And then there was RATT.

My first book will feature a chapter dedicated to the symbolism behind THE LITTLE RED-HAIRED GIRL losing my RATT bandana.

She lost my RATT bandana. Irreplaceable. And I still haven't been able to bring myself to care. I should care shouldn't I? I don't yet.

One of the reasons i started playing guitar, Warren DiMartini, started the RATT show with some heavy-metal-soundcheck pre-show-shredding BIG NOISY INTRO. The bassist, rhythm guitarist (John Corabi, temporary singer of Motley Crue years ago---that was a cred-plus for me) drummer (original RATT drummer, Bobby Blotzer a.k.a. "The Blotz") joined DiMartini on 'Lack of Communication.' Man, I love that song.

Just before the lyrics kicked in, a skinny kid runs out on stage and grabs the mic: their new singer. Damn. Whatever. I mean, he was good. He was younger and skinnier and had a better voice. But I am innately loyal to Stephen Pearcy despite the fact that he is now fat and lazy. I still had a good time. When there's that many mullets around: a good time is inevitable. The band was fun and heavy, Warren DiMartini has the best guitar sound…but my body rejected them.

After the concert, after we'd left the swarthy Frenchman behind, we walked in the after-rain down empty Central Avenue. I swear I never see it rain, or hear it, but ever time I walk outside it has just rained. The concert was outdoors and I still don't really remember it raining. But outside the courtyard the ground was wet.

Standing in the after-rain, across from the tour bus, was…(pregnant pause: let me bust a rhyme) Jani Lane of Warrant fame.

Tonight, to my trained eye, he'd looked stockier onstage than in the eighties. But he looked in about as good a shape as me. And I only look about five years older than I really am.

Across the street from his buss, Lane wooed some groupies that, on the average, ranked about 7 ½. Not bad. I stuck the tape recorder in his face:

ME: So, what do you think of Tampa? Give me some words.

JANI: (calm but smiling…white/blonde hair, about as thin as mine) If I didn't love Tampa we wouldn't have done, "Dog Eat Dog," here. That's why we came here to record.

ME: Where did you record? Morrisound?

JANI: (Looking away and pointing behind me at one of his female fan's butts)Whatever you want to say that is why I like coming to Tampa. So, relate that into words.

ME: I'll 'render' it…that's what artists do, they 'render'…right?

JANI: Uh…(pauses as if I said something really weird) Just say, her ass is why I come to Tampa.

ME: They suppress that kind of shit in THE PAPER.

JANI: So I shouldn't mention like pussy…tits…copulation

ME: Flirtation?

JANI: I can't mention head.

ME: You can mention head.

JANI: You can?

ME: So you love Tampa?

JANI: Yeah, I used to live in Orlando…Southbeach…I hate L.A., you can quote me on that. I much prefer Florida to L.A.

ME: What about your club in Orlando?

JANI: I sold it. Y'know, it's a very touristy area and the rock thing wasn't going over very well and they wanted to turn it into a swing club. It's called BAR ORLANDO now.

ME: We have BAR TAMPA here.

JANI: I sold out.

ME: Having a club there in the first place was a sell out

(I immediately wished I could rescind that comment. But he seemed to appreciate the joke. I guess he understands the nature of Orlando that I was referring to).

JANI: But I'm eatin' good.

( THE LITTLE RED-HAIRED GIRL, standing by a lamp pole looking exquisite, slides up behind me and begins talking foosball with some bloke. Somehow Lane heard TLRHG mouthing off about her foosball skills, and took offense)

TLRHG: On a good table I'd kick your ass.

JANI: Alright, lets get a good table. Tornado?

TLRHG: Tornado?

JANI: Three in the back?

TLRHG: Wait wait wait, you're throwin lingo I don't know.

ME: He's gonna kill you.

TLRHG: Look man, I've only played in Rotterdam and they know what's up with foosball. They are like foosball kings…Arabs.

JANI: I've never played in Rotterdam but I've played foosball with Iron Maiden

ME: Oh, shit. You're dead.

TLRHG: But that doesn't mean shit to me, cause I don't know if Iron Maiden's a good foosball game.

JANI: They're a band

TLRHG: I know they're a band but do they play foosball well? That's what we're talking about. We're talking about foosball.

JANI: Iron Maiden smoke more hash than any men should ever smoke in their lives.

TLRHG: But doesn't mean shit to me unless they play foosball well.

JANI: And Bruce Dickinson is the nicest guy ever.

ME: Is he a good foosball player?

JANI: He's a good fencer. Dangerous. He's English.

ME: He'll politely cut you to ribbons.

TLRHG: Back to foosball. How do you play? Direct shot in, or…?

JANI: We can play either way. I'll play you for winners choice: if I win you have to do (goes into ABSOLUTELY CLASSIC smarmy rock guy voice)…whatever… I tell you to do.

ME: We'll get back to you…nice meeting you.

Then he took a bunch of fat chicks to his bus. Actually, he had his body guard separate the 4's from the 9's so his average, as he stepped on the bus, was about an 8 ½. Not bad.

TLRHG and I strolled on down Central in St. Peters' rain and from that point on, with my high-pitched screaming ears full of RATT remnants, I lost all desire to speak. I was blissful, coming down, silent, soaking it in and her. I stayed that way for the majority of the evening. I'm usually such a white-hot-ball of entertainment when I'm around her; I knew she'd understand if I took a deep break. I shut up and smiled and listened.

"If a rockstar sits outside his own concert like that," said TLRHG, "it means he doesn't get enough publicity…or pussy."

(pregnant pause)

My dad used to live around here. I haven't been there in a long time. We should go"

Yes (pregnant pause) we should.

It was 1:45 in the morning. We stood in front of the house in which her father used to live, in a residential neighborhood: the center of attention from hundred's of neighboring windows. On the corner where two streets met at the end of the driveway, was beautiful grass hill: any break from in the consistency flat land is considered beautiful in Florida. "There used to be a tree here where this hill is." She said. We climbed the three steps up the hill and laid on our bellies in the itchy wet grass under a street light. Though it was barely past 2am, the mood felt like 5am: no breeze, no sound, the atmosphere felt like a 78 degree biodome, like a soundstage or a movie set.

We smoked from my glass pipe with the shard rattling around in it. The shard rattles and waits in the shaft of the pipe, waiting to be sucked down, so that the fortunate survivors can drive the choking smoker with the throat full of blood, to the hospital.

It was amazingly peaceful mainly because I wasn't running my mouth. Strangers slept in her dead father's house and the water was flat in the canal 100 yards away. "Let's walk around the house."

Yes, we should.

We crept around back through the thick running mats of Florida grass. Soft safety lights were left on inside the house. They had a swingset in their yard. "But there were a lot more trees," she said. "This sucks"

We walked to the canal and climbed in the mangroves, slow and silent like sloths, out into the huge knobby mangrove knees with only flat, silver moonlit water below. I said nothing for fifteen minutes at a time. We laid back in the thick grass on the edge of the water. It was so itchy I could barely stand it. She laid next to me with her white neck in the itchy grass. "Come to me." Yes, I actually said that. That's what it's like. For real.

She laid her soft neck near the crook of my arm, closer to my wrist than my lips. Discouraging sign. But we were very happy. I was so tired and itchy and it felt like a dream. Really. That's what it's like.

By 3:30am we had made it back over the rainy bridge to my house.

There we got close, then UN-close, "I'm sorry," then close, then UN. Biology lessons. Very confusing Biology lessons.

I make myself believe that I appreciate just touching her. I am leaving soon. I shouldn't care. So, I don't care. Yet. I enjoy.

TUESDAY MORNING:

Directly from work, at around 6pm, I fell asleep reading "The Sorrows of Young Werther," by Goethe. I never read shit like that: melodramatic, love-troubles-for-people-of-leisure, 19th century intellectual romanticism. But it is amazing, if only because it depicts a caricature of what I'm going through with TLRHG. The protagonist (and let me clarify: he and I ARE the protagonists in our respective frustrations, rest his soul) goes mad and kills himself. I will not.

I will merely move to, quoth Neal Pollack when referring to California, "the golden land of hot chicks".

I awoke around 3:30am and continued to read Goethe for an hour. It was horribly touching if only because I feel so vulnerable (hear that ladies?). Half asleep I sobbed along with Werther. I went back to sleep around 5am.

At 7:30am the phone rang. I thought it was KAROLINA. I'd been so distracted these past weeks that I'd forgotten to mourn her leaving: she took a plane out this morning and won't be back for literally years. From now on, she is a memory and intermittent inspiring words in the bland font of HOTMAIL.

At 7:31am I sleepwalked to the ringing phone. 'Twas THE LITTLE RED-HAIRED GIRL, "I was just thinking about you," she said into my sleep ear, "(pregnant pause)...and I figured you'd be getting ready for work so..."

I thought it was a dream. I've had dreams like that before where she called me and woke me to tell me she was thinking of me. This morning I was too tired to fully appreciate it. But when I woke up, I couldn't stop appreciating it. The momentum was too much to fight. It consumed me for two days after.