Running with Scissor Sisters.

I was 14 when I first saw Michael Hutchence's buns slide across the screen in INXS's steamy "Need You Tonight" video. The next day their poster went over my bed, and from the fiery hell of puberty my obsession was forged. I attended my Drama Club awards banquet dressed like Michael Hutchence at the Grammys (blazer with no shirt). Every night I gazed at my poster, fantasizing in which order I'd make out with the band. Usually Michael or Jon Farris, the drummer, was number 1 on my chart.

Their energetic songs blended brilliance and emotion, and everything about them dripped with sex. The girls in their lyrics became boys in my head. They appealed to my intellect, humor, creativity, and sex. INXS was Mr. Right. If only Michael or Jon weren't straight and I weren't a minor, we would've been perfect together.

Of course, Michael Hutchence died from what appeared to be autoerotic asphyxiation gone awry in 1997, and I never felt that way about a band again ... until Scissor Sisters came along.

A year ago their cover of "Comfortably Numb" burned up the U.K charts. I downloaded it and sent copies to a few friends. I loved it but couldn't find much information about Scissor Sisters right away, so naturally I gave up.

Then came "Take Your Mama," an ingenious, jaw-dropping anthem only a Bush appointee wouldn't instantly love. I bought their album, joined their fan club, and sent an e-mail apologizing for stealing their music off the Internet, assuring them I had since paid for it and wouldn't have heard it otherwise. Also, I'd converted five others into fans and desperately wanted to marry the entire band.

I received a polite thank you and my official e-membership to the Scissorhood.

It didn't stop there. Their music not only spoke to me, it made me feel like a part of it. I Googled everything about the larger-than-life members. Jake Shears, sex on legs. Del Marquis, sex on legs. Ana Matronic, sex on legs. Babydaddy ... you get the idea. I was ecstatic to discover I was only one Friendster connection away from Jake (under his real name), and I nearly asphyxiated when I found his hookup JPEG on Connexion.org. I studied it hard, trying to see what CDs he had in the collection behind his bed. I couldn't wait to see them in concert.

Finally, they had an L.A. date I could attend! Now, if you've never had the misfortune of attending a concert in Los Angeles, imagine a stadium full of Simon Cowells. Even the most legendary performers might get no more than a reluctant shrug and the polite applause you'd find at a spelling bee. I screamed for a few minutes, but there was no rousing my fellow queens.

I was embarrassed for my hometown. I saw Los Angeles's flippancy reflected in the faces of my new American idols (via London). I'm not like them! Come back! I can't live if living is without you!

They returned a few months later, and I wasn't gonna let this city suck the energy out of me. I went with Emily and Matt, a spunky couple I turned on to the band, and Malette, a single mother whose 4-year-old is a huge Scissor Sisters fan. He thinks Babydaddy is cooler than all the Muppets combined.

We screamed, jumped, flailed our arms, and sang along. Screw the rest of the crowd.

But this crowd was different. Everyone was there to go nuts. Scissor Sisters spoke to each of us on some sort of gut level, whether it was just their kick-ass music, or as hope for those who longed to be flamboyantly gay, confident, and successful at the same time. Scissor Sisters had cut through the blase indifference of a city whose job was to turn entertainment into industry. Scissor Sisters were Christmas, and Los Angeles's heart grew two sizes that night.

I saw three teenage gays screaming next to me, and I imagined them with Scissor Sisters posters over their beds, dressing like Jake or Ana at their Drama Club awards. Part of me was jealous as hell, wishing I'd had Scissor Sisters back then, that I didn't have to change "girls" to "boys." But most of me was just happy to have a musical Mr. Right again--and this time, neither Jake nor Del is straight, and I'm not a minor.