I met you on the first day of tenth grade. It was our first day in this school for both of us, and we found ourselves hanging out in the back of the room, similarly unimpressed by the upper middle-class kids and Eastern Seaboard heirs of privilege who made up the rest of the class. Over recess you showed me your copy of Maximum Rock N Roll, pointing to all the logos you liked best. You stood so close that you were touching my shoulder; I backed up a half-step, unused to this violation of space. Instead of acknowledging my reaction, you stepped forward until we were touching again, and in this way we moved crabwise like inchworms along the back wall of the classroom while talking about the Dead Kennedys and Skull Skates. It was weird.
After high school I lost track of you, but I assumed that you had moved to the States. I saw your byline in Spy Magazine one day, which gave me that queesy blend of affection lit by memory and gnawing gut-level envy. Then I opened a newspaper and found out that you'd been accused of trying to extort money from Ron Burkle. That too was weird.