1999-ish Sober Mother Fuckers

Once Donnie had a toehold, the Compound began to lose its Girl Power.

The Artist moved in her boyfriend, who brought two cats and a truckload of SMF grief. With the Compound settling down, The SMF’S stepped in as the law of the land. They worked most of the time, but each had a certain charm. Her SMF could get anyone into any gig. But greet him too eagerly and he would scowl back at even the cheeriest of good mornings. Not one of us girls had enough guts to swindle him for anything. His militant sobriety quieted the Compound, of which housed a handfull of relapsing SMFs who lurked and leered from the blinds.

After the band breakup we rallied round The Norwegian. She was chaste and virginal and playing drums in an all-girl punk band afforded her some danger. She took comfort in the form of a new best friend, a great three legged kitten named Hector. Then she falls in love. With the highest of profiles, qualifying his tenancy. His presence was incessant and entertaining, his debauchery countering the SMF’S stoicism.

The Artist throws in the towel and leaves the SMF boyfriend. He is now grudgingly single, and to our horror, he stays on at the Compound. He rents the tiny living room to yet another SMF, an easier one to love. He had a 13 year stint of sobriety that he seemed to white knuckle through daily. In his lanky deliciousness, the nearness of him was electric-even at its most platonic. His band was scary, and his girlfriend was a goddess of goth in her day. We were a little star struck, and to our amazement she would join in with us girls as if she was one of us instead of the punk chanteuse we knew her to be. Weekends we shared slumber party duties with our daughters.

The Compound grew, thinned and melded into a familiar, Long Beach fable, with faces and connections and anecdotes aplenty.