At thirteen, I was convinced I'd be a rock star just like Chrissie Hynde. A bass guitar was what I missed. Someday, I'd lay down the sounds that hold guitar and drums together. I would be musical glue. Night after night I'd analyze the bass guitar ads, memorize Fender, Gibson, Ibanez, and Vox. How they tantalized with cool. Gleaming machine heads, and more colors than a candy store. Born to rock, this skinny oddling of a girl? Christmas, 16, a black Montgomery Ward bass from mom and dad. Oh rainbow world opening its windows for me while calluses flowered on fingers. I was bad. I was a badass. Gypsy clothes, and boots of black leather. Joined a band, and then another. Tours crammed in an Econoline van. Airplay. Thick stacks of albums on hand at our gigs. After we jammed one night I met a man backstage. A friend of a friend. Our karma together bloomed like climax. I had to decide on man or band. We both have amps sitting in our living room.