Outtake.

Then….

So,I got up on stage with my face smashed in and I sang my guts out. I mean,c’mon! What was I meant to do ? Call is sick? I knew then and there that if I could do this then there was nothing I could not do.And I was right. My eye was a globe of blood and I ignored the looks and whispers as I waited for the fat promoter to pay me after the show.Thin and tired I pushed onwards as there was nothing else to do.The Seattle Space Needle looked like the fluorescent digit of a neon God finger banging the bored dead grey sky. Rock and Roll is a dangerous game.

Now….

One of my infants comes to me for hugs.Blindingly good looking and tempered beyond his years he rests his dizzy head on my rack and sighs .I give him my US flyer’s  jacket when he comes out for a cigarette being that he insists on getting round in not much more than a tee shirt,a cheeky grin and lashings of tattoos even in the middle of winter. He laments his short stature but I think that he wears it well. He looks up at me with those grifters eyes and says straight-faced ” You know even though I am short I have a massive cock” I bark with surprised laughter and delight at his candor from beneath my hot pick furry hat that is in the shape of a mouse complete with ears.A dead mouse because it has gaffer taped X’s where its eyes should be which appealed to my punk rock sensibilities no end as you can imagine. Undeterred and earnest he continued “Soooo you know,I know that you don’t fuck but if you ever wanted to try again,you know,with a friend…”  Retrieving my huge coat I plant a huge kiss on his forehead,not un-tickled by the offer and shoo him back inside.

I am loveless.

Then….

We go to see The Germs at The El Ray. This was at the start of us.I slide my knickers off down long smooth tanned legs and press them into your hand as we watch the band.Our pupils dilate. You drive us home fast with me almost on top of you,one finger buried inside me like you are checking the temperature.I know that I will love you forever.I still have the ticket stub in my wallet along with a jagged piece of one of your teeth.

When I lived in Long Beach I talked to the dogs insistently. I smiled at the photos of Lemmy taken in my back yard at some long ago party stuck on the refrigerator door. I crooned  Gram Parsons songs to the dope plants as I watered them lovingly every morning .I ran twice a day and slept on the floor next to my roommates drums on a big piece of foam knotted and in a tangle of flannel sheets.Everything had glitter stuck to it.I was happy.

Now….

“If I have to go” I ask one of my only friends “Will you still love me?” She plants a kiss on my cheek and sets me free.

I am so fat that the back of my neck looks like a packet of hot-dogs.My thighs touch.I still don’t jerk off. I am dead.I write all the time,I can’t stop. I think of the number one dude on my “Date-a-dead-guy” hit parade,the incorrigible Lester Bangs. He said that you always create something of worth when you are at your least cool. I smile winningly at the picture of him that I stuck to the edge of my mirror with a well chewed wad of pink bubblegum as I paint my eyes heavy with ink black powder,a look that owes a massive debt to both Pamela Anderson and Dusty Springfield. I sing along with lusty conviction to one of the innumerable “Best of Southern rock” compilations that I always manage to accrue while on tour and vow that I will practice my scales tomorrow.I chase ‘ol Skydogs guitar to the ceiling and back again.

( So blood is thicker than water huh?  Tell that to an ice cube.)

There are seven of us. It must be the Italian in me but I decided that we all needed to wear the same ring. They are beautiful black enamel set with a rhinestone Fleur-de-lis. Our motto?  “Ho’s before Bro’s”. I got to work out how to write that in Latin .Trust me here,you can’t tell us shit.

Lend people that you don’t like money.Trust me on this one,it doesn’t have to be much….They will avoid you so that you don’t remind them to pay it back.Its not often you can get a problem solved for ten bucks is it really? I am a fucking genius, me.

Caught a sad song in the sonic net while making Saint Cecilia magic at The Cat Palace.Marcus recorded it. First take you could hear him wetly coughing in the back ground.Personally? I thought it was cool as it reminded me of  “Sweetleaf” ( “Duh-nah*chick* Duh-Duh-DAHHHH-nuh….) but he made me do it again sans the bronchial back-beat. Me playing Marcus’s amazing gypsy guitar,just two bass heavy chords and that big old voice ‘o’ mine….A song about a boy,well,a man really (duh!) who I think affected me a lot more than I did him ( Ahhhh! that old chestnut? again?) He was kinda like a punk Lindsey Buckingham. (alpha prime and i swoon…) He was always next to me when we hung out. I’m so dumb when it comes to subtlety. He was and to my limited knowledge still is brilliant and witty. A diamond geezer with a face that Michelangelo could have done rude justice to given a block of snow-white  marble and a month or two with a chisel .Not too hard on the eye is what I am sayin’. Real rock men are ever so hard to find these dire days dontcha find? Anyhoo,I was day dreaming about him on the train after a hell night at work and I wrote a fully formed song between Redfern and Riverwood. The working title is “Suburbaside” and I wondered as I wailed in a cozy room full of indifferent cats,my guitarist and a Hiroshima sized cloud of dope-smoke if I ever cross his far-away mind.I strenuously doubt it.

Wish I could let him know somehow.The bummer about writing such songs is that all the wrong people think that it is about them.Tools.

Never?….

Could we fuck to “Fun House”?. Would you laugh at me for Praying to Elvis? .Sit in the dark and watch Roman Polanski movies?. Can we waste time and hot water in the tub? Can I wash your hair? Boys like you drive women like me to write whole albums and then go bat-shit insane. I will ignore you for at least half an hour when our paths cross again. Misplaced pride doncha know? Just like Robin Zander crooned ” I want you to want me….”

Then….

It was for keeps.We were magnificent.

Now….

I don’t know what is happening,where you are. I never ever thought that this would happen to us. That 140 cum-guzzling pounds of  drug drenched platinum haired psychopath could bring you to your knees.I thought that we would get a second shot. Oh well. Me? I play my bass till my hands hurt and my back wants to break,I record with my band,I keep my head down.What I no longer do is live in hope for any kind of anything.I beat any kind of need clean out of myself.

I survive.