Lovesong E-Book

Franklin Aaberg

• Herausgeber: BooxAi
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Lovesong is the story of my love life and my relationship with Tori Amos. I'm Frankie, and this is my Lovesong.

Das E-Book wird angeboten von und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:

Leseprobe

Franklin Aaberg

Lovesong

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2023 by Franklin Aaberg

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Published by BooxAI

ISBN: 978-965-578-330-8

LOVESONG

A NONFICTION MEMOIR

FRANKLIN AABERG

Lace

“Just be cool,” Ian said as he drew on his clove cigarette. 

 We were approaching the Rave. This was 1987, and raves were a new phenomenon then. The term “rave” conjured images of a 60’s dance party. Dressed in a mufti and paisley cap, Ian looked the part. I felt less casual in a long yellow paisley shirt and new Levi’s. “I’ll do my best,” I said. 

She looked familiar, standing in the light of the door. It seemed she couldn’t help but smile. She said hello when we passed. I told Ian I would see him inside. 

“Ever been to one of these?” I asked. Her friend, a cute blonde, rubbed up against me. It felt good to be noticed. The one with the black hair, who seemed to know me from another life, said she had never been to a rave. “Have you?” she asked. 

“No,” I said, “but I like to dance. Have you heard of the City Club?” 

“The City’s cool,” she said. 

“I suppose. I like it there. They play good music, and you can more or less be yourself.”  

“The Hollyrock  is cool, too.”  

The Hollyrock Lounge was a small dance floor in a small room that catered to the goth scene. I danced there almost every weekend. It seemed many went there just to watch, so there was always space on the floor, even though it was very small. “Skinny Puppy” was favored in terms of the music—guttural vocals about morbid subjects spoken to an asymmetrical beat. It was good to dance to, though I liked music with more rhythm, like a song with the “Batman” riff that said, “I walk the line between good and evil,” that they played every night. 

“You should go there,” I said. “You’d fit in.” With her long black hair and pale beauty, she would.  

She was sort of big, overweight, I guess, but that can be appealing as well. She wore clothes well, and she appealed to me. “What’s your name?” I asked her. 

“Lace,” she answered, “and this is Serena.”  

Ian was still there, and he asked me, “You’ve got your cover, right, Frank?” 

“Yeah, I got it covered,” I said. 

“Frank. That’s your name?” Lace asked. 

“Franklin, really. Everyone calls me Frank, though.” 

“You like to be called Frank?” 

“No, I like Franklin better. But everyone calls me Frank, and I don’t know why. It’s easier, I guess.” 

“I like Frank,” Serena said.  

“I like you, too,” I said. 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

It was a misty Portland evening, about ten o’clock and dark out. “I love this kind of weather,” I said. “Are you both from Portland?”  

“I am,” Serena said. Lace didn’t say anything. 

Lace glowed with a charm that was fundamental to her soul. Serena apparently liked me, though. She was still standing very close to me. I decided to pay my cover, but I wanted to make sure they were staying for the Rave. They were. 

I found Ian after paying my six dollars. He was talking with his friends—goth-style club kids of ambiguous sexuality. They were nice and very interested when he introduced me, but the music was too loud (by the DJ booth and the speakers) for conversation. They seemed to be somehow integral to the event, even if they were just there. It was brightly lit, and I felt like I was being watched. I mentioned, speaking loudly over the music, that the lights were quite bright. Ian said that the Rave almost didn’t happen because of neighborhood concerns, and they were required to keep the lighting bright. I figured that whoever had a problem with the Rave thought it wouldn’t happen without a light show. 

“As long as there’s music, I guess,” I said. I wished I had dressed up more. In just a shirt and jeans, I felt kind of square in their company. At least I was growing my hair. I never cared to have it short, but at my mother’s insistence, I had had it cut short to look for work. 

“The DJ’s really good,” Ian said. “This is actually important to us. Raves tend to get shut down.” 

“Weren’t they a thing in England in the Sixties or something?” I asked. 

“Exactly.” 

“Are you bi?” one of his friends, a high priest of goth in a velvet cat-hat, asked me. 

“I suppose I’m open-minded—I’m kind of a rocker,” I said. 

“Straight but not narrow, then,” he said. 

I cringed. “I never liked that phrase,” I said. “I think it’s phony.” 

“They don’t really like bi people at all, most of them.”