Tee-shirt.

There is not much finer that hobbling tender barefoot to your letterbox in clad in counterfeit wayfarers, an electric blue silk kimono and a bad mood while clutching a red bull and cursing the daylight dwellers to find a package containing not only your brand spanking new MC5 tee-shirt but also your Cheap Trick one (“Ohhh baby needs some brand new shoes and out on the street you’ve got nothing to lose…”) fresh from a record store that you once played a show in and that you now  blow your rent money on the aforementioned rags every chance you get.Marc Bolan and Alice Cooper next I do believe.

Slipping into my new rack regaling finery and my usual skin tight jeans I felt the ghost of Lester Bangs eying me up and down and smiling as I zipped up my mandatory knee high boots.Wantonly spritzing my ever tangled lions mane of brunette bad assed hair with a bucket of Bulgari Jasmine noir I winked back. Heady shit.

Real live boys on the other hand don’t want a bar of my majestic self as always. And I guess that its ok.I wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with another corpse anyway.Its forcing me to hone my spectacularly selfish life rather than write another eight million mean fucking love songs.(“You pay hookers to leave so why didn’t she go?”) Way back when my lost love and I were first a-courting we were chatting at The Rainbow one night about writing “You know what we have to to?” I sighed leaning into his perimeter as his fat drunk hairdresser ex-girlfriend stumbled to the bar to rustle up another round “Whats that?” he grinned pale blues eyes with nary a hint of pupil “We” I announced “Have to stop writing the same song over and over” I winked and grinned as he laughed and said  “Yeah! Just changing the names!”

Every time we inadvertently touched I would get an electric shock.We were never not going to happen no matter what the cost.

I still think that I am going to wake up back in Hollywood….

Its cold here now.No summer whats so ever and I feel totally ripped off. I am sticking to small routine though and I think its helping considering that I was dug into my trench pretty damn hard.Just got word that Steve Lucas from the mighty “X” is going to be play with me.I know that Ian Rilen is smiling down on me as I write this. Sue Telfer who is the booker for this month of  merry mayhem has known and nurtured me since I was a big mouthed baby hell-raiser and has been a rottweiler for contacting all my heroes and begging for their inclusion in my acoustic madness.

When my lost boy and I were on the road for so long I came to realize that being up there with just a guitar is the most honest gift that you can give to the people who appreciate the noise that you live to make.Don’t get me wrong,I love being in bands and making the machine work but this is true punk to me as I cannot hide.I cry almost every goddamn show.You transcend.Great! Now I am sounding like a big fucking hippy! Just trying to say that I feel grounded in something good when I do these shows and as long as people keep showing up I will keep playing.

My errant ex is mastering his new album right now in the desert .I am proud that he is doing it but I shudder and we laugh at the songs that he wrote about me.I’m not one to talk though.I have penned some absolute clangers about him that are now getting sung back to me when I play them at shows.Its hard being a writer.You cant not do it,take what has befallen you and put it down on paper.He sent me one of the songs that he had done.I remember when I suggested the title when we were freezing our fur clad asses off in Oslo while working with Turbonegro.It made me smile because it referred to our once illegally great sex life and my perennial dependence on public transport.It also lit me up like an air-strike because Mr Homme had added his spooky backing vocals and a guitar solo to the finished product.Then,to top it off? John Garcia does some call and reply vocals into the fade.I swooned.

And no,I won’t send you the link.Don’t even ask.

Songs are strange and cunning beasts.I was writing him secret love letters hidden in mine years before we stepped it up from friends to lovers.He tends to write when he is cranky but I have that in me as well.My shit is based longing and regret.His is in alluding that he was shagging my friends behind my back.Ce la vie.Honesty,as we are all well aware of, is not only necessary but also very cruel at times.I read him the lyrics to my recently completed magnum opus “I can’t believe you fucked someone who doesn’t dig The Ramones!” and he almost bust a gut laughing on the trans-Atlantic line even though it is about him and one of the finest things I have ever written to boot.We have been through so much together that if you can’t seen the funny side of it at this point? Well, you may as well not look.And you will miss a lot if you don’t.

I tried to turn away and so did he but some people are meant to be with you for life. We are stuck with each other.Tattoos ,blues and all.

I am hiding out from the world tonight.Played guitar till the day dwellers that I share this creaky domicile with had to go to bed and now I am working up my set for when I support The Hard-ons this Friday.I still thank Elvis every morning before I pass out and rightfully so.My existence as illogical as it is is nothing short of incredible and I am booco grateful.Take a gander if you would be so kind…I play shows with my heroes,I am in a great new band,the guitar player from my old band is a certified failure,I get to call the shot on everything I do,my ex writes amazing songs about me as I do about him in return,I have a cool job where I am always right,something that I excel in,just ask me and have a security team to back up the fact,I get booked to play great shows and I have a Cheap trick tee shirt.

Not too fucking shabby at all.