once the sun sets, like clockwork, joey awakens. not the joey kiss described prior, but the joey kiss that is written about in tabloids cross-country. the dopey, long-limmed greaser goofball with one-liners for days and some kind of upper stashed in his motorcycle jacket. he grins and nudges her, "oh, doll, don't you know that you'll always be the fanzine girl, writing stories about her favorite bands and articles about your revered single adventures? you know, when you carried around all your knick-knacks and dollies and didn't know up from down? you're always gonna be that girl." for a second, her face goes blank and she isn't the nearly 30 (no numbers here, people) woman, mother of one; but the 20-something young riot grrrl, adorned in a babydoll dress and some knee-high stockings, preaching about this notion of a social revolution via her homemade fan art.
"i used to xerox feminist statements and put them all over cars and in libraries and grocery stores. just things like : LET NO MAN HOLD YOU UNDER, SISTER! or WHAT'S MORE CUTERUS THAN A UTERUS? NOT U! or, you know, a picture of gloria steinem to keep the kids in tune with their own history - i remember also copying textbook images of a woman's reproductive system and pasting them onto a globe. like, dig it, the human body is like middle earth and you need a guide, especially if you're a woman! so all over that globe, i wrote DON'T TREAD ON ME! that one got me the cover of the local newspaper." kathleen says this, of course, as nonchalantly as someone her age would discuss their past as captain of the cheerleading squad.
"my favorite," joey, joining in on the reminiscing trip to the corner of doll avenue and memory lane, says, "i remember a sign from a sit-in that i came to see you at. it was on a pastel pink construction paper with glitter, and you had spray-painted : EVE DIDN'T COME FROM ADAM'S RIB. i remember you burned your bra and a copy of the bible. then, when all the protests were over, you went on tour with several bands and, over the phone, transcribed her diary to the hep parade offices once a week. it was the first piece i can think of in a rock magazine from a woman's perspective. everyone ate it up. they loved her - still do." he continues, "we first met on a music video shoot for an artist i used to produce and i fell in love with her. she was the coolest girl i had ever met. i was...maybe 17? 18? that was a long time ago. i just remember, after class, she would ditch jimmy and his buddies to make my coffee at the local coffee shop and then come to the studio to write and create fanzines by night. i knew she had a crush on me too - i just knew it - but we were so young and dumb."
kathleen stops him with a loud laugh and exclaims, "now we're just dumb!" she gets up to kiss him on the forehead, comfortingly, and then goes on, "like i cared about making your coffee, pal! it was just a job - coffee's got a job, kat's got a job, joey's got a job..." she trails off.
and with the mention of jobs, the pink elephant in the room grew from a calf to a cow. a long, silent, almost worrysome pause led to the change in topic : the lost boys' latest single - with joey kiss as producer and sometimes guitarist - is titled "touch me, i'm prick"; and has been the most controversial unreleased single to be released within the tri-cities (arcadia, the isle of grimaldi and cielo) as of yet. never was there a song so bad before, and never will there be again. joey, who has refused to speak formally with reporters, has understandably remained tight-lipped on the subject. until now.
"let's be clear : it's an anti - i'll say that again - anti-rape song, okay?"
he sighs, then continues, "i'm so tired of having to explain my lyrics to every tom, dick and harry rock journalist who darkens my doorstep." at this point, you can see the frustrated, misrepresented celebrity he has risen to. a father, a heroin addict, a punk, a businessman, a spokesman for his generation; but a man nonetheless. the pedestal on which he has been placed upon is crumbling, with a foundation built on the entire apathy of a generation, that aren't standing on the most solid of footing themselves.
"this is fame, baby," she says to him, jokingly, "i mean, get it? that's why i had jimmy kiss in my music video...my next single will be called 'god is god - i am me.' me, get it? the doll - everyone's favorite. not the girl that's in the magazines and in the paper - that's not me. that's my shadow."
she pulls out her guitar at this point and begins to strum the vaseline's 'molly's lips.' she stops and says, "you know, the other night at the riot house, i began to play this and people were going absolutely insane. like i was fucking stevie ray vaughn or something." she plays the chords over again and says, "this song has two notes!"
kathleen sets the guitar down and slyly glances over at joey, then the clock on the mantlepiece nearby, and then back at joey. for even added affect, she frowns and looks at her wristwatch. "oh, my!" she exclaims unconvincingly, "joey kiss! it's almost 6:30 in the morning!!" without mustering even the slightest of fake yawns, she seems moreso upset that joey let it get so late without making her aware.
"yeah, so what?" he says, not picking up that it's time for everyone who's name is not joey kiss to clear out, which also includes (but is not limited to) sodapop, ludo, headlock, whatever various lost boys are still breathing and drunkenly draped over large pieces of art, et al.
"that's it," she says, throwing up her hands. she looks around the room, foreshadowing a nefarious act of doll disobedience and general brattiness, and removes her top - exposing, to no one's surprise, nothing underneath. without hesitance, she proceeds to slowly creep in the direction of her bedroom, but, the whole time, she's making sure joey is watching her and moaning and groaning; saying things like, "wow, i wish i had a boyfriend to cuddle me...i guess it's just me and twilight zone re-runs like always," or, "boy, it would be really nice if someone strong and possibly named joey could carry me to my bedroom and then smother me with kisses." basically, what the rest of the english-speaking world would like to hear kathleen say to them is the anti-be all and end all for joey. this is the moment when kathleen, the doll, the million dollar brat, baby babble, the sunshine kid....hearkens back to her arcadian upbringing. topless, tired, clearly horny and ready to be joined in her boudoir, she then c-l-e-a-r-l-y states that she then wants joey to call it a wrap.
joey merely nods in her direction, with a foot up on the stone fireplace, hand on the clock. he takes a sip of coffee, made by his own hand - as fresh as the morning dew atop the grass on their front lawn - and says, no, tells kathleen, "you go ahead, baby. go warm up a spot for me. i'm gonna stay up a little while longer and make sure the sun rises, okay?"
instead of reeling back and decking him, she bobs her head up and down, causing her ratty blonde curls to bounce, then gives him a sweet kiss before strolling away, in her sordid denim jeans, held together with a strategic and creative approach to the many rips, tears and holes of yesteryear. and, lest we forget, her being topless for the better half of the kerfuffle. not that it wasn't a given, but those in view are gently reminded that under all her layers of psyche is a minx waiting to pounce. she struts away, nose gingerly pointed upwards in the air, purring in a singsong voice a tune none of us know, yet is so familiarly catchy at the same time. this is why she's the doll - no matter what the choice or consequence, we're all glued on her channel to see what happens next with our longtime 'it girl.'
kathleen kiss, though, is a different woman. contrived but yet to be actualized and activated, she is one third of a home, the queen of the coco cave; and wouldn't give anything - not a kurt cobain-owned rare left-handed strat, a map of her secret underground tunnels or even an old copy of her original feminist artwork - to change her happy family.
