Billie Joe when he was bored out of his mind.
"It'll be the lead story. You know, big front cover photo in all its glossy Technicolor glory."
Immediately Drew's head swiveled towards the wall on which an enormous Green Day poster was plastered. "Them skinny dudes? You wanna sell for cash, or what?"
Touché. There was that image thing again.
"You know them inside out. Why don't you do it?"
Piper gestured around her tiny cramped office, at the small mountains of paperwork that occupied every available surface. There wasn't room for Mini Me to hide in. "I'm swamped."
"Yeah, but, Green Day?" Drew waved the CD. "They're... punk."
"And?"
"I don't get punk. Mostly."
With a frustrated sigh Piper propped her boots up on the edge of the desk. "Look, my writers are morons, okay? They think the only shit that will sell right now is a piece on Kylie Minogue's breast cancer. A sympathy piece, for crying out loud," she muttered, and impatiently flipped her dark fringe out of her face.
"Well," said Drew, replacing the CD, "you really gotta empathize there. I heard that the surgical procedure involves removing part of the breast, which, as a fellow woman you will be sure to know sucks major monkey ass—"
"All right, all right, I get." Piper waved the subject aside. "I'm outta writers. The good ones are already on assignments and the rest don't give a rat's ass about this. And yeah, I know your taste is a little, uh, weird, to put it nicely, but at least I can give you the work and know you'll write something well researched and with a bit more dignity than some people can muster."
Drew sat and crossed her legs. "You're asking the girl who saw an ad for International Superhits and thought, 'Ye-ah. We'll talk when they actually are.'"
Piper smirked, and hid it badly.
"I'm serious! Aren't they one of those bands with a huuuge—" she gestured dramatically, "global fan base and the underground punk movement and all that? I write crap that's wrong because I'm clueless as to what I'm writing about, and I'll have people I don't even know coming for my ass."
"Well, your ass is marginally attractive. Men think so anyway," Piper replied with another smirk. Though of late there seemed to be changes in that annoyingly perfect figure. "Maybe they'll see it and let you off. Research your topic properly and no one's butt will be in a sling. I've already nabbed an interview with Billie J—the lead singer. So, interested?"
Drew chewed her lip. Piper's eyes were daring her, dammit, and a good challenge she could never resist. And how hard could it be? She interviews the guy, listens to their CDs, form a few (positive) judgments here and there and the rest should write itself. It was a piece, after all, to educate the losers only. Besides, Piper never let her write feature articles.
"Fine. Gimme."
Piper leaned back with a satisfied smile. "I swear to god, once I'm chief editor of this rag there will be some serious changes in staff. I'll shoot the dets to your email, cause I don't really trust your memory. Now take the shit and go."
She waited as Drew clumsily gathered up CDs and DVDs of filmed concerts and hauled her personal collection of Green Day music towards the door, with it all clutched to her breast. "One more thing."
"Shoot."
"You actually know any of Green Day's material? The stuff that's older than what's on the radio these days?"
To her surprise, Drew frowned in concentration and replied, "Yeah, actually. It's that one, arggh... um, I think it's old school but... uh... " She bounced lightly on the balls of her feet while trying to place a name on the song. "Ah, well, I never did know what it was called, but it was slightly dodgy and seriously horny. It's like a dirty hillbilly song about whips and chains and other kinky pastimes people indulge in," Drew finished with a wink.
Dirty hillbilly song? Piper laughed. God help her.
***
Drew didn't straightaway write them off as another whiny punk band, out of respect for years of admiration towards them on Piper's part. Instead she sat late into the night and read report after report of hotel trashings, arrests for indecent exposure, DUI, mass uncontrollable crowds at concerts, stampedes, politics, and the band's deep hate for people like Britney.
Ah, the life of a rock star. Drew smiled as she absentmindedly left her laptop to get a Coke. Not altogether always agreeable, but still adventurous. Especially when you're rocking your way around the world with your two best friends.
She found herself imagining what it would be like to be in a band with Piper and Alex. They'd push her to be lead singer (even with her voice) because neither would want to be bothered with the publicity. Piper would be on electric guitar, and she'd play a mean rock tune with attitude. Alex would be drummer, making just as much noise as the Drew and Piper but not so much in the limelight.
And both of them would say 'screw you' to all offers of photo sessions.
Mostly, she was grateful for this assignment because it was something to do. It had been exactly a week since Ben's abrupt departure for Rome. She's stopped weeping oceans because she didn't want to be a loser, and because the tissues were beginning to feel sore on her cheeks. But because she was human, she was still staying home every night and listening to KC and Jojo.
Pressing the cool can against her cheek, she returned to the living room. She slid American Idiot into one of the CD slots of the stereo and listened until sleep became overpoweringly appealing. At around 2 a.m. she crawled into bed, contentedly humming She's A Rebel...
***
"Ooooh God."
Drew opened one bleary eye and her sunlit room slowly came into focus. What the hell had she done the night before? She didn't remember getting hammered, though she did have one drink on her break with the cute guy from Maine, mainly due to the fact that work at the diner that day had been uncharacteristically crap.
Bullshit. One beer didn't do this.
She staggered out of bed, and a huge wave of nausea rose inside, almost knocking her back on her ass again. Jesus Christ, what was this? Was it something she ate? That chicken salad for lunch yesterday did taste like soggy cardboard with chewy bits, but if it was food poisoning... Step by dizzy step she made her way to the bathroom, and immediately threw up in the sink.
"Ooh gross," she muttered. Hurriedly she rinsed her mouth out to get rid of the taste of stomach acid. Just as she was about to halfheartedly clean up her mess she stopped short.
What was the date?
Oh shit oh shit. Legs wobbling slightly Drew rushed back to the bedroom and skidded to a halt in front of the calendar. Inside a badly drawn red circle was the 16th. As in the big day for the interview with what's-his-face. Billie Joe. Green Day. Today.
She glanced at the clock, and saw she had five minutes to spare before the interview was scheduled to begin.
Fuck, fuck, fuck...
"I'm not sure I should do this," Drew said, inspecting American Idiot's lyrics. "Hey, this sucks! No pictures... how are their chick fans supposed to drool over them?"
From behind her clustered desk, Piper watched her vivacious friend go through her pile of Green Day albums, old and new. She was shaking her head and making her short soft curls bounce around her face, scrunching it up at the lack of visuals, which, for reasons that evaded Piper, was important to her. But then, image was always significant to Drew.
"Here's the deal: I want a story detailing their history. A look at their career going all the way back to when they didn't have the major record label, about how their music's grown, how the band's character has grown, etc. etc. Think of it as, well, education for all the losers who've only noticed them since they've become mainstream." Piper paused as Drew screwed her nose up at some distasteful lyrics, probably written by Billie Joe when he was bored out of his mind.
"It'll be the lead story. You know, big front cover photo in all its glossy Technicolor glory."
Immediately Drew's head swiveled towards the wall on which an enormous Green Day poster was plastered. "Them skinny dudes? You wanna sell for cash, or what?"
Touché. There was that image thing again.
"You know them inside out. Why don't you do it?"
Piper gestured around her tiny cramped office, at the small mountains of paperwork that occupied every available surface. There wasn't room for Mini Me to hide in. "I'm swamped."
"Yeah, but, Green Day?" Drew waved the CD. "They're... punk."
"And?"
"I don't get punk. Mostly."
With a frustrated sigh Piper propped her boots up on the edge of the desk. "Look, my writers are morons, okay? They think the only shit that will sell right now is a piece on Kylie Minogue's breast cancer. A sympathy piece, for crying out loud," she muttered, and impatiently flipped her dark fringe out of her face.
"Well," said Drew, replacing the CD, "you really gotta empathize there. I heard that the surgical procedure involves removing part of the breast, which, as a fellow woman you will be sure to know sucks major monkey ass—"
"All right, all right, I get." Piper waved the subject aside. "I'm outta writers. The good ones are already on assignments and the rest don't give a rat's ass about this. And yeah, I know your taste is a little, uh, weird, to put it nicely, but at least I can give you the work and know you'll write something well researched and with a bit more dignity than some people can muster."
Drew sat and crossed her legs. "You're asking the girl who saw an ad for International Superhits and thought, 'Ye-ah. We'll talk when they actually are.'"
Piper smirked, and hid it badly.
"I'm serious! Aren't they one of those bands with a huuuge—" she gestured dramatically, "global fan base and the underground punk movement and all that? I write crap that's wrong because I'm clueless as to what I'm writing about, and I'll have people I don't even know coming for my ass."
"Well, your ass is marginally attractive. Men think so anyway," Piper replied with another smirk. Though of late there seemed to be changes in that annoyingly perfect figure. "Maybe they'll see it and let you off. Research your topic properly and no one's butt will be in a sling. I've already nabbed an interview with Billie J—the lead singer. So, interested?"
Drew chewed her lip. Piper's eyes were daring her, dammit, and a good challenge she could never resist. And how hard could it be? She interviews the guy, listens to their CDs, form a few (positive) judgments here and there and the rest should write itself. It was a piece, after all, to educate the losers only. Besides, Piper never let her write feature articles.
"Fine. Gimme."
Piper leaned back with a satisfied smile. "I swear to god, once I'm chief editor of this rag there will be some serious changes in staff. I'll shoot the dets to your email, cause I don't really trust your memory. Now take the shit and go."
She waited as Drew clumsily gathered up CDs and DVDs of filmed concerts and hauled her personal collection of Green Day music towards the door, with it all clutched to her breast. "One more thing."
"Shoot."
"You actually know any of Green Day's material? The stuff that's older than what's on the radio these days?"
To her surprise, Drew frowned in concentration and replied, "Yeah, actually. It's that one, arggh... um, I think it's old school but... uh... " She bounced lightly on the balls of her feet while trying to place a name on the song. "Ah, well, I never did know what it was called, but it was slightly dodgy and seriously horny. It's like a dirty hillbilly song about whips and chains and other kinky pastimes people indulge in," Drew finished with a wink.
Dirty hillbilly song? Piper laughed. God help her.
***
Drew didn't straightaway write them off as another whiny punk band, out of respect for years of admiration towards them on Piper's part. Instead she sat late into the night and read report after report of hotel trashings, arrests for indecent exposure, DUI, mass uncontrollable crowds at concerts, stampedes, politics, and the band's deep hate for people like Britney.
Ah, the life of a rock star. Drew smiled as she absentmindedly left her laptop to get a Coke. Not altogether always agreeable, but still adventurous. Especially when you're rocking your way around the world with your two best friends.
She found herself imagining what it would be like to be in a band with Piper and Alex. They'd push her to be lead singer (even with her voice) because neither would want to be bothered with the publicity. Piper would be on electric guitar, and she'd play a mean rock tune with attitude. Alex would be drummer, making just as much noise as the Drew and Piper but not so much in the limelight.
And both of them would say 'screw you' to all offers of photo sessions.
Mostly, she was grateful for this assignment because it was something to do. It had been exactly a week since Ben's abrupt departure for Rome. She's stopped weeping oceans because she didn't want to be a loser, and because the tissues were beginning to feel sore on her cheeks. But because she was human, she was still staying home every night and listening to KC and Jojo.
Pressing the cool can against her cheek, she returned to the living room. She slid American Idiot into one of the CD slots of the stereo and listened until sleep became overpoweringly appealing. At around 2 a.m. she crawled into bed, contentedly humming She's A Rebel...
***
"Ooooh God."
Drew opened one bleary eye and her sunlit room slowly came into focus. What the hell had she done the night before? She didn't remember getting hammered, though she did have one drink on her break with the cute guy from Maine, mainly due to the fact that work at the diner that day had been uncharacteristically crap.
Bullshit. One beer didn't do this.
She staggered out of bed, and a huge wave of nausea rose inside, almost knocking her back on her ass again. Jesus Christ, what was this? Was it something she ate? That chicken salad for lunch yesterday did taste like soggy cardboard with chewy bits, but if it was food poisoning... Step by dizzy step she made her way to the bathroom, and immediately threw up in the sink.
"Ooh gross," she muttered. Hurriedly she rinsed her mouth out to get rid of the taste of stomach acid. Just as she was about to halfheartedly clean up her mess she stopped short.
What was the date?
Oh shit oh shit. Legs wobbling slightly Drew rushed back to the bedroom and skidded to a halt in front of the calendar. Inside a badly drawn red circle was the 16th. As in the big day for the interview with what's-his-face. Billie Joe. Green Day. Today.
She glanced at the clock, and saw she had five minutes to spare before the interview was scheduled to begin.
Fuck, fuck, fuck...
