Wisdom..

 

It depends which guns one deems worth sticking to I guess.

Let us venture back through the sticky sands of time to the dire days of my mis-spent youth shall we ?

When I was just a young flannel clad reject bearing the scars of teenage humiliation and  violent acne , my wise saint of a mother dished up some wisdom that made it through to me even through I was pretending not to listen engrossed in my umpteenth reading of “Elvis and Me” by Priscilla Beaulieu-Presley ,sullen and stinking of angst,cigarettes and ennui at the kitchen table. Before I impart the wisdom bit, if there is anyone who reads this shit, happens to be handy on the sewing machine and wishes to make one of my teen dreams come true? There is a picture of Elvis and Priscilla in the aforementioned tome leaving the divorce court. Check out Priscilla’s coat. Swoon much? I am 6’3 and would dig it in a size fourteen. A tad longer in the arms too if its not to much trouble. Merci Beaucoup.

Wisdom,wisdom…where was I? She told me to pick what I am good at and stick with it. She also told me that my time would come. Not now mind , later. “Later” is not what you want to fucking hear at that age hopped up on hormones and heroin, but all five foot nothing of her magical long suffering ass was right.

She also told me that boys wouldn’t dig me till I got to the bigger cities where my own state of special would shine.

So I have tenacity and great tits. Things could always be worse.

I still tend to terrify boys though. Nothing ever really seems to change on that fucked up front. I shine like some kind of bustout beacon to the feeble minded, the felonious and the incarcerated though. ( “I saw your picture in the tattoo magazine and I felt our connection though the page.Your eyes tell me all that I need to know. You are the girl for me. I have been reading your site and I have got all the secret messages that you put in there just for me. I am currently in jail for a crime that I did not commit  no matter what my cunt whore bitch ex wife and her slime ball lawyer might say. I want to smell you….”)

I mean,what is so scary about a 6’3 heavily tattooed bass bollocking brunette with a knife fetish, 47 pairs of boots,a terrifying knowledge of obscure popular culture and punk rock, armed with a rapier wit, the world’s longest legs,hatbox’s full of lingerie and who dresses like manga porn heroine in obscenely small school uniforms? Huh? Huh?…oh…..

Still bogged down under booco boy trouble but them’s the breaks. The Friday weather is doing sweet fuck all to impress me with its black bleak pissing sky so I am languishing in my powdered confection of a bed clad in an ancient Rage Against the Machine tee-shirt, freshly washed hair and a pair of muy fetching and flammable leopard print panties with a cute little bow on each hip. Ta-da! I know right? Couldn’t you just wedge a stick up my ass and lick me like a lolly-pop? Doncha just want to eat me till your jaw cramps? My beautiful bass is panting beside me after getting flogged for the last hour.  Band practice tonight.

( The solo at the end of “Let’s go crazy” by Prince is so hip grindingly flawless. Sigh.The rain has got me more toey than a roman sandal.Yeah! I know! Listen to the worlds horniest purple clad midget you stupid woman,that will help….idiot….)

I told Thraxxy at 2am this morning that I set dress my life to make myself feel beautiful. She told me the reason she is having crap luck with her boy-du-jour is because she didn’t forward a chain email in the 9th grade. The TV buzzes in the background as I chortle and admire my new pedicure. My toes twinkle ,white and glittery like hard packed 8-balls of the purest Peruvian flake.

In the room we play in at Mal’s house ,one of the walls is nothing but sliding glass doors. Ever the narcissist ( El mondo poser ) I can’t peel my peepers off it as we tear it up. Mal chuckles every time he catches me,which is often and I cop to my vanity gladly. He is the best Butch Cassedy to my Sundance Kid. He even changed my strings for me!

Stick me in front of a reflective surface in hot pants and amplified? What did y’all think was going to happen?

Marcus takes sneaky photos of me when we jam and then puts them on Facebook. Lilli showed me tonight. I may still add up on my fingers and not own a car but by Thor and a few other totally kick ass gods I do fetching things for short shorts and black leather boots! Now I ask you ,whats the fun of rocking out in your amazing band if you don’t look like you just escaped from a 1970’s porno?

Exactly.

I moseyed on down to the store to buy sunscreen and ramen noodles yesterday and came home with white denim hot-pants ,a grip of lurid panties and a hoodie.  How does this happen to me ? But, if I am to be completely honest here who needs to eat when there is polyester to be had?  And as Miss Moss and a million anorexics intone daily like a droning gnostic prayer “Nothing takes as good as skinny feels”.  Besides I am obsessed with these smalls. My outfit of choice right now is these hip-hugging masterpieces, miles of tanned leg and beachy hair and some destroyed band tee-shirt. (” Oh Ma! I feel so prudy!” ) I may never wear pants again. I have found my look! It’s so Dogtown and they set off my tube-sock obsession beautifully. As Rosco Deluxe always said with a smile  “It’s 1978 wherever you are!”

I am the happiest little white-trash dirtbag and the whole kingdom.Come over dude! Let’s eat raw cookie dough and watch “Cannonball run”. We can make out…..

( ” Very nice.” he says,ever cool, never giving too much away while I am raw as sushi. “They would look better on your bedroom floor” I reply.”That can happen” he smiles and my loins backfire like a Harley Davidson…..)

Meanwhile,back in Hollywood…..

You write to me from the fault-line and I am so happy to see your name on my screen. I know that you are not happy and it should not be this way. I pour my solid silver salvation your way. You tell me that you are proud of me,that you have been watching my solo stuff. That means so much baby. It means the most. I play the instrument upon which you made you outlaw name. I can feel you in my fingertips fourteen thousand miles away.

My lost boy.My friend.

Getting my rusty chops up for the few shows that I have coming up with my big brother. He is jamming with Nunchukka Superfly today and is busy as always. I wrote a new song last week which has not happened in a while outside of my beloved Saint Cecilia. Of course its about some boy who won’t give me the time of day. Duh.

Beloved Thraxxy named it while we languished in my overgrown yard while waiting on Ryan ( Dressed in a Lilo and Stitch onesie naturally) to show up for our sushi fueled Tarantino  Sunday night recovery. Raising one perfect eyebrow from beneath her flawless Ronnie Spector bangs looking like a Chicano jailhouse tattoo come to life and sounding like 30 year old single malt scotch and two packs a day before the surgeon general rained on everyone parade, she christened my new baby.

Knowing who it was about she intoned “Close ,but no cigar “ with a panther smile.

And henceforth,so it shall be known. I will bellow it out on the 17th.

I then started on one about a boy that I unintentionally broke and it was just to sad for words so I scrapped it for now. Oh the damage that we bring. Went back and worked on “Napoleon’s horse’s” for Saint Cecilla instead.

Friends are the glue that hold my renegade life aloft. Behold….

Aka-Errol Flynn, bless his film-making socks, got me a job dancing in Rob Hurst of  Midnight Oil fames new bands film clip on Thursday. Cue a three day just fast. Tan,starve,stretch. I have become rather the  video vixen of late.  Not complaining mind. Lord no!  Like my mother said…my time is now. It such a tasty pay back for being called ugly for so long.   Ner,ner,ner….

Feature my dangerous curves wrapped skintight and sweating. I’m thinking Connery era Bond girl. Hair and gams honey.Picture Minxy mc Flick-tail here as a back-lit silhouette to be not only used in the clip but projected behind the band at live shows. Your welcome.

Blooming late is the only way to fly.