Four nights after the death of Lux Interior:
Dawn was alternating excited bouncing with teen-cool boredom. Spike was about to crawl out of his skin.
"C'mon, Spike! She's supposed to perform, but I don't know when! I've brushed my teeth, my backpack is ready for school tomorrow, and I'll go right to sleep as soon as she's done! I promise!"
"Oh, for … I can't believe I let them rope me into this! I used to have a shred of dignity, you know. But now, it's babysitting and pop princesses. Is that The Jonas Brothers with Stevie Wonder? Stake me now."
"So, can I stay up?"
"Just until little Briancyé does her thing, I suppose. And, only if it's before ten! I'm not gonna sit through this shite for another hour. And if Coldplay gets up there one more time, it's off."
"Thanks, Spike! You're an ange…angry old codger of a vamp! Grrr! Rock on!"
Spike pretended not to notice the near slip of his grandsire's name. There were too many other things to be upset about, and the idiotic Grammys were a huge irritation. None of the prancing about on the screen was likely to help him with his pain. Another of the greats: gone. Never to be acknowledged by the wankers holding this little pat-on-the-back-fest.
"Oh, there she is! Ohmigod! Finally!"
The well-scrubbed young chanteuse stepped out of her giant banana and started to shake her fruity hips at the Marlene Dietrich/Faye Dunaway styled dancing girls. She growled out the opening lyrics, and he was hit by a sense of déjà vu so powerful that he closed his eyes.
"Siouxsie…" he breathed.
Dawn avidly watched the screen, but she did have the decency to mumble, "Huh?"
"Siouxsie Sioux. She sounds just like Siouxsie Sioux." He kept his eyes firmly shut.
"What are you talking about? You've heard this song a thousand times. It's not Suzy anybody, it's Katy Perry!" Dawn did not look away from the television.
"Yeah, well, she never sang it like this before." He opened one eye. "Looks a little like Poly Styrene, if I squint," he muttered. The singer did a little pogo and he opened his other eye. She twirled around in her lime green ballet flats and leaned into one of the white-suited dancers, and trilled naughtily about her "cherry chapstick". He leaned forward.
"I like her dress," he decided. "It's almost as nice as that swan number Bjork wore."
Dawn tsked. "You're so weird."
"Least I know my history. Looks like your bird might, too. A little."
As the song ended, the camera panned to The Jonas Brothers, their jaws hanging open. Spike snorted loudly. "Those pillocks don't know diddley," he muttered, then stopped as he realized just how right he was. He snapped off the telly. "Won't have you growing up ignorant of the finer things. You're getting a little history lesson, missy. Starting with Bo Diddley and ending with Lux Interior, may they both torment whoever's keeping 'em in the afterlife."
He rubbed his hands together. "So, how do you run this YouTube thingy, anyhow?"