I know! I owe y’all lots more book tour stories. And I’m going to get to it; I promise.

But now…

In honor of an upcoming Karaoke Apocalypse with The DeadMotleySexMaidens rock show, I present my second installment of “The Author’s Cut” – passages from Rollergirl: Totally True Tales From the Track that were edited from the manuscript by my super kickass Simon & Schuster editor. I agreed with her recommendation to slice these bits from the book – and I’m happy to share them with you now.

For your reading pleasure: stories about some of my favorite musicians in the world—the members of The DeadMotleySexMaidens.

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All the Sex, Drugs, and Rock’n’Roll Without the Annoying Rehearsals

It’s only a mild exaggeration to say that everyone in Austin 1) is in a band, 2) wants to be in a band, or 3) used to be in a band. For a long time, I was in the second category. Then I met the DeadMotleySexMaidens.

The SexMaidens’ Karaoke Apocalypse answers the question, “What if you replaced a karaoke machine with a headbangingly good live band?” and their playlist is a collection of the punk rock and heavy metal songs they loved in high school. They were booked to play the Texas Rollergirls Championship in 2004, and the invitation to sing with them included the magic words, “request any song you want.” Just like that, I was signed up to sing one of my all-time favorites: Social Distortion’s “Ball and Chain.”

The resume of my past musical performance experience includes such high-profile and wildly sexy gigs as:

• Soprano in the American Music Abroad Choir (recorded on a double-LP with a photo of us in our navy blue skirts, white blouses, red blazers, and all-American smiles)

• Leisl in “The Sound of Music” at Blue Mountain High School

• Piano accompanist for the Blue Mountain High School Chorus and Vocal Ensemble

• “Maid No. 3” and “Resident of Hooverville” in the Reading Civic Opera production of “Annie”

• President of the Hendricks Chapel Choir and member of the Bell Choir, Syracuse University

When the band graciously offered to rehearse with the Rollergirls who’d signed up to sing with them, I was relieved, excited, and ridiculously nervous. I’d never met any members of the band, and I expected them to be pale, skinny, studded, hipper-than-thou, too-cool-for-school, look-how-ironic-we-are-playing-hair-metal jerks.

But when Chepo, guitarist and heart of the band, opened the door, my anxiety evaporated in an instant. Chepo has a smile brighter than the maag light on your key chain—the kind of smile that makes you feel like you’ve always been friends. It’s no wonder that whenever I mention his name to someone in Austin, their response, with their own reflexive smile, is usually, “Oh! I’ve known Chepo for years!” He is the most fanatical of Star Wars fans, and as talented as he is sweet-natured. I think he can fake his way through any song after hearing it once.

He introduced me to the rest of the band…

Behind the drum kit was Adam. He was, most likely, wearing a KISS t-shirt that night; he’s almost always wearing a KISS t-shirt. His myspace page features photos of him through the years, wearing the face paint of each member of his favorite band. Steady and solid—in life and behind the drums—he keeps the beat with taut energy. He’s a vegetarian and a personal chef; I know from first-hand experience that he makes killer enchiladas.

The other guitar player is Lisa. She’s listens more than she talks, and when I’ve had too many shots of Jim Beam, I plead with her to teach me how to be a bad ass like her (to which she usually replies, “A good first step would be to stop asking me how to be a bad ass.”) She’s the go-to girl if you need an AC/DC or Metallica solo that shreds, or advice on natural remedies.

On bass: Peter. He’s got the wise-ass charm of Bruce Willis, circa Moonlighting. I’ve been advised to assume he’s always mocking me, just to be on the safe side. He writes songs so catchy, the choruses get stuck in my head for days. He has an SAT-worthy vocabulary, and he’s just as likely to talk about the most recent episode of Jeopardy! as he is about sex—and he talks about sex constantly. His answer to the question, “How’re you doing?” is always “Awesome.”

Practicing with the band that night was exponentially more rockin’ than singing with a chorus—although I’m sure I was the stiffest of the stiffs my first time at the microphone. The music was so loud, I almost couldn’t hear it—but the thud felt great under my solar plexus. The gusto the band brought to the cheesy classic “We’re Not Gonna Take It” (remember the video with Dee Snider?) removed any qualms I had about their potential for post-modern irony.

At the Championship game the next week, singing “Ball and Chain” was almost better than skating. (To the band’s credit, it was months before they told me they hated playing my Social D song.) I have friends who say they can’t sing for people they know, but it was a blast to look into the audience and see my pals Kitty Kitty Bang Bang and Cary and Nathan singing along with me.

Karaoke Apocalypse gave our Texas Rollergirls fans a chance to see another side of their favorite skaters. Who knew that Pixie Tourette could do a dead-on impersonation of the Dead Kennedys’ Jello Biafra? (Only she could pull off a sexy performance of a song that compares California’s governor to a Nazi.) Derringer .44 on “Bad Reputation.” Hot Wheels on “Paranoid.” Whiskey L’Amour on “Hit Me With Your Best Shot.” White Lightnin on “We’re Not Gonna Take It.” They showed our audience that they really are rock stars.

I was thrilled when Chepo asked me to be the hostess for the band. It’s my job to sign up people from the audience to sing—and to make sure that once they hit the stage, they keep it together enough to follow the lyric sheets I give them. Before the gigs, when the rest of the band is loading in cases and amps, looking coolly blasé, I arrive with office supplies: an accordion folder of lyrics and a clipboard. Most of the time, I drink only water, all the better to deflect drunken audience groping and to catch the music stand, the microphone, and other flying objects launched by overzealous singers.

At our first gig together—on the outdoor patio of Club DeVille—it rained in the middle of the show, then Chepo got frustrated and smashed his amp, and the whole band got drunk on Jaegermaister shots bought for us by an appreciative audience member. By 1:00 a.m., Rollergirls—Sparkle Plenty, Pixie Tourette, Buckshot Betsy, Dagger Deb, and a few others—were dancing, strutting, skipping, and gyrating on the catwalk in front of the stage, stealing drinks from innocent bystanders and each other. During our last song, they shoved Chepo into the broken husk of his amplifier and pulled him down the catwalk, like Caesar in a chariot. Chepo never stopped strumming his guitar, not even when Anna Mosity leapt into the amp case with him, alternately pummeling him with her fists and smooching his smiling face.

Another time at Club DeVille, we were joined on stage for the encore by a mariachi band: “Enter Sandman” with horn and accordion accompaniment.

The show where the rock‘n’roll train derailed with the most violence and glory was the pep rally before our season opener in 2005. The plan was a good one: all four teams would show up in uniform at the Longbranch Inn—the bar that sponsors the Honky Tonk Heartbreakers—to play team-themed games with our fans. There’d be competitive Dance Dance Revolution, carnival games, trivia… good, clean fun as an excuse to give away tickets to the bout and get people excited about the upcoming season. Then we’d all rock out with Karaoke Apocalypse.

But everyone forgot an essential Texas Rollergirls equation:

7:00 p.m. ‘til 2:00 a.m. + alcohol + Texas Rollergirls + competition = danger

From the photos in our online scrapbook, it looks like the first two fan-versus-Rollergirl competitions (with the Hustlers and the Honky Tonk Heartbreakers) went smoothly. There’s Curvette on the DDR pad, and Trouble—laughing and alert—posing with a Heartbreakers poster. A sweet shot of Rosie Cheeks shooting a pyramid of beer cups with a water gun. Oh! And there I am with my clipboard.

Then the photos take a decidedly tipsy turn.

If I squint, wrinkle up my nose, and think really hard, I can retrieve a vague recollection of all of us deciding to abandon the remaining team-themed games because the hostess and most of the participants had slowly, steadily, inexorably become alcohol-impaired.

So the DeadMotleySexMaidens took the stage. Duos were a big hit that night. Kitty Kitty Bang Bang and her beau Nathan Black did their rendition of the Misfits’ “Last Caress,” which inspired a mosh pit of shirtless, sweaty, first-pumping Rollergirl widowers, led by the owner of the Longbranch. Pixie Tourette and Anna Mosity sang together like old chums, then ended their duet with a full-on catfight at Chepo’s feet, replete with hair-pulling, biting, and a kiss-and-make-up finale.

Later, in a stunning but ill-fated display of versatility, Adam came out from behind the drums to sing a Misfits song while Chepo parked himself on the stool behind the skins. Just as Adam hit the oh-oh-ohs of the chorus, Chepo vanished. One second he was drumming, and in a blink, he was gone. He’d tumbled backward off his stool and through the curtain behind him, into the beer storage area that doubles as the backstage. But Chepo’s a pro. He was back on the stool and on the beat before half the drunks had even noticed he was gone, ignoring the blood that ran down his arm from the busted beer bottle that broke his fall.

Meanwhile, in the back of the bar, Bettie Rage and Electra Blu wrassled and rolled between the tables, squabbling over some real or imagined slight. There’s a photo of the Kodak moment that nicely juxtaposes Bettie Rage’s sweetly innocent mary jane pumps with the cocked fist she’s got aimed at Electra Blu’s nose. While the two of them scrabbled for the upper hand, a circle of jeering, frothing fans egged them on as Pixie, with a furtive glance around to make sure no one was going to stop her, poured an entire beer onto Bettie Rage’s head. Later that night, Pixie’s pink and black fuck-me pumps went MIA. They materialized at the Playland bout two days later, perched atop a 6-foot-tall speaker that only a select few of our league members could possibly reach. I have suspicions about the identity of the kidnapper.

That night—that infamous, Karaoke Apocalypse night—even I, Miss I’ve-Never-Been-In-A-Fight, got into a rumble of my own. In my defense: I take my tambourine playing very, very seriously. Cheap Trixie should know better than to fuck with my tambourine.

At 2:15, the now-clothed Longbranch owner turned on the overhead lights and ordered us to get the hell out. I’ve heard rumors that the party continued at a gentlemen’s club.

I took my clipboard and headed home.