My Coco Confession

It’s like peanut butter; I may take a break from it every once-in-a-while, but I always go back. And when I do, it’s as amazing as the first time. It’s not like a Twix bar, with which I had a love affair about a year back and, after over-dosing one day, would forever associate with nausea and the smell of smoke. No, even after a serious over-dose, its appeal remains.

 

I refer to the pulsating force that caused my body to explode into dance last night without asking my brain or lungs for permission; a five minute, five second delicacy-of-a-rock-song called “My Coco” by the very 80sish band Stellastarr.

 

I was first introduced to it over three years ago by my friend Dave who hates everything that has to do with the 80s except for this ballad to a prostitute named Coco.

 

I never really paid attention to the plot or the words of the song. The very first time I heard it in the back of Dave’s blue Toyota, something about the combination of the singer’s nerdy voice, which fluctuates ever-so-delectably, the angelic backup singer, and the echoing guitar riffs freed something within me on a very visceral level. Their combination incited a chemical rebellion in my brain, with epileptic results.

 

Luckily, Dave and my relationship was one to foster such seizure/dances as that which occurred in the car that fall morning. Dave’s dance of choice: banging things – in this instance, the steering wheel. My dance of choice: a combination of head-banging and limb-lashing. When it was over we lay exhausted breathing heavily. The opaque breath that escaped us caught the sunlight and stained my memory.

 

Since that first encounter, “My Coco” and I have enjoyed many such flings. Last night’s episode was no less intense. Better, actually, because I’ve acquired some new dance moves.