Zombie, Illinois (3 page)

A gambling addiction is also easy to cover up. In my neighborhood, you don't need a reason to be broke this week.

(“Amen” goes there, my brothers and sisters. “Amen”
defi-nitely
goes there . . . . )

And so we pull away from the cluster of casinos and head just a little deeper into the Hoosier state. As we near the end of our tour—I'm now pulling my preacher car into one of the back-row spaces in a parking lot in Merrillville, Indiana—I have a confession to make. This drive was not for you. This drive was for me.

Like the members of my congregation, I am in the habit— now and then—of driving south in search of solace.

Like the members of my congregation, I have a vice. Something I must keep secret.

Come with me, then. But only a few steps farther.

I'll exit my car—along with the other, mostly middle-aged men—and walk with them into the Merrillville Hotel and Amphitheatre. The evening's festivities are about to begin.

They are my solace.

And they are my shame.

God help me.

Excuse me a moment . . . I'm trying not to cry.

Sometimes I just want something to come along and change my life, you know? Wipe it all away. This, me, my hypocrisy. The south side of Chicago. Everything.

But the pull is too strong. At least tonight. I know what I'm going to do. I am already seduced. I walk inside.

“Hey Mack, nice to see you” says a man named David. (I sometimes see him at these things. He's a dentist in a suburb called Orland Park.) “Can I get you a beer?”

“Absolutely,” I say, though I'm not much of a drinker.

And then the smell of the place washes over me. And memories it conjures flood back. And I am
there;
in that temporary place that is so wonderful and so awful at the same time. I am in that fire that will burn out and leave me covered in ashes, but the heat feels wonderful all through my body, and that's all that matters right now.

I am the old lady from the second pew, letting her Social Security check ride on black. I am the twitchy kid in the back of the church who can't wait for Pastor Mack's stupid, boring sermon to be over so he can go get high with his friends in the brownfields. I am the prostitute's customer 2,000 years ago in the Holy Land who only wants an evening of cinnamon-scented sex away from his troubles.

And in this instant, ladies and gentlemen,
I do not care.

In this instant, I have solace.

(And I think—just maybe—”Amen” goes
there
too.)

My name is Maria Gonzales Ramirez, and I want to fuck Stewart Copeland.

That's the one really defining, overriding thing to know about me.

There are other things, too, I guess . . . I mean, I'm 24. I'm from a neighborhood on the northwest side of Chicago called Logan Square. I live with my mother and younger sister. (I take care of them both, and they are the most outstanding ladies in my life.) And, oh yeah, I drum in an all-girl rock band called Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata, which is
the best band in Chicago.

But enough about me.

Stewart Copeland is a beautiful man. What? A man can be beautiful, and Stewart definitely is. He is beautiful in so many ways. He is my fixation, my fantasy, my obsession.

It's not just that he's the most important New Wave drummer of all time. His work with the Police should have been enough to solidify that. But there's also Oysterhead, Animal Logic, Curved Air, and then all of the films he's scored. I mean, the man's a musical genius. But he is also a gorgeous,
gorgeous
son of a bitch. And I don't mean “Stewart Copeland back in 1987” or some bullshit like that. (Though I
do
have that poster on my wall, and he
does
look damn fine.) I mean Stewart Copeland now. Sixty-something Stewart Copeland still looks
fucking hot.
Better than hot, actually, with his short gray hair and those glasses with the thick dark frames . . .

Oh Jesus God, do I ever want to fuck Stewart Copeland.

I want his skinny ass between my legs. I want his calloused drummer's hands interlaced with my calloused drummer's hands. I want to suck in his breath as I lie underneath him and fuck him.

Or he fucks me. I mean, Stewart can do anything he wants.

Anything.

He can fuck my tits. (I'm told I have nice tits.) He can come in my mouth. He can fuck my ass, if that's what he's into. Could I be any more clear?

I. Would. Do. Anything. For. Stewart. Copeland.

See, drummers are a brotherhood. (It's a brotherhood that's 15 percent chicks, but a brotherhood nonetheless.) And I am— damn-straight—a brother. I can't explain how or why we drummers feel connected as we do . . . but we do. We look physically different. We play different styles of music. We even play different-l ooking drums and drum sets. What do we really have in common? Hitting things with sticks (or sometimes just our hands). Lugging heavy drums up and down stairs and in and out of cars, when the other musicians have long-since packed up and driven off. Being the butt of jokes from guitar players. (“What do you call someone who hangs around with musicians all day? A drummer.”)

And yet, there's this bond. I don't know what it is—or why it is—but it's
real.
And sometimes it's magical.

I can bump into a drummer I've never met before—and with whom I have nothing else in common—and within five minutes we are talking shop like old friends. It's a bond that I don't think other musicians have. (Do clarinet players get together and bond over reeds? I seriously doubt that.)

But I don't want to fuck my brothers in this brotherhood— that would be incestuous, right?—I only want to fuck Stewart Copeland.

Anyhow, my drumming is important to the story. It has to do with the zombies.

Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata rocks harder than any other band in this city. Put us up against anybody—I mean
anybody—
and we'll take ‘em down. (I love it when we're the opening act. There's no greater pleasure than knowing you are going to destroy the band that has to play after you. Nobody wants to play after SBVD, I'll tell you
that
for sure.)

Grizzled Chicago bluesmen? They look boring and about to die compared to Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata. Twee, underfed indie rockers? They ride their fixies back to their trust funds when they have to follow us. Wilco? Okay . . . someone has needed to say this for a long time: Fuck Wilco. (Guess what? Lots of Chicagoans don't like Wilco. There are waaaaay more of us than the local media would have you believe. This stupid town likes to assign musical standard-bearers for every era—probably because music reporters are lazy. It was Smashing Pumpkins in the 90s, and Wilco for the ‘00s. [And it's going to be SBRK for the teens. Just you fucking wait.] But being
told
that Wilco is the best band in Chicago by fat, old music critics doesn't
make
Wilco the best band in Chicago. It certainly doesn't make listening to them any less boring.)

Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata plays all the best venues in the city, and our shows are fun as hell. You know ahead of time, if you're going to an SBVD show, that it's gonna be crazy. Stage antics, smashing guitars, sexy outfits—we do it all. All that shit.

But you gotta create scarcity. That's what Richelle—our bassist, who has a business degree—calls it. “Creating scarcity.” Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata can pack a venue like the Metro or the Double Door, but only once a month. The other three weekends we might play Milwaukee, Indianapolis, or some meathead sports bar out in the suburbs (where redneck guys just want to ogle at our asses, but whatever). But that's still only four shows a month. Is that enough rock for a girl in her prime? Hell fucking no.

Which is why, on weekdays, the members of Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata become The Kitty Kats from Heaven, Chicago's premier all-girl cover band, available for weddings, private parties, and corporate events. (Corporate events might be the most fun because we wear these little pinstripe suit jackets and kitty ears. They fucking rule.)

Some musicians in the local scene call this prostitution. Maybe so, but it's at least high-end prostitution. A good cover band can make well into the four figures for a gig in Chicago. (And we
are
a good cover band, and we
are
in Chicago.) We'll play a rich girl's sweet sixteen up in Wilmette, a company picnic out at McDonald's' headquarters, and a neighborhood street festival, all in the same week.

The Kitty Kats from Heaven see a whole other version of the city . . . a boring one.

Jesus fucking Christ. I mean, is this what people really want—a thrashy version of “Brown Eyed Girl?” Watered-down Green Day? “Play that Funky Music White Boy” but with “Boy” changed to “girl?” Apparently so, because they're willing to pay us thousands of dollars for it.

Is that depressing? No. Because fuck these people. If idiots want to throw money at the Kitty Kats from Heaven, we can turn around and use it to fund a kickass punk band called Strawberry Brite Vagina Dentata.

What else? What else?

I should take care to mention the other girls. Sarah plays guitar and sings lead. Richelle plays bass and sings backup. Danna plays guitar and sometimes keyboards.

We met through an audition posting a couple of years ago, and now we're like sisters. These chicks can have a kidney, as far as I'm concerned. I would do anything for them. And we're all kickass Chicago girls. We're from different neighborhoods and backgrounds, but we all agree that Chicago is the greatest city in the world in which to rock.

East Coast? West Coast? Fuck that noise. How about no coast?! That's where you go to rock. Right fucking here. City by the lake, like Billy Corgan says.

When I'm playing with my band, I feel like I'm ready to conquer the world. I feel like I'm ready for anything. My girls and I are soldiers, and we're ready for a fight.

So now...

Let me try to step back and set the scene for you.

It's in downtown Chicago.

It's with my band.

It's on a dark and snowy night . . . .

On the evening when it starts, I'm downtown at the trendy new venue on the penthouse level of the Trump Tower. I don't want to be there.

It's the kind of place that, in Vegas or New York, they'd charge you a cover just to walk in. It has an incredible view, funky décor, and an expensive sound system playing the kind of lounge music that lets you know that drinks are going to be $14 a pop. But it's Chicago—not Vegas or New York—and it's a fundraiser for a bicyclists' lobbying group, so the vibe is laid back, and they let reporters in for free.

The venue has a little stage. A band composed exclusively of good-looking young women has just finished setting up their gear. There will be raffles for bicycle equipment, tedious speeches from local politicians (the reason I am here), a musical performance, and free hors d'oeuvres. (Though not—I note with some regret—complimentary cocktails.)

I wade into the crowd, shaking a few hands and nodding across the room to my counterparts from the
Tribune
and the
Sun-Times.
My stomach rumbles. I corner a waiter and steal a handful of chicken meatballs in cream sauce on frilly toothpicks, and then retire to a table at the back and plug in my laptop.

It's already been a long day. I just want to take notes on a few speeches, file, hop on the El train, and go home. It is snowing a little, and there's more in the forecast. I want to beat it if I can. Also, the more I think about how there is no alcohol at this event the more I think getting some beers on the way home sounds good. And maybe a pizza.

Soon enough, the trendy lounge music is turned down, and we are underway.

Whoopee.

My fingers poise above my keyboard, but I have all the disinterest (and probably the empty stare) of a court reporter who has heard it all before and will hear it all again.

The first speaker is a thin, awkward man with a beard—he's the president of the bicyclists' lobbying group. He speaks about creating a climate of bicycle courtesy on the roads and the need for wider bike lanes. He drives home his point by telling a story about the time he broke his collarbone in a bike collision. He is not a good speaker, but at least his story is interesting.

The local politicians queuing up to go after him are what I'm really dreading—and what a couple of cocktails would considerably improve. None of them knows much about bicycling. They are here for political reasons and will hit all the predictable talking points. I can see it all happening in my mind before it actually does. Blah blah blah public transportation. Blah blah blah reducing carbon emissions. Blah blah blah the i mportance of promoting active lifestyles. Blah blah blah in conclusion, Chicago is a green city.

God. I. Need. A. Drink.

But no. The stars have not aligned.yet.(The liquor store in my neighborhood is called Vas Foremost. It has a high, pleasing smell when you walk inside, like Pine Sol and fruit juice. The kids in the neighborhood call the place “Vas Deferens,” which I secretly think is clever. As the 23rd Ward Alderman takes the podium and begins to drone on about working with the police to reduce bike thefts in her ward, I begin to picture the cooler at the back of Vas Deferens—the one where they stock the giant Belgian beers. I mentally look them over and consider which one I might select for tonight. Hello ladies. How
do
you do?)

Maybe, if I write really fast, I can turn something in and leave before this shit has concluded. If I'm lucky, I can probably beat the worst of the snow. (My colleagues will likely be none the wiser, and it's a risk I'm willing to take tonight.) Then home. And pizza. And beer.

I look outside. The white stuff is still coming down, harder than before, which means crowded, snowy, wet trains that take longer to get you anywhere. Blech.