Mellifluous || c.h.

Adventures in Journalism

2014
I still looked younger than anyone here, but it didn't bother me much anymore. I was a fifteen year old senior, how could it get better? I learned to keep to myself as much as possible, but that didn't stop the torment in school. I also learned the art of music, thanks to Anna. It ranged every where, The Beatles to Metallica to Blink-182 to Led Zeppelin, and everything in between. It also sparked my interest in journalism, or specifically music journalism and William Miller was my inspiration.

I looked up from my copy of Rolling Stone to see a crowd of people at the outside bulletin board. They were all giggling, meaning a freshman screwed up, or it was me. I put the magazine in my bag and walked to the crowd, bad mistake.
A sign on the board caught my attention: Lexi Parker, to young to drive (or fuck). Classy, real classy.
I shrugged as I turned away from the crowd.

~~~~~~~

"Great to have the great William Miller back home in San Diego," the disc jockey said as she turned the song off.
I stood outside of the window, looking at the small women with raspy voice and my bearded hero, William Miller. No one was out on the streets, as I watched the live radio interview go on though the speaker outside.

"What is this pop station?" William asked, "Where's Blink-182? Don't you have a copy of Dammit?"

"William isn't this a little early?" The women asked.

I watched as Miller took the computer and began scrolling through the songs. I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. Soon Easy Target erupted from inside, and all I could do was stand outside as the whirlwind of anarchy happened inside. If only he knew I was standing outside soaking in everything he was doing.

~~~~~~~

I was actually walking beside him, the William Miller. He was older, salt and pepper hair, a trimmed mustache. He looked tired like he had been writing all night, but he still had spunk to him.

"So you're the kid that has been writing me all the articles from your schools newspaper," William said to me.

"I've been doing stuff for a local underground paper too," I told him.

"What are you like the star of the school?" He asked.

I paused, "No they hate me."

"You'll meet them in the long journey to the middle," William said.

I nodded as we continued to walk on. Everything he said was important, so I had to keep everything in mind.

"Your writing is pretty damn good, it's a shame you missed out on rock and roll," he shrugged like it was no big deal.

Missed out on rock'n' roll? Sure there weren't that many Rock bands nowadays, but there were still some. "Over?"

"Over," he clarified, "You are about 30 years late kid."

Miller stopped and looked down at me, "Rock died when Bonzo died."

I was speechless and didn't know what to say and I knew he could sense that.

"Do you like the new Madonna?" He asked me.

"Her older stuff. The new stuff she is trying to be a 20 year old again, too much like a pop star."

"Yeah but if, the pop star is doing Madonna, and Madonna is doing pop star, Madonna is still doing Madonna," Miller told me.

"If you like Madonna," I emphasized if.

"Do you do drugs?" He asked.

"No."

"Smart kid," Miller told me, "I used to so speed and NyQuil and stay up all night, writing, and writing, 25 pages of drabble about Blink or Nirvana, just to write, you know, with music blasting."

"Me too," I told him, "The writing parts."

The serious demeanor of William Miller vanished, and he actually began to laugh. It was odd but charming, like a tough guy who tried to keep his laugh hidden, that kind of laugh. It surprised me and all I could do was smile back.

He offered me a last smile and a pleasant nod before leaving. "Well, alright. It's been nice meeting you. Keep sending me your stuff."

"Okay see you soon," I told him, not expecting a reply back.

"I can't stand here all day and talk to my many fans."

I looked around at the deserted street. Nobody, including us had to be anywhere this early in the morning. We were alone, no one in sight.

~~~~~~~~~

I listened intently to Miller who had his face deep in a sandwich and telling me a story.

"-so you're from San Diego. That's good. Because once you go to L.A., you're going to have friends like crazy but they will be fake friends, there gonna try to corrupt you. The publicists! The bands! You got an honest face, they're gonna tell you everything. But you CANNOT make friends with rock stars."

I took out a notepad, gesturing toward it, asking if I was allowed to take notes. Miller nodded as he chewed on his sandwich.

"Cannot make friends with the rock stars," he said before taking a savage bite, "That's important. If you're a rock journalist, a true rock journalist. First, you won't get paid much. But you will get free music from the record company."
Miller looked like he was out of his brutal writing style, but more compassionate toward me.

"And they'll buy you drinks...you'll meet people...they'll try to fly you places for free...offer you drugs...I know. It sounds great. But they are not your friends. These are the people who want you to write sanctimonious stories about the genius of rock stars and they will ruin rock'n roll and everything we love about it. They already have."

Privately I was thrilled. It all sounded great to me. I listened to the grouping of words, madly scribbling them down on my green notepad.

"They are trying to buy respectability for a form that is gloriously and righteously-" he stopped searching for the right word, "-dumb! And you're smart enough to know that. And to the day where is ceases to be dumb is the day it ceases to be real. Right? And then it will just become and Industry of Cool. Hipsters for example."

"Industry...of...cool," I mumbled to myself as I wrote it down.

And that's what they want! And it's happening right now. I'm telling you, you're coming 30 years late. A very dangerous time for Rock'n roll. The war is over. They won, record producers and the abundant amount of teenager girls. Except you, you're cool. 99% of what passes for rock now...silence is much more compelling. It's over. I think you should turn around and go back and be... a lawyer."

My face dropped. He couldn't be serious. Was he pulling a page from my mom's book? Have they been talking?

"But I can see from your face that you won't. I can pay you thirty-five bucks. Gimme a thousand words on Green Day,"

"An assignment," I said trying to act cool.

"Yeah. And you should build your reputation on being honest...and unmerciful," he told me.

"Honest...unmerciful," I scribbled in my noted.

"And if you get into a jam-call me. I stay up late."