But we all have our music quirks. I tolerate album covers that feature the band by a warehouse far, far away because I have to. As for solo artists, I’ve noticed that most women artists I like are often on the ground, playing dead, but done up glamorously, they might as well be on a satin ottoman. The only difference is a smudge of blood and bruise around the lip and eye. My father has nothing but contempt for music videos, especially ones that feature an artist tied to a chair with a bunch of "thugs" around him, who ends up in a psychiatric ward, unshaven, in a dirty robe.
My father has never liked Larry because he wears shorts all year long, and has one of those jobs that are hard to grasp for people who don’t do what he does. After careful scrutiny, followed by an afternoon of light stalking, I’ve only been able to come up with this: he works in a laboratory. Larry does smell antiseptic, with a trace of Sweet n’ Low. The first time we had sex, I thought he had a cold, and was overdosing on throat lozenges.
It was a sad smell, and as we were having sex, I vowed to stop seeing him.
I changed my mind midway through it when Foreigner’s "Feels Like the First Time," came on the radio. It did too, and not only because we were in my Honda in a parking lot. The truth is that I hadn’t had sex in a year, and this occasion didn’t make up for lost time. You would think the coincidence would have solidified my decision to break up with Larry, but a catchy tune that belies a darker meaning is like a lightening bolt to pay attention. So I didn’t.
At the show, my father and I take turns going to the bar. I watch the crowd, which can only be described as a panorama of déjà vu. The music scene is small here, and people appear and reappear no matter where