Zigi & the Magic Drumstick Chapter 1

Chapters 1 - 2 - 3 - 4

   I have something crazy to tell you. I have to tell someone. My best friend is way out at the beach where I used to live and this has to be done in person. And right now!
   I don't mean I'm out slaying vamps like The Buff or doing the teenage witch thing. I mean something so weird happened to me, I about wet my pants every time I think about it.
   Who am I by the way? I guess that might help my story make sense (but don't count on it). Okay, here that is, short and sweet, sorta like me. My name is Zigi Boyd, I'm 15, I play the drums and music is my life, especially now. I'm mostly into rock, but I dig it all—almost. I have to draw the line at Garth Brooks (Chris Gaines my big beautiful butt) and a few others. We'll get around to the others who make me spit up (also known as a Lethal Ejection).
   About that name of mine, it's pronounced ZeeGee, and what it stands for is even worse. I'll bore you that story, too, when we have a little more time. Let's just say my folks were kind enough to shorten it to Zigi. Whatta relief. If your name is legally Bat breath, but everyone calls you Betty Lou, every teacher is still going to call you Bat breath. Then so will the rest of the world.
   About that butt, I am not thong worthy. I'm not tall and I'm not skinny and about the only thing I could ever model is pup tents, but that's fine with me. I'm what my mom calls a BBW. She's one, too. That means I have curves instead of spaghetti arms like Ms. McBeal. (My dad says she looks like she belongs in a tubercular ward, whatever that is.) But I'm blond and people tell me I'm cute. Of course I hear a lot of that "You have such a pretty face..." routine. I never know whether to politely ask what's wrong with the rest of me or knee them in a personal area.
...I recently moved from funky old Venice, California to live with my dad in the San Fernando Valley. That's about thirty miles or a million, depending on how you look at it. And it's not bad enough being stuck in burbia. Living with someone who doesn't know jack about teenagers blows!
   My father is a good guy, but he actually asked me the other day if I was into pokemon! I wanted to say, "No, Pop, but I would like to discuss the the pads vs. tampons issue." But, I didn't want to hurt his feelings.
...I don't know where my mom is, which is why all of this is happening to me. Everyone else thinks she's dead, but I know better. We're very connected. I know she's okay somewhere. She's a musician like my dad, but man, are they worlds apart! Mom's mainly a rock percussionist (fancy word for rhythm instruments) and Dad plays the violin for L.A. Phil. (Harmonic, that is.)
   Mom disappeared two months ago when she was biking through India where she went to study the tabla—that's a drum. I don't suppose I have to tell you that I'm down with a case of the glooms. It's so bad my blues have turned into Blue Meanies. I think—no, I'm sure—this is why I got the mysterious package from my Aunt Robin.
...There are a lot of family rumors about Aunty, whispers that she had some kind of "gift" when she was a teenager. She would disappear and come back with the wildest, most unbelievable excuses for where she'd been. But she ended up meeting all of her favorite rock stars even if it was under the most totally weird circumstances.
...My mom told me confidentially that her sister was able to do all this because she could turn herself into a real robin! I used to yuk it up about that, but that was before I inherited the gift, maybe.
   Here's what was in the package: a ratty old drumstick. No note or anything, just the Ludwig. I stared at it for awhile and then came the clang. This was probably the stick my mom used to wear around her neck on a chain when she was "a sturdy 12-year-old" and an aspiring drummer. In those days, she called herself Ringo. Well, it was better than Beverly Lou.
   Thinking it was nice of Aunty to send me something of Mom's at a time like this, I went over to my drum set and used the stick to lay down a few licks. It felt good. Playing my drums always did. When I say music is my life, I mean it. It's in my blood, and right now, without it, I'd be up that stinky creek with zero paddle.
   When I'm not playing my drums, I'm playing CD's or my great collection of albums. (Remember those? Save yours for me!) I also think about Ricky Martin's bod a lot. Some people make fun of Ricky, but have they taken a close look at that "Shake Your Bon-Bon" video where he shakes it til it breaks? I ask you.
   From there I segue into Mark from Sugar Ray. Wouldn't you just love to take him by that little goatee and lead him somewhere? Like maybe into temptation, heh heh. Sorry, but he's the bomb and sounds like a really nice guy on top of it.
   My favorite wishful-thinky used to be this: Taylor Hawkins gets sick and I have to take over on the drums for the Foo Fighters. They were practically my favorite group (I only have forty-seven) but now I'm mad at them, totally peed off. If you've seen their "Learn To Fly" video, (and if you haven't, where ya been?) you probably know why.
...I could have handled the fat lady squeezing into the airline seat. But when Taylor sitting beside her turns into a hamburger and she started salivating, wow. Real you-know-what-ing amusing. Like bigger people spend all their time sitting on their giant buns sucking up groceries, right? Tell that to my mom, who's a vegan and has done bicycle tours of the world, practically. Or to me! I never eat sugar even though I want to and I've done cross-country trips with Mom a couple of times myself.
   So there I was, sitting at my drum set, getting fired up again over us being the last frontier of un-PC humor. Clutching the Ludwig, I wished I could could personally tell my formerly beloved Fighters to stop making Foo(ls) of themselves and learn to fly right!
   The next thing I knew, I was looking directly into Dave Grohl's big beautiful mouth.

Drum Roll 1, Drum Roll 2, Drum Roll 3, Drum Roll 4

© Janey Milstead 2008