“I can’t really talk, I’m having brunch with…” I play with my platinum blonde wig and tug the string of my leopard print bikini top while addressing the poor Fios representative at my door. “…clients right now.” Behind me Mark Brickman and Hannah Teeter are picking out our audio-video entertainment (the Go-Go’s are a must, Metalocalypse is a strong contender, but they’re considering all my Buffys) and behind them Craig Martinson is unloading my cabinets. Saturday morning breakfast at my apartment; it’s every guys’ fantasy, and some guys’ very disorienting reality.
But they aren’t guys, they’re Def.GRLS.
Again, that includes Craig (guitar, brought the King’s Hawaiian Sweetbread Rolls, eggs, and syrup) Hannah (drums, brought the Shiny Ruby RedBird beer) and Mark (bass, brought the sriracha and his sparkling personality). And despite the very romantic sitch of this being my apartment/me being half-naked, I targeted Def.GRLS because they are fun AF. Swirling, maddening, neon, glitter-smeared, fun.
What’s funny is that you can actually hear a retro element in their songs. Craig and Mark pair high-pitched harmonies a Beach Boy would be proud of. “FinGRLess Lady” sounds like forty chopped-up Beatles songs smashed back together (is it? Maybe?) AND YET, Def.GRLS is down to tailspin into complete musical psychosis. Surf riffs turn into disco beats and marry robotic overlays, and that’s just in the mouthful of a song, “The Four Horsemen of the Acapulcolypse (War, Famine, Pestilence and Dance).” But while there’s audience awe, there’s never bafflement, just a resounding feeling of “Yaaaaas.”
So I’m bikini-clad with the wonderful Def.GRLS because when the seasons heat up, I prefer to have fun then fall in love.
That’s always my plan, anyway.
The Scene: When we’re scheduling this at Union Pool Mark asked if I come over and make them breakfast, and Craig stressed, “We make her breakfast.” I didn’t correct this, because I am a strong, independent woman who likes having people feed me and do my dishes.
Anyway, we’re at my McGolrick Park-side apartment, which is very Kate Spade-meets-pop-art-meets-pop-culture-meets-clinical depression.
2:51 Charly Bliss’s Guppy is already in my record player so we play side A as a prequel to Metalacalypse-Go-Go’s. Hannah and I are sharing her e-cig (read: I took it from her; I have boundary issues) and among chit-chat about Adam West and teeny mags she explains, “I’m new to the vape pen. Douchebag, what a douchebag,” she rolls her eyes (metaphorically) at the idea. “I haven’t had a fire cigarette in like 33 days, and I was smoking like a pack a day. And this is like…I don’t know. I feel better. It’s crazy. But also everything smells so bad all of a sudden.”
What she’s smelling is New York in heat, but I get the feel. “When I was smoking Njoys religiously I was like, this isn’t a real cigarette, I’m just a fucking asshole,” I confess. We decide to check on the boys who insist we don’t lift a finger, and to get breakfast-ready Craig puts on his matted blonde stage wig.
“Now we’re making breakfast.” “Now we’re making breakfast.” Mark and Hannah overlap each other before we all cheer at this transformation.
“Dude, that wig looks like it’s had some adventures,” I observe. It has.
“For our record release I had a batch of fake blood. I dumped it all over myself,” Craig says. “So every time I sweat at the show I end up stained red. Worth it.”
“Definitely worth it,” Mark echoes.
“You guys are like the funnest band,” I say.
“You are!” Mark shoots back
“I am not the funnest band,” I take a sip of my beer. “That’s just fake.”
3:19 While Mark (unsuccessfully) tries to teach me how to open a beer bottle with a lighter, we compose a Mad Lib. Hannah has the job of reading it back to the group.
“This Mad Libs is called, ‘I Do, I Dance.'” She says. “‘You’re sure to find hairy dancing at wedding receptions. There’s something very special and pubically touching when the bride and dick have the first dance and husband and wet fart.'”
Mark: “Yes, yes.”
“’And doesn’t the father-sadist dance always bring tears to your mega dick?‘”
Mark: “For sure.”
“‘But when the DJ starts playing sexingly the wedding classics, that’s when the orphan fun begins. Who doesn’t love the chicken dance, when you poke out your uvulas and flap them around?‘”
Mark: “YES, YES, THAT’S GENIUS.”
Craig: “That’s actually what it is.”
Mark: “It is now.”
“‘There’s the conga line, where you grab someone by the jumbo dicks, fall in line, and snake around Mary Grace’s house.'”
Mark: “YES, YES.”
“‘The hokey-pokey’s great too. You put your right butthole in, you put your right butthole out, you put your right butthole in and you twerk it all about.’”
Mark: “Twerk it all about, that’s exactly right.”
“That is how you twerk,” I think. “‘Yes, wedding receptions are where it’s at. Just don’t get so caught up shaking your groove twerk-jerk that you forget to eat a super groovy piece of wedding chunks-blown.'”
More cheers erupt, as we’re all very proud of our verbal Frankenstein.
3:25 The phenomenal Vacation is on, the coffee’s done brewing, and I’m explaining my family tradition of making vomiting noise whenever I pour milk out of a cow creamer. They’ve also selected mugs that speak to each of them on a soul level: Hannah went with the (millennial?) pink mug with the skull and crossbones, while Mark settled on the timeless and elegant piggy mug. And Craig?
“I chose the ‘Queen of Fucking Everything’ mug,” He announces.
“Of course you did,” I reply. Duh.
“I thought the