OK, this is a project that I'm probably going to be working on for the next few posts. Mostly it's going to be a short novel, and I'll put up a chapter at a time. I don't have a blueprint for this or how long it is going to be (or take) so bear with me and PLEASE offer suggestions.

Desperation often plagues those in stress, those of whom seem to face it bravely; those who seem to face their fears most openly and those who seem to be, well, most desperate to be rid of their desperation.

Such was the case of Jessica Sheela, pop princess and partygoer to the rich and famous. Yea, she had appeared on several commercials for various products, from facial creams that “made your face sheen like Sheela!” but somehow seemed just to make the cream’s wallets shine and your face break out in an extreme bout of popcorn acne…all to the infamous luxury car maker, for which she had her hair blowing in a breeze – indoors, mind you – and her curvy body smeared all over like it like butter. If only half the people who bought that car realized Sheela didn’t come with it…

And so, it was inevitable that the paparazzi were surrounding her again. She expected it in a sort of way – the first time the photographers were around her, photographing things that only Goths or perverts would, it weighs on you – but now she knew each photographer by name, what clothes they wore, how Jimmy’s flash seemed to reek of burning flesh and such. It wasn’t important anymore. They could take the pictures; it was OK now.
But it seemed like as she was leaving the Los Angeles Night Court, that suddenly everything the photographers, even the friendly ones, were trying to do was smear another one of Jessica’s ill moves upon some cheap tabloid. It was, in some ways, too much. And she desperately needed an escape mechanism. Now.

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Hanging out on the front porch again, a young man stared into the lens of his own digital camera. He was nowhere near a teenage heartthrob, although he did bear a resemblance to the many images that seemed to plague the general “sexy image”. He always kept his light brown hair combed over his eye and off to the side, and always kept his shirts perfect in color, the jeans always tattered and board shoes always loosely tied. Being on the outskirts of suburban California lifestyle, it was far away from the daily grind of the Hollywood producers.

“Tommy! Come see this!” came a voice from the garage. “The amp’s all the way up. Mr. Gilbert’s going to blow his top when he hears this bass crank! Knock the toupee right off his head!” the inspirational songwriter heard.

Taking one last glance into the camera, and whispering “I guess this means that I’ll have to wait until I have to stare into this myself…” he ran off to the garage, putting the camera in his pocket.

Running into the garage, a stately two-wide with tools sparsely on the corkboard wall, and an outfitted sound and electronic system befitting a recording industry contract that just wasn’t there, the place was ready to rock out. It was 5:37 pm on a warm July day, and the summer was just heating up.

Tommy’s friends, though, didn’t like his tardiness. “Tommy! Where the hell were you, bro? Chels and Kate are gonna be over here. I just got off the phone with them. They’re bringing over a bunch of girls in Chels’ mom’s minivan.” The bassist laughed as he plucked away at the four-stringer, a shiny red piece of plastic that sparkled in the daylight shining through the garage door. “We’re going to head out maybe afterwards.”

Tommy laughed, as if to suggest what the guy said was a joke. “Keith, you know better.” He picked up his guitar and said “You know she is hands-off when she comes over with the girls,” he reasoned, plucking a strong G-sharp on his Gibson. “She’ll come over and kiss up and be an audience, but there’s no way….” he said, turning knobs on both the amp and the guitar, totally ignoring Keith and his tainted reality.

The drummer, a short-haired, blonde guy with green spikes in his hair, fisheye glasses and the school nerd look to boot (as if it wasn’t obvious already) said “Hey guys, maybe we can talk about the girls…once we get some stuff to play for them.” He drew a look from the other two guys that only could be replicated in the boys’ locker room at their high school.

“Nick?” Keith said, getting a glance from the peeved percussionist. “Shut up.” He then turned to Tommy. “What are we playing for Chels and them?”

Such a simple request seemed to go down a little bit too bitter to Keith, who had no idea what he wanted to do for the ladies. Obviously, it was tough to say, because chances were Chels’ minivan held a great deal of mystery.
Slowly, Keith began to picture different crowds. Chels, he figured, was easy to please. But she had friends that wanted different stuff….

The teeny boppers and their candy-sweet needs.
The goth girl who wanted industrial and painted the whole place black.

The city girl who liked some of that cheap hip-hop Latino beat.

And lest we forget Katie, who craved everything that seemed to make Tommy wish he grew up in 1969.

“Snap out of it! Play Lemon Rush!” ordered Nick.
And so, they began to play their own song, a mix of the old rock and roll with new beats to it. Each of them had written the song in their own way; although the melody was the same, each had penned a separate set of lyrics to it, ideally because each thought the song was “theirs”, per se. The fact that each of them was creative was great and all, but the problem arose that they couldn’t agree with version to sing.

Lemon rush, lemon rush
Somebody’s got to give me a breath
Sour as milk and bitter as dirt
Lemon rush take me to death.


It was an impressive set of lyrics indeed, but then the first verse was the first thing they couldn’t agree on.
One of them went: Lemon rush, lemon rush, can’t you see….
then another went: Lemon rush, lemon rush, the way you see….
And the final went: Lemon rush, lemon rush, can’t you be….

It always struck a chord (or as Tommy would literally strike an angry chord when he heard it) with them. “Dammit, why can’t we get this right for once?” Nick yelled from behind the congas, twirling the brushes in his fingertips. “I’m sick of having this song screw up every time!”

And so, another one of the fights for Tommy’s group of rockers began. Keith yelled “Well, wise guy, you shouldn’t have made three sets and THEN go out and try to get us to agree on it.” And it seemed like everyone wasn’t sure onto who was going to sing what. In a way, pride bit each of them like a mosquito; they all wanted to play Chels and the girls their own version, and teenage love often made them swell up with pride when they got to play “their song” with the girls. “Nick, tell Tommy that he should let the bandmates do their lyrics.” The bassist then strummed an angry chord.

“Bull shit, Keith. Every time, it’s yours because you do that Michael Anthony bass riff that you think Katie loves to death. I never get any guitar time!”

Now beginning to swell at the head instead, and anxious in anticipation of the oncoming females, the mad bassist yelled “Well, then, you shouldn’t have written a 3 minute jam, you dip!”

They turned to each other, ready to drop the guitars on the ground and scrap, as if it didn’t matter that coming in the garage was their female inspiration – and six of her best friends.

“You dipshit, Keith, I’m not the guitarist for the occasional solo. I solo always….”

A female voice rang out. “Hey guys. Hormones again?” she laughed. A disgusted look on the 16 year old’s face, as she whispered something to the girl next to her.
All of a sudden, and not surprisingly, the arguing stopped, as if the voice of a woman could shatter the strongest wall of anger that any man could fortify. “Chelsey!” they all yelled at once.

“Hey boys.” She showed off her low-cut shirt and high-rise jean shorts, not quite short enough to get her kicked out of school, but made to make eyes wander – and make guys cheat to get the touch of a lifetime. Chels was that way, learning from the girls around her just how to make her body move in the right way to catch a boy’s eye, reeling him in from far away and depositing him upon the deck of her ship of life.

“I….I want to present to you, Tommy and the Guns new song, Lemon Rush.” Sweating bullets was quite the expression for the bereft bandleader, who wanted to get the evening over as soon as possible. “Gentlemen, a one and a two….”

Chels realized that soon, Tommy was going to turn into Lawrence Welk, and so, in her very own way, she tried to get a straight answer. “Tommy?” she curled her finger. “Come here, sweetie. I have to ask you something.” She got an “ooh” from the girls when she went to him this way.
The other two guys looked in extrapolated jealousy.
“Bastard. Don’t go after my girl.”

“Go for it, but remember, she’s a virgin. You get one shot to do it right, man.”

Slinging the guitar off his shoulder and placing it on the rack, which was little more than an old, rusted workbench, the two ran off in the corner.

As soon as they got around the corner, it was hard to tell from each other what they were expecting. It was kind of obvious that Tommy was thinking to hit the home run with Chels; being disappointed again after several attempts at having Chels on the beach, surfing in the blue California waters – hey, he had to pinch himself sometimes. Chels was a girl, but Tommy had to be a GUY.

Immediately, when they got to where no prying eye nor lonely soul could spot them, Chels began to put her hands around the man who she had been friends with for so long. “Come with me. We’re going to go out to the diner. You know you can’t resist.” She reached for his shoulders from behind, grabbing firmly, as if to intend not to let go until the answer she wanted came out.

In a sense, how could Tommy resist? His love life had been one sad story after another – short hair made the preppies go nuts, long hair got the surfer chicks, blonde all over got, well, the guys more than anything – but now he had to make a statement for himself. “Well, Chelsey, I have to tell you something really special. I…want to be everything to someone.”

Chels laughed, as if she knew that’s exactly what she wanted. “Come with us. By the way…” she winked and grabbed him ever closer, like a teddy bear – “bring your camera. MySpace needs a little renovation. You know, a quikee fixer-upper, huh?” She then gave a quick peck on the cheek.

Without another word, Tommy smiled and off to the diner they were.

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