VICTIMS IN ECSTASY!

Cross-dressin' heavy metal industrialists? Quel mysterious!" you say? Nah! Victims In Ecstasy have both hands above the bedcovers at all times and no more so here than in the ViC where lead singer Jim Louvau reveals his ordinary teen traumas that shaped him into the rock n' roll Mothra that he is today. This month, Jim talks about his most persistent adolescent problem-that darned daydreamin'!

"When I was about 12 years old, I entered an unbelievable 'dream world.' It was as if one day all I cared about was horses, puppy dogs and tomboy stuff--and then the next day I was all gooey about teenage idols and romantic poetry. Fortunately, when I went to school, I was able to leave my day-dreaming behind--but, boy, at home I was something else! I suddenly hated to make up--my bed, that is, hated to do dishes, hated to help out in any way around the house and--most of all--hated to be told what to do!

Now, if any of you out there in teenland has ever been through this, don't feel strange about it and don't worry about yourself. Every single, normal girlbot goes through a 'day-dreaming' period. Actually day-dreaming isn't a problem--the problem is that we end up not dong the things we're supposed to do. My stepmom was pretty nice about it. I think she secretly hoped that if she didn't pick on me--maybe I would wise up and start helping out again. You see, we had a rather large family--there was Mom, Dad, my older sister, my younger brother Tommy (boy, is he a 'knock out'!--but more about that some other time), and my little sister Elizabeth. We were just average, middle-class folks--which means we didn't have a cook or a maid or a butler or a chauffeur. I mean, who does?!

Another thing I noticed about my day-dreaming period was that I became "independent." Mom or Dad would say, "Susan ( I let them call me Susan all the time), do this," and I would give them a semi-haughty stare and a look as if to say, "I'm above all that." But, again--(lucky me!), they didn't push. They gently corrected, occasionally give strict orders and just decided to wait it out.

After a number of months, I didn't get any better, and finally one day my dad said, "Susan, we're going to have a bit of a talk." He took me into the den, closed the door and sat me down. I got quite nervous. I thought--Now, this is it! He's really going to let me have it now! To my surprise, my father was extremely gentle. He talked to me in a slow, patient, painstaking manner.

"Susan," he explained, "there are six people in this household. A household is like a small town or city or community. To make things 'go' properly, everyone has to do their duty. No one person can do everything--and there are lots or tasks we all have to do, but we do not want to do. But whether it's a household or real life, Susan," my dad went on, "we each must do our share. It's better if we can do it out of love and understanding. For instance, it's better if you can look around you, see your brother and sisters and-- with a heart filled with love for them--want to do your part so that they won't have to do everything for you."

With that, Dad got up and left the room. I sat in stunned silence for a long time. How simply, kindly and penetratingly he had made his point. Suddenly, I felt embarrassed and ashamed. I wanted to burst out crying and go beg everyone to forgive me. But as I sat there, just being quiet and letting my emotions and subside a bit, it became clear to me that there was one thing and only one thing to do. That was to get up, put a grin on my face and go out there and to my part--and do it well!

All that happened about six years ago, but it's something I'll never forget. Dad's words to me still live in my heart. They have become like a part of my life. I still practice the guidelines he laid down for me that day. Of course, I have learned that he is right -- that whether it's your home, or town, or community, we each have to chip in and help. Learning that has not only made life easier for me--it's made life infinitely more beautiful. I found out what the joy of sharing is, and I pass it on to you for what it may be worth.