Game.

While on the door last night regally rocking my Stevie Nicks top hat and far too much gold glitter dusted cleavage( Make the lyrical connection people,work with me here,its 7;30 in the am and I am not doing all the hard graft here.Give a hustler a break,I am knackered .) I caught up with an old friend. Dapper as ever and cooler than anyone has a right to be, he informed me with a definable twinkle in his eye that he was back in the game.

( Game? What is this game that you speak of? Enough of your foolishness peasant ! Water for my horses and wine for my men immediately !)

I said that I was delighted for him and after wishing him a fond farewell I played nice with the kiddies,processed them though the portal,down the stairs to their Saturday night sins of choice, flipped my switch to autopilot and commenced  stomping around indelicately in my bog of a mind.

Looking for clues.

“Are there rules to this game?” I wondered as security barreled past me in a flying wedge yelling to call an ambulance to attend to an overdose freshly discovered in the grotty back ally. ” And if so who sets them and why did I never receive my copy?” I pondered as the flashing blue and red lights of the emergency vehicle turned the whole world into a momentary  disco of near -death. Which leads me to think that everyone else did get the memo and that I am the delegated water-boy

I have to say it.I am just not game to play the game.Because, being that I am not reckless and only fearless in great ,very rare and triumphant situations I don’t think that I have the cojones. for such feckless folly any longer. People seem to move on with an effortless grace that has thus far avoided me.My ex dithered around for a few weeks,tripped and fell smack bang dick deep into a whore so I guess it can’t be all that difficult.

Literature and film has buggered it up for me.I know that I am in need more psychiatric evaluation because I found myself shedding a hot tear or ten the other morning at the romance between Tyler and Marla upon my umpteenth re-reading of “Fight club”. Gary Ollman and Chloe Webb in “Sid and Nancy”

I should take myself outside and give myself an uppercut.Try and knock some sense into myself.

I am crap at games and I can say with no vestige of doubt in my pea brain whatsoever that I am also one fuck of a sore loser.It was an evergreen feature of all my school reports that I did not,yet again,play well with others.Only to be topped by my “Intolerance of her peers” noted in my kindergarten report. This observation at 5 tender years old people.Read it and weep.

But who amongst us can claim to be good at loss but the self flagellating martyrs and the moving target meek? Not a badge this boyscout of the boondocks cares to earn thank you very much.I thought I was meek at one point but it turns out I was just low in iron.What a hellacious role to delegate to ones self.I try to manifest Clint Eastwood not Lenny in “Of mice and men” They are not going to inherit the earth either,the meek.They are fuel for heartless alphas with psychotic tendencies and flash cars.That’s the thing with hard case sociopaths.No empathy equals zero remorse.God I hate the days when I feel like grist to such evil mills.Barricades must be refortified daily.

I envy them too.Sick I know,I know….Imagine the liberty of being completely remorseless.But I have seen the true lowliness of their lives,the emptiness dulled by narcotics and bold denial.I think that I will pass.

Some of my bolshy brats have taken to calling me Angelina Von D.I still don’t let ’em in for free mind.I am quick to their game.Not a shabby combination it must be said though,it makes me smile as I starve myself down once again on clean food and protein shakes.I will take any kindness wherever it comes from.Can’t wait to be free of this silly flu so I can head back to the gym. I need the endorphins.I need to have more control.

I will always desire more control.

What I need is to not think about Valentines day. It will find me in my white sheeted bed with the giant Hello Kitty plush toy that an admirer bestowed on the sad eyed lady of the lowlands here yesterday.It is sitting next to me right now,fathomless black plastic eyes radiating Tokyo zen and soothing my bruised ego and heretic heart.

My heathen teen-aged ticker is sending out smoke signals.To someone who I doubt thinks of me at all for I am too shy to admit any kind of admiration at this point and its platonic.Well,zesty and platonic? Contact would be unwelcome and unreciprocated. I sure can pick ’em.

I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I got my hands on it anyway so there you have it.

I feel faint imagining what would befall me if it got its hands on me though.

Why is a “crush” called that? It should be called an “Inflate” or something more buoyant,more uplifting.I feel hot-wired and helium filled when in the midst of one.Immortal,immoral and ripe for carnal corruption.It has been far too long since I was languid with longing.My ripeness speckled with rust.My lust has leprosy damn it.Desire does absolute wonders for the complexion,lights you up like the Christmas tree at The Rockefeller center (“Ohhhh! ….Ahhhhhh!”) .I still do long to a pathetically minimal degree but feel too pitiful in my pedestrian pursuits that balk and falter at the blocks.I could never say you know? Never tell them how I feel.Stand there hiding behind a curtain of lank hair,silent before your confused face, drawing the alphabet with the toe of my sneaker in the dirt sending out brainwaves to please ….

(kiss me,kiss me,miss me when I am not around,write my name on your jeans,kiss mekissmemissmekissmekiissmekis….)

All the coolest babes belong to someone else anyway.Its a rort I tell you.

I write lists of what I don’t want and need these days and they are depressingly long and vain glorious.Its not that I don’t appreciate the turgid emails that fly through the in box on my ancient My space account because I do.These admirers seem to think that my private life is spent in Frank Frazetta’s sword wielding polar bear riding world.I am grateful to be seen as such a powerful entity but the reality is banal , in terry toweling hot pants and an Elvis tee shirt as she hunt and pecks this dire dispatch.

Then they ask me to send them dirty underwear or signed photos reassuring me of stamped self addressed envelopes. I press delete.Later skater.

Sigh.

No white roses for moi tomorrow I am so sure.I was going to take myself shopping but I am skint as usual due to scrimping for a new amp for my new band so I will sit around and sing George Jones songs to Hello Kitty and make myself cry.Tres pathetique.

Better to be flying solo with my torrid imagination and playing my guitar than compromise myself at the hands of someone who doesn’t dig Emmy Lou Harris,Sam Cooke,Motorhead and T-Rex in equal measure.Who just needs a warm hole to fuck.So I’m picky.Sue me.I miss the best of my ex but that is long gone and far from anywhere I find myself these days so whatever’s clever right?

You know what? Fuck the game and gimme a crush bartender,straight up no chaser.Keep the change.

Miss Karen called to inform me that we are now in the possession of three nights worth of tickets to the incomparable and ever majestic Renaissance man of puck rock amazingness,Sir Henry of Rollins,who,more flatteringly to me than to Monsieur Rollins I am so sure , my ex accused me of having a red hot road affair with.I know,the mind fairly boggles does it not? Mon dieu.

Roky Erickson in march.Because if you’ve got ghosts? Well then,you’ve got everything….

And I get to open for The Hard-on’s at the end of this month.Shows in far north Queensland in July.Not too shabby at all.

As far as I am concerned the only “Game”  in town is rock and fuckin’ roll.

Hope love is kind to you today.

Me and kitty are gonna hit the hay.