Nerd Girl Rocks Paradise City: A True Story of Faking It in by Anne Thomas Soffee

By Anne Thomas Soffee

After collage, Anne Thomas Soffee journeyed to la to begin a occupation as a rock journalist and small-time heavy steel flack. This hilarious peek into the early years of the hair-band period finds the hierarchy of fishnets, bustiers, and chicks with the Holy Grail—a behind the curtain go. A style for different people’s prescriptions and an excessive amount of beer edges her freelance journalism paintings correct off her time table. She struggles with no longer being skinny sufficient, lovely adequate, or cool adequate while, in the course of the L.A. riots, Soffee is obtainable a coveted fit in Virginia Commonwealth University's MFA writing application. decided to drag herself out of present conduct, Soffee starts off turning her lifestyles round, creating a cease at rehab ahead of she heads off to graduate institution. Her quarter-life quandary is choked with offbeat characters that end up that truth is usually funnier than fiction.

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Extra info for Nerd Girl Rocks Paradise City: A True Story of Faking It in Hair Metal L.A.

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Well, except for the overwhelmingly garish stained-glass peacocks flanking the door, that is. But honestly, the thing that is the most striking about Elvis’s living room is how incredibly rock ’n’ roll it is not. Really, it looks like an old lady living room—which, once I think about it, makes sense, because if there is anything Elvis wanted to do his whole life it was please his mama. This living room is Gladys all the way. I snap pictures furiously, making sure to capture details like the miniature Greek goddess ensconced in a hurricane lamp.

We scrutinize the pass together, wondering how I, 51 nërd girl rocks paradise city rather than an actual slut, came to receive it. Avram squints myopically at the crowd, the roadies, the band. “They must have picked you out for Dan. ” “Didn’t you say he was the singer? ” Sometimes I can’t tell whether Avram is really kidding. Q: So is this your first-ever Slut Pass? A: At the risk of impugning my own character, which heretofore I am sure you all considered sterling, no, it is not. My first Slut Pass was bequeathed to me and my partner in crime Claudia Arnold by a roadie for none other than the Clash, in 1983, when I was fifteen years old, sporting a fresh peroxide job, tight army pants, and a red bandanna tied around my left combat boot.

There is a lot of grumbling from my metalhead buddies about upcoming shows I’ll miss, never mind the plethora of shows I’ll be able to see on any given day in Los Angeles. My old Deadhead buds humor my hair-metal fetish as a crazy phase I’m going through and seem almost worried that I’m serious enough about it to relocate. The only one of my friends who is behind my plans is Stacey, who can’t wait for updates on my upcoming brushes with cheesy greatness in the form of all of the hair gods and has-beens who populate the Sunset Strip.

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