"Barbarella" • Scott Weiland (by Riayn Spaero)

for Ananda Lewis

One Mississippi after the man said, “No,  

not you, sweetheart,”  

the van door slammed, jailing my boys  

inside. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now 

how long I watched their faces, twisting  

behind doubled panes, wane  

to nothingness; chipped, powder blue  

steel and rubber erasing. It was my fault. 

The boys with last names boasting 

cadences of oo-chee and ah-chee, con-tee and polis 

were walking me home because I’d finally 

said, “yes.” I had no choice. I couldn’t risk 

a dog mauling making me miss my date 

with Scott on MTV, the base  

in my hot lava of family. Scott was going to snake  

and jerk to a Les Paul like a friend of God and beg 

some chick named Barbarella to save him 

from misery. I’d dressed in my best 

dELiA*s and Paris Blues jeans, as if 

when I shut my bedroom door, I’d transport 

pervious parts of my will, 

all of my psyche, and what I could feel 

of my skin, viscera, and bones through ultraviolet  

photons, phosphors, tower waves, surge protectors, copper wires,  

and a Sony or Canon or Panasonic lens 

to congregate and shore up 

in the front row of his performance. 

And I couldn’t have the blood and pain of a bite 

ruin the show. I’d put faith in 

our bodies—four tall boys to one small girl—to keep 

time. 22 minutes and 1, 2 Mississippi, or else 

I’ll believe fallen angels trick children 

through words in popular music. I’d warned the boys 

about the doberman, about the man who’d insist I stop 

being afraid, after releasing his dog 

to stalk their property line in hollers, growls, and paces  

on mornings I never could predict. The timing 

too perfect, exiting the sycamore-lined clearing,  

just as I’m to pass. 19 minutes 

and 1,2,3 Mississippi, or else  

I’ll believe gayness possesses through plasma TVs, so 

careful, little children, what you hear, what you see. 

When we reached the man’s house, the boys’ backpacks dropped. 

An ah-chee got on one knee, looked up at me, and caressed  

his fingers over the man’s weeds. He raked  

and harvested a rock, Cheshire smiled, then spiraled 

his torso toward the house, hurling the stone into warped siding. 

“Stop! Stop it!,” I yelled. “He has a dog!” 

“Who? This guy? Fuck this guy!” 

“Yeah, fuck this guy.” All the boys agreed, 

making harrows of their hands to trouble 

stones they launched into pallid paint,  

gaps where shingles should overlap, and crooked 

shutters. Beyond the clearing, I saw myself 

bolt past the sycamores, Shirley Temple Black’s estate,  

my cul-de-sac’s entrance, and mom’s home office door, 

but why won’t my feet just go? Screaming 

tires flashed from behind, then hedged our path. “I got you, 

you little shit!” yelled the man out the window 

of a van—an Econoline, I’m certain  

now is too late to identify. 

He leapt. My boys fled.  

But he scruffed 1, 2 of my oo-chees and ah-chees, 

con-tees and polis’, and flung them into the back, 

where his doberman whipped, snapping, 

barking. 16 minutes and 1,2,3,4 Mississippi, or else  

I’ll believe every spider is pestilence sent to bad, 

bad me. I couldn’t speak, but my right hand turned 

a finger to my chest, as if to question and accept 

blame. “No, not you, sweetheart. Go home.”  

I didn’t know then and I don’t know now 

how long my toes clung to the edge 

of his property line. I do know, 

by 3 PM, I’d put one sole in front of the other, 

and the other, and the other, and the other, 

until they snaked along with Scott,  

dancing “the Musty Queer.”¹ 

1 _{The Musty Queer is a dance invented and introduced by Scott Weiland in the song “Barbarella” off his 1998 solo debut, 12 Bar Blues. It is believed by many to have been his signature} freestyle move performed during live shows whenever the spirit so led. It came to prominence during his most androgynous period, from 1998  to 2001, in which his heavy eyeliner, extravagant wide-brim hats, silk scarves, tight satin or leather pants, leather opera gloves, and lithe physique formed an  otherworldly figure that—much like Prince and Brian Molko at the time—was at one with his masculinity but unfettered by gender presentation expectations. Born  and raised in an era where the word “queer” would’ve been hurled at him like a stone, here he reclaims, wears, and dances through it with joy and pride. The dance is  characterized by sliding feet that push hips into a sway, an undulating torso, and free flowing or staccato arms—think one part Axl Rose, two parts python, one part  Michael Stipe.

Riayn Spaero is a writer and performance artist. Her work has appeared in or at Rogue Agent, Autofocus, LIGEIA, Artemis Journal, New Feathers Anthology, The Believer, and Longreads. She's had the privilege of reading her work at The Elizabeth Street Garden & McNally Jackson Summer Poetry Reading Series as well as the Frank Conroy Reading Room at the Iowa Writers' Workshop, where she recently attended their summer grad intensive. Spaero is still learning to embrace changes to her plan, while reconnecting with her culture's healing arts and the words and rituals of her grandmother.