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It's in your DNA, so tell them that you came with the band.

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Jul. 16th, 2014 | 11:19 pm
mood: indescribableindescribable
music: Luv XXX - Aerosmith

I took my first spin behind the wheel of a friend's car perhaps three years ago in the Wantagh, New York parking lot of Jones Beach amphitheater--a 8200-seat stadium jutting out over the bay. I looked upon it as a christened child, a place of untold secret love, the warmth in my chest radiating. I'd seen Aerosmith perform as though the world were ending that very night four times over the course of my budding girlhood (and once more at the nearby Nassau Coliseum), and I knew for certain that the number would never peak and die off; I would dance through those weather-beaten doors again...

...and I did, see, just last week, heart brimming (and eyes, too). For the first time since my very first well-begged-for concert ticket--puberty vastly enveloping me at the time--my brother stood beside me, filling the shoes my mother had always fabulously sported. My apprehension dropped with the weight of a ton of bricks as we slipped through security's rabid fingers, acquired flashy tour memorabilia, stole to our morbidly expensive orchestra seats. I do apologize, Slash, for my short attention span, but I knew what flitted about in fierce anticipation behind those salt-kissed stage curtains and I could not arrest my knee from shaking if my life had depended upon it. Thankfully the piercing, climactic opening riff of "Sweet Child o' Mine" was enough to temporarily quell the heightened dizzy spells in me, and my brother and I sang over the top of them as though we, ourselves, had written the damn notes. Standing next to him, my beach-blown hair woven hellaciously around his neck, you might inquire as to our picture-perfect relationship, wonder how it is that we might ever be apart, not glimpse the haunted past of thrown fists, blue lights awash on the living room walls, tear-encrusted tissues littered in a hospital hallway. Who are these two lone-hearts, their crinkled eyes oozing the most profound admiration, their lungs on fire?

I knew more precisely what to expect from this god-child-with-five-fathers than perhaps every manager they might have initiated in all 44 years of their musically-driven livelihoods. With every breath, every syllable, every half-a-tick's nuance embedded in the DNA of my soul it is no wonder that it practically skirts my excitement as routine. But as soon as those rotating orbs shy down to black and the curtain lifts and the first drop of Tom Hamilton's bass reverberates on the hungry lap of the waves it is as though my innards, possessed by the long-nailed hand of Satan, burst from my resounding chest, blood and guts galore, and run screaming for the stage. It matters not that a short distance bars me from the outreached arm of rock-n'-roll's most critically acclaimed devil-god, the vibrant scarves on his traveling mic stand the snakes in the Garden of Eden; I perk to his every perpetuated gasp, every drop of sweat urged by gravity's absolution, every perfect excuse to close feverish eyes and summon the image of a song's birth, its humble beginnings, their tangible personalities. Every song is unmistakably for me, the encore a gallant sneak-peek to next time; there's always a next time. And next time will be mine, too.

And nothing belonged more fervently to me than the fifteen seconds I robbed, sucked desperately from straining, life-bursting seams of Steven Tyler's most valiant attempt at an exit. Here, now: A tour bus pulling away, lights raining down on a primed, shirtless figure erected in the windshield. "Aerosmith is on that bus!" projects a tight throat, soaked in passionate excitement. It is Joe Perry, the lead guitarist, chest a-gleam under the canopy lights. "Hah!" goes my slightly narcissistic thought-base--"Aerosmith travels in five separate directions," I knew, because I'd read (and reread) each and every autobiography more times over than there are stars in the night sky. No sooner had I licked delicately secretive lips than a further urgent emission assaulted my pricked ears--"stand back, stand back!" I felt my brother falter. Coasting our way were the glistening rims of a jet-black SUV, the front windows rolled down, security's arms flexing frantically beside the steering wheel--and out the opposite window, well, what...? Black-streaked nails and shiny silver rings. How dare they seek the Long Island air not yet soiled by my rampant head and heart. I don't even remember the split-second dive into the face of oncoming traffic--nor do I care, honestly--or the way my brother's voice caught in his throat (much like mine, I imagine, when we pried him out of the steel-folded damage oncoming traffic and an altered mind had dealt him). I don't remember, God help me, the love-starved utterances I must have spewed in his angelic face: "Oh, my God, Steven Tyler, I love you?" Or was it a little less star-struck? If I dig deep enough to fiercely remember I fear losing the glint of the streetlights on a front-toothed side-smile, picture-perfect, and the distinct warmth of his breath on my cheekbones, the ripe scent of two hours' worth of an unmatched stage presence finding me like a whipping breeze beneath my nose, famed fingers framing the heat in my face as he bent toward me, sweat-infused bangs licking my drum-beaten temples and, oh, God, the distinct rasp of the voice I've known intimately since my teenage speakers first offered it graciously, unrelentingly, mercilessly--"Oh, I love you, too, baby"--and the mutually rushed graze of sloppy lips, together as one for a blink of the universe's forever-rolling eye-- Dear God, did I just kiss Steven Tyler?! But only the pavement beneath my suddenly crashing knees and overflowing, divinely stricken eyes could attest to the romantic truth of so many of my girlhood, hero-humbled dreams. I kissed Steven Tyler. I KISSED him.

There is a minuscule part of me that wonders avidly what next time--and there will be a next time--might advertise as a means of topping what my heart, still, cannot seem to accurately fathom. What on earth (or perhaps further, still) might hallowed hands and golden lips cup, then?

They say that every face in the mind's eye of your dreams is a face that you have witnessed in person (somewhere, anywhere), that the very immaculate details imprinted on unaware eyes are borne of the things that actually exist and breathe the same real-time air that you do. I wonder if, when Steven Tyler closes unaware eyes, he sees the tear-streaked face of a girl explosively blindsided by what only an imaginative dream can procure, the fastidiously strewn atoms of living and dying and the reason she does one and not the other, the earth-shattering hallows of thanks and awe and life-changing inspiration-- "true love's" kiss, somewhere. Anywhere. I kissed Steven Tyler!

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I kissed Steven Tyler!

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Comments {2}

Miss Cat If You're Nasty

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from: sofisticat
date: Jul. 17th, 2014 09:57 pm (UTC)
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Now that's a band I really want to see in concert.

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Dani

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from: koyaaniisqatsi
date: Jul. 21st, 2014 03:34 pm (UTC)
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I love the way you wrote this. I felt like I was experiencing it all with you!

SO THIS MEANS YOUR LIPS ARE HOLY NOW.

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