It's not easy to get respect as a rocker, especially when no one seems to believe that you really are one. Like most artists who are ahead of their time, my friend Isabelle and I have faced a constant string of disbelievers. Despite a decent repertoire of bangin' music ranging from classic rock to heavy metal (Skynard to Springstein; Motley Crue to Marilyn Manson; Bon Jovi to Buckcherry), an excessive supply (if not use) of black eye-liner, and a pretty decent wardrobe of rocker Tees, we haven't encountered much respect. This is despite the fact that we not only had floor seats to Motley Crue, but wore black AND were offered an elicit substance by a short, scruffy man with the giggles seated next to us. No two posers from suburbia could have pulled that off! But our rebel yell was stifled most poignantly during a dinner party at my house (it was between the salad course and the roast) when quite an explicit song came on the iPod playlist. Isabelle and I took this opportunity to assert that we are, indeed, pretty serious rockers. Without a moment's thought Mathieu responded with, "You're not a rocker. You live in suburbia. You work from 9 until 5 and then you come home, have a snack and take a nap." *sigh* Maybe being misunderstood is just part of the game when you're livin' on the edge. Or perhaps there is a slight chance that we aren't authentic rockers, and that it's just another one of a lifetime of exaggerations on my part. Either way, Isabelle brought down the townhouse in Orleans by welcoming her 30th year with a rocker-themed bash. For one night at least we lived the dream, unquestioned. Rock on Zibi!!! We know the truth!
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Orleans Rock City
It's not easy to get respect as a rocker, especially when no one seems to believe that you really are one. Like most artists who are ahead of their time, my friend Isabelle and I have faced a constant string of disbelievers. Despite a decent repertoire of bangin' music ranging from classic rock to heavy metal (Skynard to Springstein; Motley Crue to Marilyn Manson; Bon Jovi to Buckcherry), an excessive supply (if not use) of black eye-liner, and a pretty decent wardrobe of rocker Tees, we haven't encountered much respect. This is despite the fact that we not only had floor seats to Motley Crue, but wore black AND were offered an elicit substance by a short, scruffy man with the giggles seated next to us. No two posers from suburbia could have pulled that off! But our rebel yell was stifled most poignantly during a dinner party at my house (it was between the salad course and the roast) when quite an explicit song came on the iPod playlist. Isabelle and I took this opportunity to assert that we are, indeed, pretty serious rockers. Without a moment's thought Mathieu responded with, "You're not a rocker. You live in suburbia. You work from 9 until 5 and then you come home, have a snack and take a nap." *sigh* Maybe being misunderstood is just part of the game when you're livin' on the edge. Or perhaps there is a slight chance that we aren't authentic rockers, and that it's just another one of a lifetime of exaggerations on my part. Either way, Isabelle brought down the townhouse in Orleans by welcoming her 30th year with a rocker-themed bash. For one night at least we lived the dream, unquestioned. Rock on Zibi!!! We know the truth!
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2 comments:
rockers not do new country....pick yer poison - rebel yell or yodel..ya can't do both!
ya, ya "trapper"
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