TWENTY SEVEN YEARS
Lolita: The number 27 is so powerful that a successful Boston band uses it as their name. And as of this month, we can lay claim to completing 27 years of writing our column for the Noise. Rita: Amazing. Lolita—it’s not the 27th anniversary of the Noise—it’s the 27th year of you writing your column. Lolita: What’s your problem? You wrote the column too—well, except for that issue when we walked out on T Max because of the shitty typewriter he made us use. Rita: No, it was because he stopped dating you. Lolita: Okay, but after I hit him over the head with the typewriter, it stopped working. How could we write the column? Rita: To our younger readers, typewriters are those machines that replaced carving letters in stone. Lolita: Yeah, that first issue of the Noise was heavy. Seven 20 lb. slabs of granite chiseled out our premier issue. Distribution was a bitch, but the brontosaurus never complained. Rita: Yeah, those were the days—being dragged around by the hair, not having to worry about an electric bill, and listening to rock music made with real rocks. T Max: Will you two stop romancing the past and come back to 2008. There’s a war going on and our president intends to screw us as many times as he can before he leaves office. Lolita: Was he really in our office trying to screw someone? T Max: Let our friends vent—ask them what they’d like to say to him. Rita: Okay—can we make believe they’re stuck in an elevator with him? T Max: I don’t care where they are. Lolita: But if they weren’t stuck in an elevator with him, he might not be able to hear them over the band. T Max: Okay—they’re in an elevator.