More Than All the Derelict Cars

Somewhere in Grow-A-Mustache-Land

Paige played drums.

We were supposedly in love. (We didn't know what that meant -- we were 8.)

So we did what all eight-year-olds did. We started a band.

Paige would play drums, of course.

Danny would play bass. (I'm not sure why.)

I'd play guitar. Electric guitar.

There was someone else, but I don't remember who it was. (We were 8.) Or what they played. If anything.

Now, Danny didn't know how to play bass. Or even what a bass was.

And I certainly couldn't play the guitar. (Did I mention we were 8?) Even if I could play guitar, my parents never would've gotten me an electric guitar -- they barely let me turn lights on and off and would've convinced themselves I'd electrocute myself when I plugged in the amp.

But we had a name. It was a stupid name -- a pun on the name of the town we were from.

And we had a logo. Danny drew it and it looked really cool. (Well, cool for when you're 8, anyway.)

Paige wanted to paint the logo on her bass drum. But her Mom wouldn't let her.

She thought we should learn songs first. Or at least get instruments.

Her Mom was officially no fun.

More importantly, we were 8.

And who knew at age 8 where the hell you even go to get an electric guitar.



The band broke up the next year. Over artistic differences. (Paige decided she wasn't in love with me anymore. She was in love with Danny. Danny was in love with playing baseball.)

If only we'd stayed together, we would've been huge.

If we had instruments. And learned to play them. And were any good.

Huge. (Or whatever the 8-year-old equivalent is.)