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brown sweater that he’d worn on the plane. When he pulled it off, he revealed that he was wearing a faded Sweet Janes T-shirt underneath.
    I lit up with the delight of already having something so big in common. “You like the Sweet Janes?” I asked him.
    “They’re one of the most underappreciated bands of the decade,” he answered in the authoritative way that white guys with good taste in music often have. By the way, I adored authoritative white guys with good taste in music.
    “The lead guitarist is one of my best friends,” I said.
    “Risa Merriweather? Are you serious?” he asked. “I heard she had some kind of solo project going these days. I’ve been meaning to go out and see her.”
    “Maybe you can come with me to her next show,” I said with a friendly smile.
    At least that’s what I said on the outside. Inside I said,
Thank you, Universe, thank you, Universe, thank you, Universe!
Because this guy Caleb definitely felt like a win.

RISA
----
    O ne of the Top Ten Rules in my Future Rock Star Manifesto: Never let anybody outside of you dictate your playlist.
    That’s exactly what I told the manager at Space Camp when he called to make sure that I’d be playing the classics at my October show.
    And by the classics, he didn’t mean Joan Jett, even though I did a pretty bitchin’ cover of “I Hate Myself for Loving You.” He meant the Sweet Janes classics.
    I happened to be standing in front of the cover art for the first and only Sweet Janes album when he asked me this question. It was eleven years ago, and everybody in my old band looked so much younger than they did now. Ramen noodle–diet thin and dewy fresh, the four of us lay naked on a red circular bed, with nothing but guitars, hair, and other band members’ body parts to cover up the money shots.
    I was wearing a long, neon-green wig and my eyes were aglitter with defiant anger. Why was I so angry? I had a contract, and money in my pocket, and buzz. Sweet buzz. Where the hell did I get off being angry about anything? But there I lay, full of piss and vinegar.
    A lot of people thought I was the lead singer of the Sweet Janes back then. But of course I wasn’t. Somebody had to handle lead guitar, let the guy bands know through hard-driving riffs that my group wasn’t one to be fucked with. No, the lead singer was Samanthe, a posh and daring pixie-cut of a woman, who preferred boys but let me kiss and grope her in front of the cameras, claiming a connection with me that went beyond her heretofore-stated heterosexuality.
    The year was 2001.
Will & Grace
was the highest-rated sitcom among adults eighteen to forty-nine. Rosie O’Donnell hadn’t left her popular talk show yet. Lesbians were supposed to be the next big thing, until they weren’t.
    One album. That was all the Sweet Janes got. Every rock station played it. The record company sent us everywhere, and that’s how I met The One. She lived in L.A. at the time but, funnily enough, I met her at a New York movie premiere. The two of us locked eyes across the room, and that was it. A U2 concert went off in my soul, full of lights and special effects all screaming, “She’s The One!” I’d never forget that first look.
    I moved in with her a few months later. We were happy. We were in love. We were successful. And that’s when everything began to fall apart.
    Samanthe didn’t turn out to be on the same page regarding our relationship. I had thought she was faking it, while she had thought she was in love. Maybe she was. Sharing copious amounts of coke and ecstasy with a person. Drinking out of the same bottle when you take that Jack Daniels straight to the head. That might be love. I’d heard of relationships based on less.
    Recording the second album didn’t go so well. There were disagreements and a lot of “I just worry that” grinded out between clenched teeth. I eventually had to pull Samanthe aside to have a long talk in the parking lot outside of the recording studio.