The price I pay to plaster my name all over willing bodies

I ordered two Cinquemani sweatshirts for my sisters for Christmas. It's all right. I'm not giving away a secret. I already told me they were getting them when I hadn't received the shipment from Neighborhoodies ON CHRISTMAS. They were both very excited, having often admired my own sweatshirt.

The sweatshirts still haven't come, though I paid for mega rush delivery. I e-mailed Neighborhoodies about it last week, as a preliminary step to calling and laying the smack down. I've dealt with them before. Their employees must all be in the 18-24 range. When my last sweatshirt came, there was a postcard inside with a handwritten (ballpoint impression and everything) note in blue ink saying, "Awesome sweatshirt, Sara! Hope you totally rock it!" or something akin. Surrounded by wonky stars and perhaps some hearts too. (Deep down, I'd like to think that this was written by an underprivileged immigrant factory worker somewhere in Brooklyn, who has been painstakingly trained to imitate the ways of an American adolescent.)

So when I saw that there was a reply to my very courteous, hip, colloquial inquiry into the matter of these missing sweatshirts, I was very curious what the response would actually be. I would like to say that it was, "Dude. Duude. DUDE. DUUUUUUUDE. I'm sorry about your missing sweatshirts. We fucked up. We fucked up bad." Instead, it was something more like my courteous, hip, colloquial inquiry. "So sorry about this!" Something about refunding the shipping charges. I haven't heard much since.

But the guy's signature does have "viva indie fashion!" in it. God, if I had known this was INDIE fashion....

***

The other day I was watching VH1. There was a show where they took Nikki Sixx of Motley Crue and made him over for some comeback/reunion show. This reminded me of a guy I knew when I was in middle school. His name was Eric, and he was probably about 4 or 5 years older. He was on my bus route, and I used to sit with him all the time. Eric was pretty much the last person on my bus route I was ever friends with. He was a really really nice guy, and unfortunately graduated while I was in junior high. The odd thing was that he was friends with me (and by friends, I mean, he teased me like a bratty little sister -- there was nothing untoward in this) but not with my sister, who was his age, more or less. I vaguely remember noticing that he seemed a little embarrassed around her, either because a) he liked her and she was, well, a nice, smart, pretty, popular girl and, in his mind, out of his league, or b) he knew he was considered, by her, a friend of her BABY SISTER'S.
Eric was a metal head and had long, straight blond hair. As I remember it, very Aryan. His little brother was my age, but that guy (can't remember his name, no matter how much I try) was totally too cool for me, especially once we got to high school.

One day, on the bus, I sat down in a seat in the back. A few minutes later, Eric climbed aboard, went to the back, and sat down next to me. He looked depressed. Said, "Motley Crue broke up today."

I saw Eric once after he graduated. I was at UCCC for some workshop or other in I think 8th Grade, maybe 9th. He was walking down the steps outside of the library. I assume he was going to UCCC. He recognized me and stopped to say hello. I was shy and awkward, as 13-year-olds usually are, especially around 19 year old guys. I didn't have much to say. He was still as nice as ever, though. Had cut his hair. I would say he patted me on the head when he walked on, but he really didn't.

Thank you, Nikki Sixx, for that wonderful memory. I'll cherish it for-never.

Correction: Not Nikki Sixx. Vince Neil. I am an idiot.