Nick, Melissa, and I sat in the pub trying to think up a better name for the band than Star Vomit, which is what I’d called it in California. “It doesn’t suit your music,” Melissa said. She was wearing a dark-green sweatshirt with Patti Smith’s face on it. “Star Vomit makes me think of screamo death metal or something. Your sound is melodic punk with some Britpop and bhangra thrown in. Abrasive but tuneful.”
“But we’re made out of the matter from the insides of stars that vomited out when the stars exploded,” I explained.
“I get it,” Melissa said, “but I think that the name Star Vomit is a little too off-putting.”
“How about the name Sugar Rat?” I suggested. “There’s a rat temple in Rajasthan, India, called Karni Mata where rats are worshipped. They’re the souls of storytellers, and you bring them sweets like sugar balls.”
“I rather liked that name we used for a giggle a while back,” Nick said. “Hen. It reminds me of the expression ‘rare as hen’s teeth.’ I think it’s quite funny.”
“It needs more of a political edge to go with your lyrics,” Melissa said.
I got the pen and paper out of my back pocket. “The Shoulder Rats. To protest against animal testing.” I unfolded the sheet of paper and began to write. “Ganesha Rat.”
“Extraordinary and the Renditions,” Melissa said. “Sadistic Orange Jumpsuit.”
“Lesbian Teacher,” Nick said. “Futility Loin.”
“The Dead Rapists,” I said. “The Lesbian Cobains.”
“I like the Dead Rapists,” Nick said, glancing at Melissa.
“Except that you don’t want that word staring at you from all your merchandise and literature,” Melissa said.
The Mayhems. The Gender Traitors. She Sells Jesus By the Seashore. Out! Guantanamo Bay Tourism Association. Battery-Powered Halo. Oi Vey. America the Bully. Downside of the Soul. The Waterboarders. Sorry I Bombed Your Country. Lesbian Raincoat. The Democracy Pistols. Smarter Than Bombs. The Gash. Snatch. Oil Pipeline Jihad. I’m So Bored with the USA. The Breaststrokers. Democracy Through a Feeding Tube.
“I like Sorry I Bombed Your Country,” I said, “but I’m afraid it’s too long.”
“I think anything with the word ‘jihad’ or any reference to terrorism will be more trouble than its worth,” Melissa said, “but I do like Guantanamo Bay Tourism Association. And there’s something nice about Lesbian Raincoat.”
Nick looked over my shoulder at the list. “I like The Democracy Pistols.”
Adele had joined us. “I’m not a full-fledged lesbian,” she said, smiling, “being somewhere else on the great sexuality continuum. But I like Lesbian Raincoat. There’s something reassuring about it.”
“Is a real lesbian raincoat supposed to keep you dry or wet?” I laughed. “Sorry.”
Nick said, “Maybe it’s supposed to keep the moisture in.”
“How about The Dental Dams?” Adele suggested.
“The Dental Dames?” I said.
“I vote for Lesbian Raincoat,” Melissa said. “I think it suits your sound. The way it wraps around you. The way the rain is all-encompassing. The way it’s democratic and rains on everyone.”
“Yeah,” Nick said, “and the way that ‘Lesbian’ shoves it all down everybody’s throat.” We all laughed.
“Cheers, then.” Melissa raised her pint glass. “Here’s to Lesbian Raincoat.”