1994. Hatter. The Black Cat. Never mind that Rebel Girl and I were just sixteen. Nothing was more exciting than sneaking out of the house at eleven on a school night, crawling through the window of my bedroom at 11 p.m., sneaking past my mother's bedroom, and pushing—yes, two high-school girls about five feet tall—pushing Rebel Girl's 1974 VW Bug up the street. We were afraid my mother would wake up if we started it. I'll never forget the night some guy drove by and asked if we needed help. It took us a full five minutes to get rid of him, while standing next to the car just eight houses away from my own.
We'd drive downtown, find a place to park and share a 6-pack of Zima. Hey, shut up. We were sixteen. And then, we'd go tripping, singing, laughing down Sixth Street—feeling SO empowered. We'd pay our five-dollar cover at Black Cat and…we were in. If we were lucky, Rebel Girl's brother would be there too—he was the one who had introduced us to the band—and he would sneak us beers. I liked it best when he didn't bring his current girlfriend, because that meant he and I would dance and dance and I never wanted the night to end.

The shows were amazing. Tony had these intense blue eyes that almost seemed to look right through you. He was one hell of a performer, and the entire crowd seemed as if they were in a trance once he cast his spell. "Crush It" would really get us going, as Rebel Girl, Brother of Rebel Girl and I would pump our fists in the air with the music, jumping up and down. Rebel Girl was positively in love with Tony. We'd hang around after the show, waiting to get his signature and to talk to him. Usually she would freak out at the last moment, and I'd have to haul her ass back in from the alleyway where she would be frantically smoking a cigarette with some redneck twice her age. She'd talk to Tony and he would look at her with his piercing blue eyes, shake his long hair away from his face and kind of chuckle as if he was flattered.

We'd get up the next morning with just a few hours of sleep, and put on the flannel shirts we'd worn the night before. Dude, it was 1994. We LIVED in that shit. And it was not easy wearing flannel despite the season in Austin, Texas. But I can't tell you how the stale smell of smoke in our shirts was like perfume. It symbolized HATTER. THE BAND. It symbolized our freedom. We were adults. We could go to school, shrug nonchalantly and say, "Dude, we were out on Sixth Street last night, listening to this band…" Rebel Girl was going to grow up and marry Tony, and I was going to grow up and marry her brother, and it would be, like, so cool.

2003. Pushmonkey. Black Cat is gone now, having met with an unfortunate electrical fire. Rebel Girl has disappeared from my life as well. (I hope she didn't meet with some unfortunate end...) The band is now Pushmonkey and they're playing a show at the new Steamboat. MackTate agrees to subject himself to what could be absolute torture. I haven't seen them play a show in almost three years, so maybe they suck now.

MackTate and I are sitting at the bar having a drink, waiting for the opening band to finish up before Pushmonkey goes on at midnight. I see a guy who looks familiar…it's…could it be him? I lean over to MackTate, grabbing his arm. "That's the lead singer!" I hiss. "That's Tony—and oh my God, he looks GAY!" I finish in what I hope is a hushed tone. (After three drinks at Happy Hour, and working on a Dos Equis, I have a feeling it's anything but. Thank God that awful band is LOUD.) That haircut would only look at home on Jon Bon Jovi's head. What in the hell is Tony thinking? It doesn't seem to matter. He has a cluster of women around him anyway, and a couple of them duck behind the bar with him.

When the show starts, it's painfully obvious that 'ol Tony is a little older and a little heavier. And as previously mentioned, his hair's not doing so hot. And as he grabs the mike, I see the light glinting off—what is that?—gasp—it's a friggin' wedding band! TONY is married? I look wildly around for Rebel Girl, in my semi-drunken state wondering if she finally got him.

I feel old. I look at the crowd on the floor chanting away to the new songs. I get excited when they play something off of "Maize" and I actually know it, grabbing MackTate and screaming, "Hey, I know this one!" We grab some more beers and look back up at the stage. What's happened here? Guitarist Howie Behrens' hair is suddenly wet. Apparently he's taken a bottle of water and dumped it on his head, in order to faciliate the Rock Star Sweat. MackTate dubs it The Jerry Cantrell Wetdown. Later on, the waitress takes my order for a beer and never returns with it. What's up with that? I satisfy myself with the idea that she's intimidated by my inordinate beauty.

The takeaway? Tony Park still has it: that ability to lead a crowd. Being from the strange underground Hatter world, I still prefer the old stuff. But hey, that's just me. We're all growing up. Sigh.

-Shakira 02.13.03