Disclaimer: I don't own The Rocky Horror Picture Show

A/N: If you ask me, RHPS takes place in 1974. That means this story will probably take place over five years. I wonder how long it will take to write. Hopefully not too long. The first two-thirds of the story will be about "Columbia" (aka Laura Trent) and a variety of original characters. There will be lots of road trips and such, so I might end up adding in some Rocky/Shocky-related cameos.

Anyway, I hope people enjoy this.

3/1/1969

Dear Diary,

I've never done this before. My life has always been so painfully boring, so I never felt the need to write anything down. All I ever did most of the time was wake up, eat breakfast, got to school, hang out at the park with my best friend Barbara, eat dinner, and the go to sleep. Nothing ever changed. To make matters worse, everyone I know is astoundingly boring.

Well, not Barbara. That's whats so awesome about her. She's pretty... out-there. Most days she'll wear a big, flowy, off-white peasant blouse and a long, patterned, ethnicky looking skirt. When she wasn't barefoot she wore old, navy-blue rain boots. When we were in seventh grade she mod-podged a few dried daises to them. Only Barb would think of something like that. Still, it was cool. She can pull that kind of stuff off. I can't. Of course, my parents would never even let me do anything like that... even if it looked 'right'.

My parents are total squares. Dad works at the local band all day long. Mom spends her time cooking, cleaning, and reading old Agatha Christie novels. Neither of them swear or listen to rock music. I have to hide my records sometimes to keep them from getting 'taken away'. Barb, who believes that their censorship crushes creativity, often helps. Her parents are way better. They're artists that dress all nature-y and never eat meat. Also, they don't go to church. Instead they practice an Eastern Religion of some kind. It's really interesting. If I tried telling mom about all the statues they've got... well, she'd be furious. How narrow minded my parents are! They need to learn to be accepting of other cultures. Mom wouldn't even try the Indian food Barb made for her one time. They're both so uptight and racist an backwards and boring.

Perhaps I should've started writing a diary years ago. Writing this down makes me feel a bit less angry. Of course, that isn't the point. I didn't start this journal for therapeutic reasons. I started it because my life isn't boring anymore. Things have begun happening and I must write them down.

Not five hours ago I drove to Miami with Barb and her older brother George. Somehow, Barb had gotten tickets to see the Doors. (I told mom I was going to a lecture at a nearby university). Like everyone else in the universe, we'd all heard Light My Fire on the radio a million times over the past few years. Personally I preferred some of the songs off of Strange Days (mostly People Are Strange).

The concert venue was apparently a sort of ex-airport... I think. I'm not really sure. I do know that we ended up standing pretty near the edge of the stage. That meant we could see the band pretty well.

Sadly, the singer arrived about an hour late. To make matters worse he was drunk out of his mind. Yet there still was something beautiful about him. Though he'd gained a bit of weight and his fair, youthful face was hidden behind a beard he was still Jim Morrison. The Jim Morrison! It didn't matter that I was surrounded by hundreds of other strange, sweaty, tired young people. The Lizard King was practically within arm's reach.

Of course, he was a bit barbaric. Jim cursed at us all, the expressed feelings of deep love, then started swearing again, then sang a bit more, and so on. He hated and adored us (and vice versa).

He spoke of love and revolution. He told us that we should be dancing, rather than merely standing there. Commanding and screaming and condemning, he looked like a mad God (the beard and peasant shirt certainly helped). He was a modern Dionysus with a backing band. Something about his intensity mesmerized me. Even though he drunk out of his mind and clearly messing with everyone, he had power. Charm. Jim was dangerous and profane. I'd never seen anything like it. There was all this emotion and intensity and I didn't know where to put it so I started crying.

At some point someone poured a glass of something on him. That's when he took of his shirt... and things really started to go downhill. The crowd looked ready to riot. Barbara grabbed by hand and, without a word, began to pull me through the wild crowd. George followed close behind.

Finally, we found ourselves in the parking lot again. In silence we got into George's car and began driving away.

"I think the Lizard King was trying to induce a riot," Barb said quietly.

"He may have succeeded," George replied darkly.

And then there was silence. Nobody knew what to say. At least the drive wasn't too long.

When I got home it wasn't too late, mercifully. Mother was waiting for me in the kitchen, sipping coffee and reading Third Girl.

"Did you learn anything?" she asked, without looking up.

"Yes." But did I really?

"Good."

Without further ado I made my way upstairs. I couldn't let myself stand there in the kitchen for much longer. All these thoughts and feelings and memories from the concert were bound to burst out at any moment. If Mom knew where I'd really been she'd be horrified. There's nothing worse than fighting with one's own mother...

Anyway, that's when I decided to start keeping a diary. My aunt gave me this notebook for Christmas last year and I'd apparently put it in my desk without much thought. It's a wonder I didn't just throw it away.

Hopefully more interesting things will happen so. For some reason, I feel like that concert was the start of an adventure.

- Laura Trent, age 16

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