Infinity on High

Dear Loser (Draft 2)

Dear Loser

I, Robin Stanley, am a loser. I know this because Sub Pop Records told me so.

I pulled my car into the parking lot of Sub Pop's office in Seattle with an Against Me! song blaring from my stereo system. After I parked, I pulled my guitar case out of my trunk, with the letter that I had received sixteen years earlier tucked away deep inside of it. My Doc Martens clicked across the pavement and I adjusted my leather jacket, hoping that the rest of the Wallbangers wouldn't have too much trouble getting here. I didn't see any of them yet, but I knew that they would come soon.

All of a sudden, Colin's sleek black car pulled into the parking lot. Ever since I first saw it at a Dropkick Murphys concert, I wished that I could have a car like that. It wasn't a perfect car - it did have its scratches and dents - but perhaps that was what made it perfect in my eyes. It was punk rock in an indescribable, irreplicable, amazing way.

"Hey Robin," Colin said. "Where are Joey and Leo?"

"They're coming," I said as I took a sip of my coffee. Sadly, I had failed to convince my bandmates of the superiority of Sardansiment Brew.

"Thank goodness that traffic here is better than it was in Los Angeles," Colin said. "Remember that?"

"Of course I remember," I said. "We didn't move out of L.A. that long ago."

"Why are we here again?" Colin asked.

"That's kind of complicated," I said. "Are you sure that you want to hear it?"

"I'm sure," Colin said.

"The first reason is rather obvious," I said. "We're here because Leo is drumming on Mona Davis' new record. I'm honestly kind of excited to hear it. She's one of my favorite artists."

"If that was really the case, then neither of us would be here at all," Colin said. "That's Leo's job, not yours."

"The second reason is a little more complicated," I said. "I'm here because I need to get revenge on Sub Pop for calling me a loser."

Colin laughed. "When did that happen?" he asked.

"When I was twelve," I said.

"You need to tell me the whole story here," Colin said.

I told him everything, and as I did, the confident twenty eight year old man standing in the parking lot dwindled away until I was a twelve year old child again, playing my first guitar in my bedroom. I played the same three chords over and over, waiting for a song to assemble itself. I hadn't quite mastered my instrument, but then again, Kurt Cobain wasn't the best guitarist in the world either.

At that moment, an idea came to me. If I wanted to be as famous as my idols, then I needed a record deal. It didn't matter to me that I was barely able to play the guitar, or that no record label would ever want to sign a twelve year old kid. If Kurt Cobain could get signed to a label, then so could I.

Eventually, my ambitions grew, and I became more and more adamant that I needed a record deal, ignoring all of the other possible avenues into the music business in the process. I researched creating a home recording studio at my local library, and I told all of my friends that I was going to become a rock star once I managed to get myself signed to a label. I wrote dozens of songs, and selected only the best ones for my debut record. Finally, I brushed up on my guitar skills, and though I still wasn't perfect, I thought that I was talented enough that I could get a record deal.

After months of hard work, I approached my dad and asked if I could buy a better microphone and some recording equipment. "That's expensive, Robin," he said. "We don't have that kind of money."