When I was thirteen, I went to my friend Ike’s house and formed a band called Wormwhole. I provided percussion (I banged some drumsticks together) and Ike, who thought up the name, played acoustic guitar.
A few things about Ike: First, he’s a cool guy, one of my best friends, and I’m privileged to know him. Second, he’s a big, buff Mayan dude—he was born in Central America, where, I learned, the Mayans were conquered by the Spanish in 1519,* but he swears he has full-on Mayan warrior blood in him. That probably accounts for his workout schedule: Ike’s room is a mini gym full of punching bags, weights, and rowing machines, and he constantly uses them. His biceps are as thick as my neck.
Ike is also a vampire enthusiast. He owns a huge collection of vampire books; he has dark robes, teeth, and vampire figurines strewn all over his room. He once told me he really was a vampire—he claimed he’d been abducted as a baby and taught “the ways of the night” in Costa Rica.
To complement his vampire fixation, Ike has a large collection of knives, which he buys from catalogs and keeps in his “Weapons Locker.” He also collects more exotic weapons: bolas, sai, and nun-chucks.* I started hanging out with him because he was just too weird to pass up. But as I came to know him, I discovered a genuinely kind person with a twisted sense of humor. We’ve had some fun times.
Once, in eighth grade, Ike and I cut school to protest something called Take Our Daughters to Work Day. We were irked—how come the girls got to visit their parents at work while we toiled over algebra? We made our own signs (mine: “Stop Reverse Sexism!” Ike’s: “Help! U R Oppressing Me!”) and walked down to Seventh Avenue—the main street of our neighborhood, Park Slope.**
We positioned ourselves in front of a coffee shop and paced in circles, yelling, “Equal rights now! Hey, hey, hey!” Not many people were sympathetic to our cause. In fact, almost everyone ignored us, although some women rolled their eyes, and one said, “Yeah, like you guys know jack about sexism.”
One guy was supportive—he drove by in a pickup truck, leaned out his window, yelled, “All right, fellas! Keep on truckin’,” pumped his fist, and drove off. Just when I was starting to think the whole Take Our Daughters to Work Day protest was a big success, our school principal, Mary, showed up. She had come down to Seventh Avenue in her own car. She personally drove Ike and me back to school, and then gave us detention for the next six weeks, until graduation.
In detention, we had to compile a report on the mental health of adolescent girls. I read Reviving Ophelia, and after sifting through accounts of bulimia, anorexia, and sexual abuse, I decided that teenage girls have it plenty rough; if they wanted to spend a day hanging out at their parents’ jobs, more power to them.*
But back to Wormwhole. We recorded two songs in Ike’s bedroom, “Pants in the Mail” and “Lumber.” They were both instrumentals, because there was no way I was banging the drumsticks together and singing at the same time. Ike was a terrific guitarist. For one thing, he actually had a guitar. For another, he had an instructional video, How to Play Guitar with Dean Hamill, which I borrowed and later lost. He could even tune. He couldn’t play chords, but who needs them?
As for percussion, I was solid on those drumsticks. Never missed a beat. I could even solo with them. Each of the songs had a good hook, a development, a solo, and a concluding section. I figured we could make a single, send it to radio stations, and be famous in a few weeks.
For some reason, though, nobody liked our music. I played it for my parents, and they hated it. I played it for my music teacher, and she said, “Don’t quit your day job.” I played it for other kids, and they gave me a look.* Eventually (i.e., after a couple days), we had to face facts: Wormwhole was a failure.
A few weeks later, though, while watching a music video and feeling misunderstood, I realized something: Wormwhole may have been a failure, but it wasn’t bad. And it isn’t bad, to this day. It’s just alternative. There’s a fine line between the two, and nobody knows where it is. Wormwhole was an alternative to alternative—our music was so alternative it would blow your mind.
First, we had no amps. Only conformists use amps. Second, we had no vocalist. Everyone’s got a vocalist; our lyrics were telepathic. Third, we had only two songs. Why write more? Fourth, parents, teachers, and (conformist) youth hated us—so we must have been good. Fifth, look at the name! Who knows what it means?
For all these reasons, and many more that I’ll think up later, you need our demo tape, Crap (and Lots of It). It features “Pants in the Mail” and “Lumber,” with five extra-special bonus tracks of me playing bass guitar and singing. The first five people who contact me by any means possible will be allowed to buy a copy. Just think: your parents won’t understand your music, your friends won’t understand your music—you’ll be the most alternative person ever.*
*See? I had to do a little research. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s easy writing a book.
*A bola is a piece of rope with a heavy ball on each end; you throw it, and it wraps around your target’s leg or neck. A sai is a three-pronged Japanese dagger. A nunchuck is two pieces of wood connected by a short chain. (You may know those last two from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.)
**I grew up in Park Slope, Brooklyn. When we first moved there, it was a lesbian neighborhood—I saw more lesbian couples than straight ones. But after a couple of years, the lesbians moved out and the yuppies moved in. By the time I was in eighth grade, it was all coffee shops, video stores, and liberal ideals.
*Although I shouldn’t have been so wimpy. A few years later, Take Our Daughters to Work Day became Take Our Daughters and Sons to Work Day! Coincidence? Well. Probably.
*I saw this look a lot in junior high, elementary school, and all the way back to kindergarten. It was the “Ugh, Ned’s talking” look people gave me when they wanted me to shut up.
*As it happens, several people contacted me about this after the book was originally published. I had to tell them that I lost the demo (it was on cassette). But years later, I popped a blank tape into my tape player to see if it had music on it—and heard some medieval-type chanting, followed by the Wormwhole demo! It was put there by God! I transferred it to a computer and now it is available at nedvizzini.com/fun/#music.