THE RAMONES PUMP IRON

Joey Ramone is not my brother. For six years, people have been approaching me at Ramones gigs, giving my uncontrollable wavy hair, pale skin and near-sighted squint the once-over, comparing me to the similarly-hued and peering gangly lead singer. Once or twice I mistakenly wore little round granny glasses to a Ramones show and was stared at by hundreds of their fans. True, both Joey and I were raised in the boroughs of New York City, are approximately the same age and revere a 1960’s disc jockey called Murray the “K,” but Joey was a high school rebel who moved to the grotty Lower East Side as soon as he could slip away, while I sucked up the academics and relocated to his former middle-class Queens neighborhood.

It‘s for that reason I feel like I’m about to spend an afternoon with a distant member of my family when I arrive at Joey’s apartment building. We know each other casually from over the years, and it’s hard for me not to inquire after the health of some fictitious mutual cousin. When Johnny arrives, he starts to stare and wonders why I look so familiar. I say “writer” and hope for the best.