Where is Kristin?
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My shell was officially hacked into when I sat down at a Blockbuster Music at age 14 and listened to Yoko Ono's "Plastic Ono Band." That opened my mind more than drugs. It opened me to the possibility of the other. I love that woman more than words for that. I open this next beer and dedicate it to her. To Yoko, I say! TO YOKO.However, I needed someone else to help pry open the eggshell of privilege. I was sitting there. I was an embryo. I needed to be leaked out into the filthy, filthy world. Who helped with that? Kristin. We initially bonded in our high school cafeteria over Culture Club B-sides. Mind you, this was in 2000. How many kids bond over Culture Club B-sides in the 21st century? You tell me, motherfucker! NO ONE. ZIP DIDDLY SQUAT PISS POO RASPBERRY NO ONE. Kristin opened my eyes to Soft Cell. John Waters. We once watched "Pink Flamingos" with a vegetarian to get her to stop hanging out with us. I had no interest in college. All I wanted to do was watch MTV2 with her in her mother's boyfriend's basement at 2:00 a.m., order pizzas and prank call the Wall Street Journal. The kind of friends you make by calling 1-800 numbers at dawn are staggering folk, I tell you. "Will the Turbie Twist work with my weave?!" The mind fucking boggles. We became twins. We'd ride home from high school in my Mercedes blasting 2 Live Crew with the windows down in a school zone. OUT OF CONTROL. Those kids at the Christian Academy wanted to put it in the buck, and they had no idea what it even was. We sprayed the word "PENIS" on the front porch in whipped cream and never washed it off. It stained the concrete. When her mother's boyfriend sold the house, rumor has it he had to take the price of the house down to cover removal of the porch. Can you believe that? PENIS. I remember wrapping myself in a gingham tablecloth and lip-synching to Marilyn records on her driveway. She was a Boy George girl, and I was more into Pete Burns. We spent all of the money we earned at our part-time jobs on records. I can remember the time I chased her cat around the basement to "Say Hello, Wave Goodbye" and watched it spray diarrhea everywhere. We used to dress in outlandish thrift store clothes and drive around conservative areas of town blasting the Marc Almond's "Slut." We once simulated anal sex on a girl's front lawn and woke up her neighbors. We were invincible. Then I went to college and she moved to Amishville, Pennsylvania as part of a divorce settlement. We lost touch. I think about her a lot. She truly changed me. I AM DRUNK. WHERE IS KRISTIN?Before I graduated, I used to promise I'd come back for her graduation and sing "Mistake No. 3" by Culture Club in a wedding dress with gremlin fingers like Boy George in the video. We'd listen to bootleg remixes of the song I downloaded on Napster on the way home. I used to say "Baby, you'll find me perched atop a giant wedding cake when you grab that diploma. You will be JUST LIKE NAOMI CAMPBELL. OH MY LORRRRRRD."This one's for Kristin. Leave a comment if you care to remember someone who has influenced you and is no longer in your grill. THIS ONE'S FOR YOU, BABY.I am drunk.
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