Rock Out with Your Wife Out

Wifezilla and I jam together a few times a week. Yes, Rock Band. I doubt I have any better idea of what to do with a real drum kit despite my two month Rock Band expertise. Wifezilla plays a real violin, but she says that translates to a plastic guitar only so far. After hearing her play, I readily agree.

We named our band Moldy Garbage. And by “we” I mean I. To be fair, I gave Wifezilla two choices: our current name or The Sluts. So she really has no one to blame but herself for our band’s moniker. I must admit, Wifezilla pieced together a really hot rock star. She crafted long flowing auburn hair on top of a tight little package for a body. When she leaps into the air during particularly dramatic guitar solos, I frequently get distracted and fumble my sticks.

Drum sticks you filthy bastards.

Eddy, my drummer, sports blue and lime green hair. My drummer shows way more of his pelvis than I like, but he’s got a six-pack that sends the honies into convulsions. Some of the dudes too, unfortunately. He’s earned some money during his solo career, so he dons Dragonscale armor when he takes the stage, a mixture of black leather and gleaming steal, bristling with eye-gauging rivets. He’s made a practice of sacrificing a fan if he’s ever boo’d off stage. As a result, he is more often than not cheered even when he has dropped his sticks staring at his guitar player’s ass.

Last night, Wifezilla and Eddy we’re playing in Gay Paree. I don’t remember the venue’s name, but it’s the third one down since we’ve already unlocked the first two. The venue held no single song plays, just sets of three, four, and six. For the first set, Wifezilla got cocky and tried the medium setting. She crashed and burned on her solo. Eddy tried to pound the animal back into some stretched hide but he fell short of pulling them back from the brink; the crowd quickly boo’d the duo right off the stage. After Eddy got done ripping the beating heart from the chest cavity of the loudest heckler, the two retook the stage and plowed through all three songs effortlessly.

I have to confess, there’s something surreal in the realization that my wife is jamming out to the song Run to the Hills. The only people that could be more puzzled—perhaps even dismayed--would be the members of Iron Maiden themselves The entire scenario borders on the comical. She hates metal, to the point that she would leave the room if it ever seized the room’s air waves. And yet, there she was, in her bath robe and hair curlers, an unconscious sneer painted on her face, throwing the guitar’s arm into the air as she strummed titanic chords and face-melting riffs. Last night I found my wife just a tattoo away from genuine rocker.

I can’t wait to see her Billy Idol face.