No Songs For Men - Episode 1 - All Fired Up by MariaMedia, LLC

Maria Santoferraro

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NO SONGS FOR MEN? Question #1: Off the top of your head, can you name a song that has a man’s name as the title? Answer: If you did, I’m impressed— because 92.2% of those surveyed did not! Question #2: Now if I ask you to name a song with a girl’s name as the title, I bet you can come up with something really quick… Answer: Veronica, Jane, Michelle, Angie, Layla, Maria—there are tons of great songs named after women, and I’m sure it was no problem for you to come up with a few! Why is this? Well, I think most women know the reason. We just never feel that inspired to write a love song about a man. Maybe at the beginning of a relationship we’ll pen a few verses, but eventually most men will break our heart, don’t put down the toilet seat, get love handles, annoy the crap out of us, and then there goes the hit song. The only songs I can think of with men’s names are really horrible like “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” or “Ben,” which by the way was about a rat. In the new web series No Songs for Men, all of the female characters have the names of popular rock songs from the 70’s and 80’s with a woman’s name as the title: Beth, Amanda, Jenny, Sara, and Beth’s sister, Christian. These talented women are all members of the indie rock band sensation Code Cherry! It’s The Runaways meets Sex and the City as we follow the music, sisterhood, and liaisons of these five incredible women as they compose the reasons why there really are no songs for men.

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Working Song Title – “Traffic Man” Verse one: Being caught in traffic is like being with a man At first, you’re speeding along quite content Listening to love songs on the radio Wind blowing through your hair Then all of a sudden The joyride comes to a crashing halt You’re in hell, strapped in, trapped without a choice Snaking along, wasting your time Chorus: But oh, when that engine starts to accelerate With or without him It feels great Moving forward again Verse two: You made me late… It was three o’clock Friday afternoon, the time of the week when I abandoned all hope of writing the most amazing words ever written about a lawn mower or a frosty mug of root beer and shifted my focus to the writing I loved. Previously, I had been staring at a blank computer screen, trying to write the words to entice men ages 25 to 54 to buy an insanely expensive lawn mower they really didn’t need to mow the tiny patch of grass they called a lawn. Now I was focused on the song lyrics

on my screen, my new metaphorical masterpiece inspired by my daily traffic-filled commute, and how it perfectly symbolized my relationship with my husband Cris. I’ve known for a really long time that I have two distinct parts of my brain— the part that allows me to churn out slick advertising copy that the Bryant & Dane clients ate up and the part that allows me to write best-selling songs. I’ve written many best-selling songs; unfortunately, the rest of the world just didn’t know it. That is why I spent my nine-tofive writing advertising copy—to save money to pay for better equipment, better record production, better agents,

better marketing, and, topping the list, better lawyers for my eventual messy divorce. My eyes drifted away from the song lyrics and shifted to the trinkets and pictures collecting dust on my office desk. An Addy award for last year’s successful MGS Lawn Mowers campaign, a press picture of Code Cherry that was on the back cover of our first CD, and a vintage black-andwhite photo of my parents in their college days, my dad sporting hair longer than my mom’s, standing in front of the van that I was conceived in (the actual night of insemination is not confirmed, but my mom is sure it was after a 1976 KISS concert). A yellow Post-it note with the Web site address for the Rock On! magazine “You Pick the Lineup” contest covered up a picture of my husband Cris. I don’t know why I still had the Post-it note; I had already voted and coerced everyone I knew or came in contact with to vote for Code Cherry every day for the past two months. And I really didn’t need a reminder that the winners would be

selected this week. I was a tad obsessed with winning but maintained a touch of reality in regard to our chances. I don’t know why I still had the picture of Cris either. Here’s a little piece of advice: Never marry a rock star. Sure, it can be a glamorous adventure, and the sex and drugs are, well, mind-blowing, but fame and fortune always has a price, and I was the one paying the price for my addiction to Cris Stanley. I heard footsteps in the hall and looked up just in time to see my work partner in crime as he craned his head around the corner and into my office. “Beth, you’ve got that look on your face again. Are you thinking about Ewan McGregor’s ginormous**** cock again, you bad little girl?” John asked. John was the incredibly handsome (yes, all the handsome men these days are gay) art director that I’ve been teamed with at Bryant & Dane Advertising for the past eight years and my official work-husband. His unofficial job responsibilities were to assist me in maintaining sanity, dispensing Advil and chocolate in equal doses, and talking me down from my almost daily desire to walk out on Bryant & Dane. “Hey, I loved Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge!” And then I paused to reflect for a minute. “Damn, that’s it; I finally figured out the reason why Nic left Tom. She wanted some big schlong for a change.” “You’re just now figuring that one out? Girl, we really need to get you out more.”

“Shut up and get your cute ass over here. I just found a Web site that has nude pictures of Brad Pitt!” John couldn’t have rushed into my office any quicker, and he bellied up behind my desk to get a good look at my computer screen only to be disappointed when he found it contained the lyrics to “Traffic Man.” “I take it this is neither the kick-ass ad copy you are supposed to be writing for me or Brad Pitt’s ass?” “Uh, yeah, I’m not feeling the lawn mower love this afternoon. Can I leave yet?” I asked. “Are you trying to skip out early on me again?” “Oh, please, you know I put out.” “Hah, women do not comprehend the definition of putting out. Why do you think I like playing for the other team?” John said with a grin on his face. “Because they give better BJs and don’t want you to cuddle afterward.” “Affirmative on the BJs, wrong-o on the cuddling. I like a good after-BJ cuddle.” I laughed as I stood and flipped my laptop lid down. “I am outtie, Johnny. I’m sneaking out early today so I have enough time to run a few errands and get up to Lakewood for band practice.” “Well, you better get moving. And don’t worry, I’ll be your ass tarp and cover for you if Bryant comes down here looking for his copy.” “I still can’t believe you got our offices moved down here away from the executive suites. It comes in so handy on Friday afternoons.” “It’s the least those fuckers could do. They know they’ve got to let us play a little bit if we’re going to keep producing award-winning shit.” “Well, I’m eternally grateful for what you did.” “Thanks, doll, I love you too!” “I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” “Yeah, but I’ve got a dinner party with George. It’s near the Mercury, so we’ll be just a teensy bit late.” I got a nervous look on my face that John immediately picked up on.

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“Don’t worry, I’ll start nudging George around ten. I’m not going to miss any of those new songs you’ve been writing here when you should’ve been writing copy for me.” “Ha ha, very funny; don’t tease me. I’m a little nervous about playing the new songs.” “Why? You know it’s solid.” “It’s kinda like wearing a bathing suit for the first time after the winter…you just hope people won’t laugh at your pastywhite skin. And…that the effing press doesn’t think I’m stealing from Cris again for eff sake.” I usually tried to subdue my f-bombs while at work, a major accomplishment in light of the fact that I worked with John, the f-bomber of all time. “I still can’t believe that bastard said he contributed to the songwriting on the last album when the press came after you.” “Yeah, if he tries that shit again, will you kick his ass for me?” “Kicking ass is not my sport, but in this case I would derive great pleasure from kicking that man’s ass.” I could feel my shoulders tense at the mention of the reviews for the last CD. “I hate reading the Code Cherry reviews. The critics are so damn lazy. All they ever do is compare Code Cherry to every other girl’s rock band and then feel compelled to mention Cris and his

so-called incredible songwriting skills with Intensity****.” “Don’t let those media whores bring you down, Beth. They’re just a bunch of bloodsucking parasites.” “I’m trying hard not to. I just have such an intense need for validation. I hope this time things are different.” I adore John and he was doing his best to calm my nerves about the CD release, but trying to end a conversation with him was like trying to nail Jell-O to a tree, and I could not get out the door as planned. I ran out to my car with the hope of beating the Friday rush hour traffic but knew I was screwed as soon as I heard the familiar music coming from the radio. Every Friday at five o’clock sharp, the local classic rock station played a three-song anthem to kick off the weekend. It was a weekly rite of passage for Clevelanders escaping their workweek into those two blissful days called the weekend. I turned the music up louder, rolled the window down, and participated in a rambunctious sing-along to “Born to Run” with the Boss, followed by “Bang the Drum All Day,” the beloved Todd Rundgren anthem of nine-to-fivers everywhere. Thankfully music had the ability to transport me to a happier place and calm my stress levels as I sat in traffic knowing I would be late for band practice again. I never gave myself enough time, and my family, friends, and bandmates all knew it. I’m pretty sure that my best friend Sara purposely tells me to meet her fifteen minutes to a half hour before she

really wants to meet in hopes that I’ll get there on time. It doesn’t work. Incessant tardiness was just one of the many chronic stressors I acquired over the years, along with a toxic husband, an addiction to my BlackBerry, and a slew of unpaid bills. I wasn’t worried the girls would be mad or start practice without me; I was in a hurry because I didn’t want to miss a beat of the pregame ceremonies. The girls talked some good shit, and it was a sin to miss any of the festivities before, during, or after band practice. I got that giddy sense of excitement in my stomach as I finally pulled off the freeway and drove by the familiar shops and bars that dotted Detroit Avenue and pulled up in front of the Mercury Club—Code Cherry’s official headquarters and where we loved to play the best. I ran inside and Freddie Jones, the club owner and former friend and Intensity bandmate of Cris, was behind the bar, watching the evening news and drinking a cup of coffee. Freddie was a guy who just oozed coolness, and back in the day, he had his share of groupies. I loved the way he had morphed his rock star looks into an urbansophisticated style, and he had the prettiest lips I’ve ever seen on a guy. My husband was still sporting the official rock star uniform of ripped-up low-rider jeans, shirt unbuttoned down to the navel, skull-adorned rings and necklaces, and a garden variety of tattoos in all the right places. This look got me hot in the early days, but now it just looked ridiculous at his age. “Freddie, how are you, honey?” I asked. “Hangin’ in but, girl, you look like you could use a drink,” Freddie said. “If things don’t work out here, you could make a ton of money as a mind

**** Intensity: A one-hitwonder band popular in the late ’90s. Fronted by lead singer and songwriter Cris Stanley, with Freddie Jones on bass, Van Mayer on drums, and Cash Tyler on lead guitar, they were known for their power rock anthems and catchy lyrics. They shot to fame with their hit album Intense, which went platinum, just missed being nominated for a Grammy in the Best New Artist category (typically the kiss of death in the recording industry), and toured incessantly for years.

ty i s en t n I I N T E N S E The band recorded several albums after Intense but were never able to reach the commercial success and popularity of their first album. Using his seductive allure, Cris Stanley still manages to bring in a crowd and, along with Cash, they pull together a band to tour small clubs and rib festivals each year.

reader. It’s been a bitch of a week; I could definitely use a cold one.” “Well, I hope I never lose the club. I wouldn’t get to see you lovely ladies all the time.” “Yeah, right, I know you just want to see Sara every week.” “You ain’t wrong about that. She was looking hot today, but wait ’til you see Jenny’s outfit. She’s wearing this yellow dress, cut to show all the right parts, if you know what I mean.” Freddie put his hands just above his breastbone and just below his crotch for visual effect, along with a lustful look on his face. “I got the visual, you dog. Can I get my beer, please?” Freddie grabbed a Red Stripe and inserted a lime into it. “I think I might enjoy reading your mind some more but you better run. The girls are waiting for you. You can fill me in on all the sordid details later.” Leaning over the bar, I swooped in to give him an appreciative look and a kiss on the cheek. Freddie and I had this unspoken gratitude for each other, but sometimes I felt like I needed to show a little extra love for all he had done for Code Cherry. “Thanks, Freddie, and please don’t leave the club to join the circus; we need our biggest fan right here.” Unlike Cris, Freddie had

invested his Intensity money wisely and purchased an old warehouse in Lakewood that had since been converted into a popular bar and nightclub, with the upper floors converted into office space and luxury lofts, providing great views of Lake Erie. Tucked at the back of the bar, a hallway led to a huge room that Freddie used to store liquor but also left enough room for Code Cherry to set up and practice. The acoustics were not the best, but it was a free rehearsal studio, storage unit, and clubhouse. The girls were already in the midst of a juicy discussion, and I could hear my sister Christian talking about her boyfriend Peter as the rest of the girls were laughing and getting set up to start practice. I immediately picked up Freddie’s visual as I saw Jenny struggling to lean over to plug in her electric piano without busting out of her beautiful yellow dress that I knew was one of her designs. It’s always a treat to see what Jenny, our resident fashion designer, was wearing to practice or a show, and tonight she was not disappointing. Christian, in direct opposition to Jenny’s glamour, was equal parts tomboy, punk rocker, and techno geek with her iPhone in her hand, demonstrating something on her phone to the girls when she turned around to look at the door 6

and yelled out, “Hey, big sis, it’s about time you got here.” “Oh, be quiet, you gals would drop dead if I ever showed up on time for anything.” “I don’t think we would drop dead; we’d just be stunned and amazed,” Sara said. In her cutoff jean skirt and Code Cherry T-shirt, she could pass for a cool mom who just happened to look like Jennifer Aniston. From the knees down different story altogether, because there was no way that she looked like a mother to a five-year-old girl with those kick-ass pink-studded shoes she was wearing. “Nice shoes, Sara. I bet Jessie busted a gut when he saw those.” “I got them on sale at Nordstrom, so he couldn’t bitch. He’s pretty much given up the fight on my shoe obsession. Now he just complains about me being out with Code Cherry all the time.” I gave Sara a sympathetic look. “Well, that just means that your mom and sister get to spend lots of quality time with Valerie while you’re here making music with us.” “And I love them dearly for it!” I looked back at Christian, and she was still playing with her iPhone, “Christian, would you mind rewinding for me? Sounds like I missed a good story,” I said. “I was just telling the girls that Peter called me last night from the

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road, and we were on the phone all night and…we had really amazing phone sex.” And then I noticed it. Christian had that undeniable “I had really good sex last night” smile written all over her face. “Ooh la la, I want to hear more about the phone sex. Is Peter as good on the phone as he was in the sack?” Sara asked. “Let’s just say if you haven’t had it in six months, the phone can be a beautiful thing.” Amanda popped her red head up from the drum set she was setting up and cut into the conversation. “I can testify to that! My boyfriend from college moved to Seattle, and we had some wild, steamy sex over those phone lines.” Amanda, looking cute as ever, was still attired in her black yoga pants and a white T-shirt that had “ ” on the front in a classic rock yoga shout-out to AC/DC. I couldn’t help but get a vision of Malcolm and Angus all twisted up in yoga poses and chanting “Namaste.” “What happened to that guy? You never talk about him anymore,” Christian said. “I guess you could say we lost our reception. It’s hard to keep a phone thing going when you can get real live dick right here in Cleveland. But I have an open invitation to visit Seattle anytime

for some rockin’ live one-on-one sex.” I picked up the same “I had really good sex last night” smile on Amanda’s face as she was clearly thinking about her old boyfriend. “I don’t really miss him; I just miss the sex.” “Was he the twenty-five to thirty-five single sports geek, hot body, wellendowed, socially inept light-beer drinker?” I asked. “Beth, I love it when you talk in advertising lingo. All those years at the ad agency have given you an uncanny ability to sum up a man’s personality and sexual prowess in twenty words or less,” Amanda said. “It’s a gift. What can I say?” “Could we please get back to the phone sex? Christian, did you have phone sex or were you sexting? I thought you said earlier that you were sexting all night. Aren’t you tired?” Jenny asked. “Now that you mention it, I don’t feel tired at all, but my fingers are exhausted.” “All right, what the hell is sexting? What am I missing out on now, while I waste away in the suburbs?” Sara asked. Like me, Sara lived vicariously through all the single girls’ sexual exploits and sometimes felt left out. A lot had changed since the last time we were both single, one of which was the introduction of texting to the dating repertoire. “Ooh, sexting is so much fun—all those long pauses while you’re anticipating the next ‘text’ reply on your phone and the pictures you can send…and you can do

it anywhere, anytime, without anyone knowing! I had sext while I was at work last week,” Jenny said. “Why doesn’t that surprise me, Jenny? Is there any place you haven’t had sex?” Sara asked, sounding a little like a concerned mother. “Well, now that you mention it, with the magic of mobile technology, the possibilities are endless!” Amanda started to dig in her purse and pulled out her phone. “I’m not so sure about that; there are a lot of pervs out there.” She quickly thumbed through her recent text messages and pulled up one, shook her head with a disgusted laugh, and passed the phone to Christian. “Check out this one. I got introduced to this guy from one of my yoga students. Seemed nice, real cute, and we start exchanging texts. Then out of the blue, before we even go out on a date, he sends me a picture of his pecker with the caption ‘want some of this baby?’” “Oh my God, Amanda, why do you always meet guys that do weird shit like that?” I asked. “Exactly. The first time you are exposed to a man’s junk should not be on your cell phone. Does that really have to be explained to men?” “Who cares? This guy’s unit is really big,” Christian announced as we all promptly ran over to see the picture on Amanda’s phone. Sara had a funny look of disbelief on her face as she snatched the phone away from Christian to get a closer inspection.

“Wait a minute. Is that his toe next to his dick? This moron didn’t even have the sense to move his toe from the frame. Doesn’t he know the importance of camera angle and scale?” Sara said, laughing. “And really, he could do for some man grooming down there.” “Amanda, why are you keeping that…thing on your phone?” Jenny asked. “It amuses me in some sick, twisted way, and you never know when you might need to send it out on Facebook to all his friends for some revenge. Be careful what you send out there, girls, especially when you’re drinking and get the urge to sext.” “Well, with that public service announcement, enough tool talk, girls; let’s play,” I said. I looked around and everyone was already set up and ready to start playing. We usually exchanged stories and gossip a lot longer, but I knew we all were anxious to get one last practice in before we debuted the new CD tomorrow. We had been playing for a good

hour, and I was loving the sound. Amanda was ripping on the drums, Sara looked like she was in another world while strumming out the bass chords, Jenny was patiently waiting for the sax solo, and I was in the second chorus of “Pick Me” when the sound of the guitar riff was suddenly ripped out, and the rest of the band stopped playing one by one. It was an unwritten band rule that cell phones were not permitted during practice, but when I turned around to look at Christian, she had fished out the phone from the side pocket of her cutoff cargo pants and was motioning for all of us to stop playing so she could hear the call. We all looked around at each other in disbelief, as this was atypical behavior in Christianland. I moved closer to try and make out the cryptic pieces of conversation consisting of “Yes…no way…wow,” and “Hell yes, we can make it then.” She had one hand gluing the phone to her ear, and the other was furiously alternating from covering her other ear to covering her mouth, with a look of shock as she hung on every word. “Christian, who was that?” I asked, not knowing if I should be scared or excited as she ended the call. I wasn’t ticked she had broken the rule because, clearly, it was an important call. With a prideful look and a few furious fist pumps to the air, she

replied, “That was my new best friend Sheena from Rock On!, and we did it, girls! Code Cherry made the lineup for the Rock On! Fest!”

Screams! Amanda threw her drumsticks into the air, and I ran over to hug Christian. As I did, the rest of the girls all ran up to join Christian and me in a honking group-hug huddle. Sara came running so fast and hard that the cord on her bass jerked her back a foot before she could untether herself and make it to the hug. A chorus of woohoos, oh my Gods, and holy shits were the musical accompaniment to the euphoria in the room. The switch and volume control knobs of Christian’s guitar were grinding into me, but I didn’t care as we all started jumping up and down together in unison. “Christian, you are a social media genius!” Sara said. Breathlessly, Jenny pulled out of the hug. I later realized that she was the first of us to have a reality check about what this announcement really meant. “Christian, we need more details… When do we start? Do we get paid? And, more importantly, how bad did we beat out the other bands?” Jenny asked. “Well, I can only tell you what I know at this point. We get one of the side stages before the headliners, and we’ll need to pull out end of June and play through September. They’re gonna 10

send all the contract details to Beth, but Sheena said they cover all our travel expense, with a little extra stipend thrown in, and we get a cut on all our merch sales.” “Is Sheena a punk rocker?” Amanda said, clearly amusing herself. I had to stop and take in the moment. We all wanted to win the contest, but we were up against five other bands, and the competition was fierce. The other bands had larger fan bases, had toured nationally before, and had really impressive videos, but the one thing they didn’t have was a Christian, who had made it her mission over the past two months to spread the gospel of Code Cherry. She created a phenomenal social media campaign to get us the exposure and the votes we needed to win. Holy shit, we were going to be part of Rock On! Fest, an all-day summer concert event held at outdoor music venues in almost every major market. We were about to join an eclectic mix of independent rock bands, touted as the hottest new talent and finally meet our public. The public that picked Code Cherry! “I don’t care if we make any money; the exposure will be priceless,” Sara said. “Wow, this is surreal. I can’t believe this is happening; it’s what we always wanted, but I just want to make sure everyone can really leave jobs and family behind to do this,” I said as I looked around at all of the girls to see their expressions. “Don’t worry about me,” Sara jumped in, “I’ve got plenty of time to figure out a babysitting plan for Valerie and for Jessie. I’m in, dammit. I don’t care what Jessie has to say about it!” “Two months from now is plenty of time to get people to replace me at the yoga studio. You know my ass is in!” Amanda proclaimed. I knew we didn’t have to ask Christian. She didn’t have a full-time job, and the band was her life. “You don’t have to worry about me. I can’t wait to put in my notice at Brain Drain, but, Jenny, what about you? Are you going to be able to leave your job?” I asked. Jenny had moved away from the group hug by now and

was preparing to sit on the floor. She had given up the struggle to keep her dress covering her private parts, and when she sat she instinctively pulled up the dress and crossed her legs in an effort to shield us from seeing anything private. We all shifted our attention to her. “It’s a lot to process, but I’ll figure it out,” she said as she looked a million miles away in thought. “Oh, I forgot, Rock On! is flying out here next week to videotape us for promotional announcements,” Christian said.

don’t forget about your Uncle Freddie when you hand out the proceeds,” he said. “We won the Rock On! contest,” I announced. With a look of pure amusement, Freddie said, “No shit, the Code Cherry girls are going on tour. Welcome to the world of sex, drugs, and rock and roll, my ladies!” “We couldn’t have done it without people like you, that promoted us and voted a gazillion times,” Christian said. “I think this calls for champagne, girls. My treat,” I said. “I’m down for that,” Amanda said. “Oh no, this one is on me; you girls deserve rock star champagne,” Freddie said and walked behind the bar and opened up a locked cooler and carefully brought out two bottles of Armand de Brignac champagne, waving the shiny metallic gold and pink bottles in the air like a pair of sparklers. “I’ve been saving this for a special occasion and finally got me one.” He took great care opening the bottle embossed with an Ace of Spades seal, and we all burst into a round of woohoos when the cork popped and made that magical sound of celebration. Freddie presented the cork to Christian and promptly poured us all a glass of the sexy, sparkling brut gold. “Wow. I’ve always wanted to try the Ace of Spades,” Amanda said. “I’d like to make a toast to Code Cherry, the hottest girls in rock. Here’s to new beginnings and living, laughing, and rocking out to the amazing things in life!

MORE Screams! “That’s it, band practice is officially over. To the bar, girls, it’s time to celebrate!” I said. The club was starting to fill up, and the band made quite an entrance hugging and hollering as we made our way to an open area at the end of the bar. Freddie was talking to a customer at the other end and gave him the wait-aminute signal so he could hurry down the bar to find out what all the celebration was about. “What the hell is up with you girls? Did one of you win the lottery?” Freddie asked. “As a matter of fact, we fucking did just win the lottery!” Christian said. Freddie had a huge grin on his face, but I could tell he was curious as hell to know what was up with the band. “Oh yeah, well,

Watch out Rock On! Fest, here we come,” I said as I lifted my glass up and looked at the excited faces of all my bandmates. We savored the bubbly along with Freddie, fielding all his questions, and Christian and I started to talk about breaking the news to our family and friends. “Christian, let’s wait to tell Mom and Dad tomorrow night at the show. That way we can tell them together,” I said. “Dad’s coming to our show?” “I talked to Mom today, and she knows it will be late, but she said she would get him to come. I can’t wait to see their faces when they hear.” “Yeah, me too.” Jenny started to wave her hands to get everyone’s attention. “I’d like to make a toast as well.” She cleared her throat, took an extremely exaggerated deep breath, and closed her eyes tightly. “Here’s to my…own new beginning as associate design consultant for the House of La Moda in Paris.” Message delivered, she waited a few seconds to open her eyes to gauge our reactions. We all had raised our glasses in anticipation of Jenny’s toast, were ready to take a sip, and now we were looking around at each other in a state of confusion. What the hell just happened? “What Jenny is trying to tell us is that she has some good news as well. She got accepted into the designer associate program at La Moda. You know she’s put her heart and soul into getting into the program these last two years, and she just found out. It’s an incredible opportunity,” Amanda said. Jenny and Amanda were best friends and roommates, so it was not surprising that Amanda already knew about Jenny’s plans, but I couldn’t believe that Jenny hadn’t told us about getting accepted. “It’s more than incredible, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Only two people get accepted every year, and I’m one of them! The suck-ass news is that I

leave for Paris a few weeks after the tour begins, so I can’t go with.” I’ve never been hit by a bullet, but I’m pretty sure the deep stinging sensation I felt in my gut right at that moment is pretty damn close to what it feels like. Don’t get me wrong, I was really happy for Jenny; she had the talent to make it in the design world, but dammit, why did the timing suck so bad? Code Cherry had an undeniable chemistry, and losing a member would throw off the whole dynamic. “Holy shit, I can’t believe this is happening. Can’t you postpone Paris? We can’t go on tour without you,” Christian said. “Yeah, Jenny, you bitch, get your priorities in check,” Sara said, with a twisted facetious smile on her face. “What a buzz kill. Couldn’t you let us have at least one night to celebrate?” Even though I knew she was kidding, I was glad Sara had said it. Christian was so pissed she didn’t even wait for an answer and stormed out of the bar. “I’ll go talk her down,” Amanda said. “Here take this,” Freddie said, handing Amanda a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “I think Christian may need some liquid Xanax to bring her down.” I was focusing on my breathing. Amanda had got me hooked on

yoga, and deep breathing was my go-to remedy when a stressful situation presented itself. This was more than stressful, it was a nightmare. I looked at Freddie, who had that typical manly “what the shit just went down here?” look on his face as he shrugged his shoulders and walked away, not wanting to deal with the ensuing drama. “Beth, listen to me. This was not an easy decision for me, and I didn’t want it to turn out this way. I can’t help the timing, but I will help you find a replacement, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get her up to speed. I’m really sorry but you have to know this Paris thing is really important to me.” “You know we’ll be damn lucky if we can find someone for keyboards and get her up to speed in time, but we’ll never find someone that plays the sax like you. Thank God your voice sucks, or else we’d have to find someone that can sing too,” I said with a bitter look on my face. “Beth, don’t beat her up. I’m sure she’s already tortured enough about this,” Sara said. “That would be an understatement. This is the story of my life; good things always come in pairs, like getting asked out by two guys both for the same night.” “Jenny, I’m really excited for you, but you have got to promise me two things, or else I’ll never forgive you for leaving the band,” Sara said. “What?”

“Well, first, you have to keep designing clothes for Code Cherry to wear.” “That’s easy; I was already planning on that. What’s the second condition?” “I need you to teach me how to sext! I’m going to need something to keep Jessie in line while I’m out on the road.” Jenny and Sara both started to laugh, and Jenny got up off her bar stool to hug Sara. “I’m going to cry, really, stop it. I’m very emotional today; it’s tough making a major life decision like this.” “Oh my God, Jenny, it’s about time you made a fucking life decision,” I said, and as pissed as I was, I knew I had to accept Jenny’s decision, so I went over to join them in the second group hug of the night, albeit smaller than the earlier one. I wasn’t fully at peace with her decision, but I knew that I would come to terms with it eventually and willed myself to think positively about the outcome. The three of us went back to the bar and picked up our champagne glasses, and I started to tease Sara about becoming a serial sexter. It was my lame-ass attempt to divert our attention away from our two missing members and whether or not Christian would ever forgive Jenny. Just then, two women approached the bar and waved over Freddie to take their order. “We’d like two Effen cosmopolitans, lightly pink, lightly sweet, with a lime garnish. But we want to see the lime first to make sure it is clean and fresh,” Girl Number One said. I turned to Sara and Jenny and said intentionally loud enough for the two women to hear, “What the hell? Who let those Starbuckers in here? Did I really just hear lightly pink in an order for a cosmo?” “Did I just hear there’s an Effen vodka? Now there’s a vodka I want to try,” Jenny said.

“Bring Me To Life “ Aren’t you dying to hear “Traffic Man”?! Code Cherry’s music deserves to be heard, and you can make it happen! Help bring the music to life by making a donation to the Code Cherry Recording Fund. Every cent of the donations will go straight to the kitty to pay the musicians and recording studio in order to bring the downloadable song links right here to No Songs for Men.

band members needed Do you know a woman rocker who would be great for Code Cherry? E-mail us at info@mariamedia.net.

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Thanks and Rock On! “Rockin’ in the Free World” We hope you enjoyed reading this episode of No Songs for Men! We plan to keep them coming every two weeks, jammed full of Code Cherry escapades and a few little fun extras for your reading enjoyment. Help us Rock On! by making a donation— and don’t worry, no amount is too small. Every dollar sent goes to pay for production and maybe a cup of organic tea for the production team.

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Maria Santoferraro was born and raised in Northeast, Ohio. After graduating from Marietta College with a degree in advertising, and her entrepreneurial debut of CareerGear, she went on to pursue a glamorous career in the field of advertising, managing major soft drink, condom, fast food and diaper brands until she decided to shuck it all and create No Songs For Men. She loves living in Ohio with her husband, but is working out a plan to split her time and work and play remotely from either a tropical island, a ski slope, Paris or wherever they want. Hey, a girl can dream! This is her first web series. Visit the author’s website at: www.mariamedia.net Book design by JAS Graphics jasgraphics.biz Character illustrations by Renee Lethbridge Design Services www.reneelethbridge.com Published by MariaMedia, LLC Copyright © 2010 by Maria Santoferraro Live, Laugh, Rock and Return to MariaMedia

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