What's up your poop shoot? Epoxies? Ouch.
By: Chica Lishis
Aw geez. I pulled out my bag of tricks the other day, and I found nothing in it! No flash, no trash, no bedazzle, no bamboozle, no slam-bam-thank-you-Chica in sight. I searched every fold, rummaged through the lint balls huddling in the corners, turned the damn thing inside out; nothing. I was adrift. Without a bag of tricks, there is no Chica, no glam-damaged powder puff to contend with. There's nothing to do but concede defeat and give way to normalcy. I contemplated giving up drinking. I considered quitting smoking. I figured maybe it was all over for me and I should just start cranking out babies and throw in the towel on depravity and excitement and a life of high-decadence coupled with low-bank accounts. In a fit of despair, I put on a pair of stretch pants, searched the want ads for a bank job, and thought about buying a mini-van. What happened? Where did Tricks go? An aura of blue settled around my diminutive shoulders as I shuffled here and there through my days. This is when a chica needs a super hero.
A few nights later, I found five.
The evening started routinely enough. Luscious Lizzie, sensing I needed a good time, had me out at Berbati's, chatting, drinking, laughing, slinking'
'around the club, eyes a-go-go with our bahdunka dunks flashing fast and furious in our wake. But I had lost that loving feeling for my customary habits of corruption, and while going through the motions, I was ruefully wishing for my couch, my clicker, and a bottle of cheap vodka back at headquarters where a gal could be ensconced in flannel and no one would be the wiser. Luscious had a boy buzzing round her haunches so I took off for the bathroom in an effort to slap out of it and get on with my evening. I didn't succeed, but still, when I glanced in the mirror I looked fantastic so I headed back to my gal pal instead of the briefly flirted with option of drowning myself in one of the toilets. Kay sara, kay sara, as my friend Kay Sara would say. Luscious and I ditched our barstools and moved into the main room to check out the bands.
Berbati's had filled up with expectant attendees all looking expectantly towards a stage bereft of a band, but brimming with sound men expecting an onslaught. I'd seen it before. The pre-show hype didn't affect me. With drinks gripped firmly in our bejeweled hands, Luscious and I moved towards the front for maximum panoramic viewing; me, ready to scoff, she, ready to rock. Suddenly, a white light seared through my red-rimmed retinas, and out of nowhere (except, possibly the back room where they were holed up), my superheroes materialized on stage.
The Epoxies don't look like regular superheroes. They've got no capes, I didn't see them spin webs or wrestle sharks, or kick some Ninja warrior's ass with a blue ball of flame (although, any or all of those things would have been acceptable). They're not humongous like superheroes, just normal-people sized. They do jump around a lot, but not enough to clear a tall building in a single bound. No, the Epoxies magical powers come from the playing of super super ultra ?ber pop; Devo style keyboards with fuzzy guitars jamming in and slamming around wherever possible, boom-boom-a-zoom! drums and a siren's wail driving you to the jagged edges of the stage in a desperate attempt to slam yourself against the rock. They are sublime. From the moment they appeared out of the darkness, I perked up. The first note rushed forward and smashed into our ears giving me goose bumps. Pumping the room with fake fog, they slashed through the stage lights and tore into the set with unhinged abandonment. They were sexy, they were loud, they were raucous, they were tight, they knew their shit and they played the shit out of it.
THIS is what I had been missing of late.
Luscious and I bathed in the waves of frenzy coming off the stage and breaking out into the audience. I took in huge gulps of stage smoke, filling my lungs with its intoxicating toxins, guzzled my beers, toked down my smokes. My innards were burning but what was left of my wits was finally at peace. No more would I think of healthy living, no longer would I plan for the future; I want to live fast, die never, and be forever Chica.
Thanks to the heroics of the Epoxies, my faith in debauchery was restored. I went home that night, swigged down a whole month's worth of birth control, wrapped every boa I own around my body, and played "Dance Party For One -- Your Table's Right This Way, Miss Lishis," (my favorite alone-time game) in my room. Dancing and twirling and sucking off a beer I didn't need, I never once sat on the couch until the sun came up.
Uppers not curing your downer? Mine neither. Pity party starts here: [email protected]