Dead Man’s Party – Oingo Boingo
My hair was bleached white from the sun
then, chubby cherub cheeks speckled with
freckles. “Angel kisses,” my mom used to
call them, pressing her lips to my forehead. I
liked to press those cheeks against the
scalding concrete back then, watch the ants
march one-by-one along the cracks in the
pavement. I remember singing out loud at
the mall, in the grocery store, hanging onto
the end of the shopping cart as my mom
wheeled me down the aisles. Sometimes I
wonder what happened to that uninhibited
little girl. Now, I only sing in the shower, in
the car, alone in my room, when I know that
no one can hear or see me.

Hotel California – The Eagles
The pungent odor of dehydrating kelp
paddies, the occasional rotting fish ensnared
in the vines. The sweet smell of spray-on
sunscreen, the not-so-sweet sting of it
landing in the eyes. Digging for crabs where
the sand bubbled in the wake of washing
tides. Stomach rashes, peanut butter and
jelly sandwiches on hoagie rolls, lifting our
feet for the passing trains, midwestern
tourists tossing scraps to the seagulls in July.
We never had to ask. Dad always stopped at
the 7-Eleven on El Camino, the one next to
the shitty “Mexican” restaurant he and his
old lifeguard buddies used to occupy back in
the day. Slurpees for us, a can of Skoal for
him. I always mixed cherry and Coca-Cola,
my brother always got blue raspberry, mom
always got coconut. Dad always got Classic
Mint, long cut, “a pinch better since 1924.” I
always got scolded for never wearing shoes.
The soles of my feet were always black. I
used to listen for the garage door every day,
like clockwork, at 4 P.M., and I would run
out to greet him, usually catching him
spitting a coffee-colored wad into the rose
bushes.

Self Esteem – The Offspring
Fogged up windows, dashboard controls
glowing a radioactive green in the early
winter twilight. Collecting pine cones to
coat in glitter spray. Cup O’ Noodles and hot
chocolate, the chill of the metal bleachers
seeping through my jeans, fighting with
mom that I don’t need a jacket. A boy, my
first best friend, ending our friendship over a
game of Hot Wheels because my favorite
color was pink. Another boy, whose name I
don’t recall, holding me close under warm
blankets by the glow of the TV while our
brothers played video games in the other
room. I was wearing a pink jacket then. I
never saw him again.

Having a Blast – Green Day
The June gloom that never burned off.
Digging for worms in the mud in between
rain spells. Leopard sharks weaving
themselves through the water, around my
feet. Standing up on my first wave, learning
what it feels like to fly. Wading deeper into
the one true love of my life–the ocean.
Learning how to square dance for a school
performance. A boy I thought I might like
putting his hand on my knee, then my thigh,
while the teacher turned a blind eye. I didn’t
understand then why my parents were so
upset by it.

Crawling – Linkin Park
Coconut car trees, sweltering heat. The A/C
that never got fixed. The mosaic butterfly on
stilts, the crunch of gravel and dirt under
tires, the sweet musty scent of old books.
Coloring on the floor while mom strung
opulent jewels together with wire. The smell
of sulfur like rotten eggs. Mugs of Earl Grey
with honey, a single crescent-shaped ice
cube creating a soft froth around the rim.
Early Sunday mornings spent watching
cartoons and playing video games. I was
always Player 2. Folding a cardboard sheet
into a vintage Thunderbird over milkshakes
and fries, while model trains chugged along
tracks suspended from the ceiling by cables.

Free Fallin’ – Tom Petty
Eight hour car rides through cow-cluttered
dairy farms, miles and miles of monotonous
nothing. Games of I Spy. The Quiet Game,
when mom and dad got fed up with our
babbling and my incessant questioning of
“are we there yet?” The perpetual gray of
Santa Cruz in the winter. The smell of oil,
thick and rich, crusted against canvases and
mason jars and rags. Squirrels on the fence.
Games of Hide and Seek in the furniture
shop, disappearing under large sheets of
yellow and green foam. The twinkle of wind
chimes, sitting out on the rotting wooden
deck. Mom’s CD of Tom Petty’s greatest
hits.

Simple as This – Jake Bugg
Waking up before the sun, pulling on a
wetsuit that’s still wet and cold from two
days prior. “You know why they call it Four
Doors?” Breaching great whites. A double
rainbow. Ham and cheese croissants and the
biggest coffee I could get my hands on. Salt
water dripping from my nose onto my
textbook in the middle of French.

Freakin’ Out on the Interstate – Briston
Maroney
Running out in the ocean, fully clothed, in
the middle of February. Late night drives
with the windows down, music too loud,
moving too fast. Sunsets in Laguna, jumping
off that giant cliff-adjacent rock, plunging
into the water below. Sneaking in the pool of
the Ritz, stealing towels as trophies. An
inexplicable need to escape. Holding my
friend on the kitchen floor as she drunkenly
wept for her dead mother. Deep
conversations about love and loss in the
dark.

April Come She Will – Simon & Garfunkel
Hazelnut lattes. The gritty sound of mom’s
pastels against paper. The chalky film left on
her fingers and hands, the sheet draped over
the carpet to catch the fallout. Seattle rain.
The unspoken taboo of an umbrella. Feeling
like a stranger in my childhood home.
Browning flour, freshly chopped celery.
Sauteeing veggies in butter and garlic. The
thawing turkey carcass, leftover from
Thanksgiving, always too big for the gumbo
pot, resting on the stove. Warm cookies on a
rainy afternoon. Muddy paws on white tile.
More cigarettes. More Coors Light.