Supplemental * (Edit)

*I wrote an entry yesterday about music in the 1990s. If you you haven’t read it yet, you probably need to go back one so you know where this is coming from. 🙂

Picture this:

It’s the summer of 1983 and your humble narrator is sixteen with a fresh worker’s permit, shoving meat patties into the broiler of his local Burger King. He’s too awkward and shy to work up front on the registers, so they stick him out in back, paring him with a guy named Kevin whose IQ seems to only hit the double digits if that. It’s a dirty, disgusting, and frustrating job, but it gives him enough money for the summer to splurge on arcade games and Joan Jett records. Plus he’s able to feed his extremely high metabolism by having his high school pals fill Whopper boxes full of meat patties when the bosses aren’t looking. As jobs went, it was okay.

In front of him, at the specialty sandwich station, is a girl only ever referred to as “Punk”. She’s short, but the Doc Martens she’s sporting in true combat boot style add a couple of inches to her height. She has dirty blond hair that’s cropped in a fashion that’s just shy of being butch. With a little gel, it sticks up haphazardly and reveals the graceful slope of her supple neck, which sports a chain of small ball bearings.

When she’s not on the clock and in the ugly brown Burger King uniform, she’s usually decked out in a gray Rolling Stones t-shirt with the tongue and lips stretching nicely over her firm breasts. Tight, faded jeans smooth over her buttocks and legs like she was poured into them just as she entered her teen years. Her face is free of acne and makeup. It is pure, and with the exception of the wild haircut, she is the embodiment of the girl next door.

She is also the first truly punk rock chick your narrator has ever seen and from his vantage point at the broiler, her ass would become the one in which all other asses would be judged by.

She’s also, according to your humble narrator, untouchable and super cool. So cool he literally stutters in her presence.

One day, a kooky guy named Steve would catch your narrator staring at her as if she were some lost treasure.

“Man, you really like Punk, don’t you?”

A simple nod was all your narrator could manage in the way of acknowledgment at the time as he fed another frozen meat patty down the chute.

Weeks went by before your narrator managed to say anything to the girl with the whacked-off hair. And when it finally happened, it was sudden. There had been some discussion about Joan Jett’s cover version of the Stone’s raunchy tune, “Star, Star.” Somebody asked what album it originally came off and your narrator couldn’t answer the question. It was Punk who came to his emotional rescue.

“Goat’s Head Soup. It’s off of Goat’s Head Soup,” she said as she wrapped another chicken sandwich in paper, shoved it in a cardboard box, and slid it under the heat lamps.

From that moment on, your narrator and his first punk rock chick were bonded through music. They talked about blues, rockabilly, and punk. Their relationship was based on Joe Strummer riffs and Johnny Rotten cynicism. And when the summer was over and your narrator had to return to high school, the relationship was over. He never even got to know her real name.

Over the years, your narrator has though fondly of the chick every time he hears the early sleaze of the Rolling Stones. He often puts on GOAT’S HEAD SOUP and regrets not knowing more about her. But he always marvels at how music brought them together and enabled them to have a meaningful dialog based on something other than the typical teenage horniness. For some reason, that’s important to him, although he wouldn’t have minded sticking his hands down her pants, that’s for sure.

So, in her honor, your narrator would like to offer up the lyrics to “Star, Star”. They’re pretty suggestive, but somehow he doesn’t think the punk chick would mind. If anything, he’s convinced she’d be flattered after all these years…

~~~

“Star, Star”
written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards

~

Baby, baby, I’ve been so sad since you’ve been gone
way back to New York City
where you do belong
Honey, I missed your two tone kisses,
legs wrapped around me tight
If I ever get back to Fun City, girl,
I’m gonna make you scream all night.

Honey, honey, call me on the telephone,
I know you’re movin’ out to Hollywood
with your can of tasty foam
All those beat up friends of mine
got to get you in their gloves
And lead guitars and movie stars
get in the tub and get your hood.

Yeah! You’re a star fucker, star fucker, star fucker, star fucker, star
yeah, a star fucker, star fucker, star fucker, star fucker, star,
a star fucker, star fucker, star fucker, star fucker star.

Yeah, I heard about you Polaroids,
now that’s what I call obscene,
your tricks with fruit was kinda cute,
I bet you keep your pussy clean.
Honey, I miss your two tone kisses,
legs wrapped around me tight.
If I ever get back to New York, girl,
gonna make you scream all night.

Yeah! You’re a star fucker, star fucker, star fucker, star fucker, star
yeah, a star fucker, star fucker, star fucker, star fucker, star,
a star fucker, star fucker, star fucker, star fucker star.

Yeah, Ali McGraw got mad with you
for givin’ head to Steve McQueen,
yeah, you and me we made a pretty pair,
ballin’ through the Silver Screen.
Honey, I’m open to anything
I don’t know where to draw the line.
Yeah, I’m makin’ bets that you don’t get
John Wayne before he dies.

Yeah! You’re a star fucker, star fucker, star fucker, star fucker, star
yeah, a star fucker, star fucker, star fucker, star fucker, star,
a star fucker, star fucker, star fucker, star fucker star.