Shameless.

*Oh God*

Oh Elvis..

( ” This is a collect call, do you accept? Ok, please hold, putting your party through now..” )

…..It is I,Saint Michele of Perpetual Indulgence…

I am such a shut in.

My anti-social axis at this putrid point consists of  my clothing clogged fairy-lit boudoir, the jungle like yard (” Some day this war is gonna end….”) , the much abused always damp rain-room and the store about five blocks away. Oh. And my army of doctors. Check me out!  Wooo-wee mama !  Hot damn girl!  Howard Hughes in a bikini right here. Robinson Crusoe with a rack.Step on up!

( ” Y’all got a license for that weapon ma’am?  *Bam* *Bam-Bam* “ARRGGGhhhHHHH!!!” )

The only earth shifting events that can crowbar me from my cave at this point in the proceedings tend to be one,the looming onset of starvation, two, sun deprivation and finally, sound driven folly. Hopefully a mix of all three if you don’t mind. A taco, a tan and tinnitus ?  Not such a bad deal. So what happened? I dropped the ball ( the net,the umpire,the water-boy,the cheerleaders bounced…)  a few months ago (“Owww!@?##$!)  and proceeded to opt out of the whole stinking mess and have pretty much been a hermit in hot-pants ever since.

And to tell you the truth ? If you don’t wanna go too deep ( “Zooo,tell me about your motzher…”) I ain’t doin’ so bad at all.

I spend long languid days floating almost buck naked in my pool on a hot pink inflatable monstrosity that I like to believe resembles what a dinosaurs reproductive system may have looked like, complete with an rather thoughtful and handy cup holder. ( The beverage bay is on my floating chair. Why the hell would a uterus need a cup holder ?)

So yeah,me nearly nude out here in Buttfuck ,Egypt with a teeny-tiny g-string wedged up my tanned crack. What? Me worry?…. ( “Dear Penthouse Forum, I never did believe the letters in your pages until one hot day I happened to look over my back fence while pruning the wisteria and…”)  Now you know, if y’all keep doing that you’ll go blind. Get your hand off it and keep reading you perverts…..There I laze,coated in naught but a miasma of shimmering high octane anger and a bucket of plus one billion spf sunscreen, reading lofty and slightly damp tomes usually pertaining to the sacred arena of Rock and Roll while the sexy swinging sounds of Slayer and Lynyrd Skynyrd saturate the shimmering suburban air driving the crappy Maltese dogs next door postal.

Affray? Moi? I’m your girl! No problem good buddy,that’s a big 10-4 ! Don’t mention it. Your welcome.

I wallow wantonly beneath my beat -up -from -the -feet -up cowboy hat, gently bobbing in the tranquil chlorinated blue, a well chewed toothpick dancing around the perimeter of my pie-hole ( Every girl needs an oral fixation that won’t shag her sister and break her tinsel heart. ), occasionally taking photos of my formidable rack in the interest of  posterity and perversion  and think about how much going to therapy churns my gut into a rot flavored fast melting gelato of self loathing (” One scoop or two lard ass?”) ,wishing someone would base a comic-book character on my porno-manga-Victoria’s -secret -model -tattooed -butt and what I am going to do with my forthcoming and inevitable lottery windfall. ( So sweet of you to ask! A large hostile compound tucked deep into the badlands in  the middle of nowhere on the coast, a couple of loyal hounds trained to go for the jugular no questions asked, a souped up F-100 truck, tripwires on the perimeter and many,many firearms…) .

I write stupid fucking ballads for the forthcoming autistic/acoustic shows that I will be doing in support of my super talented brother and the album that I am finally making with soul sister Thraxxy’s  ridiculously talented baby brother Zee, about equally stupid boys who tend to litter my life with their shocking indifference to my clumsy yet ,but let it be duly noted,  endearingly eager puppy -like  charms and then proceed to play maudlin solos in minor chords over my tape recorded efforts. I long for an autoharp.

I am seventeen years old obviously.

There are but a few holy people who can wrench me from my self imposed exile.(” Day 72. Ate the last of the 1st mate six days ago. Chewy granted, but not entirely unpleasant . I do so wish there were more corpses for if I see one more fucking coconut…”)  Well, my band,about three friends and my big brother really. That’s it.  I love going and jamming at Mal’s place on these fetid Friday nights. Regally rolling out with Marcus borne on a cloud of dope-smoke, rolling back  about ten minutes later when we realize we have left our guitars in the the driveway,rolling out again,big dreams and great vibes.We get lost every single time we go out there. Really. You would think after so many years on the road my internal compass would be brilliant, laser guided even but sadly its not. It’s shit.

Mal’s kids are always hyper happy to see me and they dig the fact that I am covered in pictures and come fully equipped with a tail. His youngest son puts on his tattoo tee-shirt prior to my arrival and then proceeds to show me how he can run into the fence at a million miles an hour and bounce. I clap and whoop enthusiastically as he flies fearless across the yard.  These infants know quality when they see it.

Oh and the band...THE BAND brothers and sisters!!!!  That would be my band. Mine! Mine! Mine! ( Insert evil laugh here.) I swoon. I am in complete and utter infatuation with the whole decibel drenched unit. To whit? Friday night…Jam my jaxie out , peel my sweat soaked kit off down to my ever present mismatched  and usually obscene bikini and dive into the pool post noise-fest while the boys smoke out and slowly sip tequila out of tall condensation coddled glasses in the dark shadowed fold of the the deck. Dirty low laughter flows over me from their cloistered corner raising goosebumps in its nasty wake as  I float and thank the CinemaScope sky high above studded with stars for granting my grateful self such wild four string driven glory, my hair like languorous seaweed doing is sexy Ophelia thing, my heart full of Pentecostal fire and low end zeal.  Perfect. I have waited so long to find where I was meant to be….

(” Why thank you!  How kind,don’t mind if I do.”)

Nathan ,my zen -as -fuck drummer , just smiles patiently as I  loudly demand that he gets a cowbell and wood block. “A Gong!!! “ I yell. When I inform him that I am going to braid his hair and bandanna him like a blond Bill Ward.When I flash my butt at him mid tune. Mal pushes me to play better with every riff,we go back to back and sledgehammer the fuck out of every pile-driving song. Marcus gives of his talent and time with such grace it humbles me.

The guitarist in my old band, the fucking alcoholic axe wound that he was, always put me down.The dope smoking dickless ding dong. He did it so much and over so many years that when ever he tried to be nice to me (usually for personal gain) all I could do was roll my eyes and write another dulcet easy listening track about how I wanted to murder him.

Got four albums out of it so it’s not all bad I guess. Still hope he dies screaming….

But now I am in a band with guys that I have looked up to for years from afar ,who respect me as a bass player,writer and singer. I have hit the hot perfecta trifecta. Can I just tell y’all I have never worked so hard at what I do in my fucking life? I never want to let them down, I want to get better and better. Deluxe,my beloved and much missed bass player from Tourette’s wrote me from Brazil where he is mooching around manure on a farm with his fiance Max. ” I was meant to be a bass player all along “  I replied when he asked after my band. ” I mean ,who knew? “

So. My beautiful band can get me out of the house and my brother. My brother even more so when I get a diamond dusted text asking me if I want to roll with him to the 5th annual Rolling Stone awards.( !@@$$@!???!!!! )  Breathe woman!  Hell yes I wanna go! Is a pigs pussy pork?  Do fish fuck in water? Forever will I be the Kenickie to his Danny Zucco.

I am there bitches.

I just love it when people say that they are not into these free parties. I call booco bullshit right there. Like, whatever dude. Tell it to the judge. What an utter load of shit!  They are great and everyone knows it. Then you get the ass clowns who should be happy that anyone even remembers who the fuck they even are or were in this case for a fast fleeing five minutes back in 1998 (” Um dude? Marylin Manson called.He wants his shtick back.”) and then act like they are doing the event a favor by showing up. Jesus wept!  Then don’t come you ungrateful washed up-your-sad-ass-goth-band-never-made-it-in-the-90’s-and-do-tell-how-is-that-hot-topic-clad-self-harming-action-working-for -you? .

Jeepers! I know! Stay in Newtown and wallow in your goon soaked yesterdays with all the other maybes still locked in the brown couch hell of faux Bohemia.

(You asked me if we are cool.Well check the balls on you! We will never be cool you throwback.You cunt. The only reason I didn’t kick your ass is because I am valiantly trying to beat my record from last year.See,I only made it up to January 21st before kicking some dudes ass.  And by “Kicking his ass” I mean ” Shattering his jaw with the heel of my shoe” So what is it now? Hmmm? the 23rd you say! Well I’ll be! Cross the street next time you see me coming as fast as your rinky dinky platform boots will take you….)

Fucking tossers.

I never hear anyone anyone complaining about the free fucking bar that’s for sure….

Wild Horses (a-hem) could not have kept me away.

Now ….what to wear?

I did the Johnny Cash thing. All black is all good. Except if you are a member of the Australian rugby team I guess….Murry, the Hard-on’s drummer calls me “The Honey badger.”

” Why?” I asked as Michael Gudinski waved to me from a tufted leather booth and I blew him a kiss sealed with a wink in return.

“‘ ‘Cause you just don’t give a fuck! Garcon!?  Pronto!!!”  he bellowed causing disapproving heads to turn. I saw Jimmy Barnes smile at us though. Papal dispensation right there. I adore drummers,I really do. He then proceeded to double fist salt soaked margaritas snatched from the tray of a wary and fast fleeing corset clad waitress from Patron Tequila who were so thoughtfully lubricating the event.

Fair call. I have been called worse.

On the not giving a fuck front? Case in study…..

So, we get there all bells and whistles quel fucking naturally and big brother being the total rock-star that he is ,even though he denies it, gets ushered out onto the ruby red carpet and proceeds to peel his shirt off Iggy Pop style and gyrate suggestively all over the place. I was so proud. I almost soiled myself laughing. All the po-faced wankers looked on utterly aghast. Well I can only assume that they were aghast, I mean ,I couldn’t really tell through all the bad beauty salon botox and trowled on make up that always seems to stop just under the chin. What is with that anyway? ….

Onward dark horse!

You would not believe how fucking corporate and staid these shindigs are now . Take my word for it and know that I am in permanent mourning  for the heady days of yore that my spring chicken self was too young not to mention years  too late  to savor.  Am I ok with this sorry state of affairs ? Am I bugger.. I want MC5 action baby ! Revolution!!! Fucking in the streets or in the least on the pool tables. I want to see that felt stained!  Incriminating photographs! Weeping fiber incrusted raw rug-burn  pridefully sported like badges of honor! Anyone? Anyone?  Bueller? (“Its voodoo economics”)

Sigh,sigh,sigh….No one punching on with their rivals and then writing a great song about it on the back of a room-service menu while their knuckles are still bleeding and two nubile fuck machine groupies of a questionable age ( “But Officer! She told me she was eleventeen!”) are making out on the bed or puking off the balconies round the time the chorus is coming together. No hookers and blow, well, not that I could find anyway. No bloody buggery fucking Led Zeppelin and  mud sharks here my friends. Oh Keith Moon! Come back please! .No redhead assisted insertions and TV tossing , so sorry and can I just say for the record that we are poorer for the lack of such shameless shenanigans my little pork-chops . Bow your heavy heads, shed a tornado of tears and remember  when rock was rambunctious and hopped up on hard core hallucinogens tripping elephant sized balls the whole live-long day . Carnaby street clad  in saucy trousers so tight you could read the wrinkles in the guitarists cock and tell his religion as he lent back into the screaming solo beneath the spotlight and not to mention the fact everyone had great hair

( “I am a golden god!!!”) .

No sir. None of the alluring aforementioned above. I weep,I really do. Buggers up my eyeliner something chronic.

Quite frankly? I think it was un-Australian effort. Shame Sydney, shame….Everyone is so deathly afraid of losing their meal ticket ,as minimal as it is in this down-loadable day and age, that they all look like bung eyed chipmunks storing nuts with their cheeks stuffed so full of corporate cock.

( ” What’s the name of your band then ?” “MMmMMmMmM!!!” )

It’s pathetic. It has joylessly extracted everything that made music so appealing in its felonious down time in the fucking first place. Amoral soulless cocksuckers! All the feisty fables that I devoured in the rock-rags of yore when I was naught but a dewy eyed diva-in-waiting. Parchment thin ancient copies of Creem magazine! Spin! Detroit rock city! The lack of live and then dirtily documented shenanigans in the aforementioned holy magazines of distinction in this sterile day and age just sucks. Lester Bangs would be crying into his cough syrup at 2am while listening to Question mark and the mysterions at top volume while his frazzled neighbors called the cops. Again. Feature Lillian Roxon lamenting,caftan clad and wheezing  from the happy hunting ground in the sky…..

They had Dj’s playing at the party when the awards were done and dusted. Dj’s??  Ok, lemme get this straight. I am in a room with Tex Perkins , free tattoos and tequila and you give me MC Asswipe with her flat-ironed hair and her funky fresh sounds?!!  Really?? Are you fucking serious? And I did not see one person barf into a pot-plant all night.

Rose Tattoo are still alive you clowns!!  Book them for the love of god! I need music that makes me want to fight,fuck or set something on fire goddamn it. I want my rock and roll to need a morning after pill and bail!

My brother and I decreed right there and then with much profanity ( Yoink! Me again,sorry.)  that it was pretty much our civic duty,nay,our god given Lemmy approved fucking birthright ,to inject the evening with reams of hot steaming raw power ( That’s him for sure. Cut him and he would bleed a Ron Ashton riff.  ) To deliver the sanctity of salacious sweaty rock to these poor misguided hipster fucksicklies and random cum-stains clad in uselessness ,ironic facial hair and skinny jeans on a silver sound driven platter.

( “Got a bullet here with your name carved on it honey.”)

Gimme blatant junk gyrating sexuality damn you!!! ( Both of us covering that wanton waterfront ) ,White-trash Nascar powered profanity!!! ( Oh c’mon people,really?  ) and Charles Bronson tinted don’t- give -a -shit -devil -may -care cool.

In the name of  Dickie Betts ,Elvis and GG Allen. Amen. Cha,Cha,Cha.

“Dear,excuse me,dear ? If you want to just go round…”

Poor lamb.She wasn’t even old enough to call anyone “Dear” bless her. I looked down to see a harried plump girl with a too tight headset attached to her bonce and a clip board clutched in nervous sweaty hands with teeth terrorized nails. I pulled myself up to my full height of seven feet in hot head kicking heels  while watching her eyes widen in awe and smiled down at her serf self with a great benevolence that I had no idea I possessed. I swear, I surprise myself some times,I really do. She smiled nervously back up at me.

“Darrrrrrrling” I purred channeling the great Eartha Kitt  “I am Michele Madden from Saint Cecilia”

“Oh my gosh!” She blustered with a magnificently cheesy grin that one in such a position holds in reserve at all times ready to be engaged in those awkward not-quite-fresh-feeling situations when one does not recognize someone famous or for that matter someone ( That would be moi again…) with balls the size of coconuts who is blagging her sweet ass all the way to the finish line. A backpedaling verbal panty liner if you will.

“Out you go then.I’m so sorry!”

“De Nada.” I replied magnanimously flicking my mile long mane and licking my candy coated lips and only just stopping myself from patting her on the head ,launched my leggy high stepping ass into the limelight and proceeded to strut my stuff.  Blackie looked over at the new disturbance by the starting line  and laughed his fool head off when he saw who and what was causing it . Never one to look a gift-horse in the mouth he then came and grabbed me in some kind of abbreviated ju jtsu hold and we proceeded to pull a lot of really unattractive faces.

Gold Pony boy.Pure fucking gold.

We fell off the edge of the light saturated carpet and collided with Rod Yates, editor supreme and longtime supporter and firm friend to us both. He has wincingly watched me gracelessly grow up on stage from behind his hands held over his eyes at times and greeted the two bad seeds that we are with open arms and a smile when he saw us stumble out of the flickering strobes. “Who are these fucking people?” I hissed as a gaggle of airbrushed nothings mooched by glaring daggers at me. I stuck my talented tongue at them out ,mouthed “Fuck off you cunts”  and grinned as the color drained from their bovine badly made up faces and then continued  “That fucking seals it Rod ” I said with great  finality. “What seals what exactly Michele? ” he gulped looking a touch nervous but still smiling like the trooper he is,bless his brainy brilliant shell shocked self.

I like to think that one day I will think before I speak….

“Seals what??? ” I gasped indignant  ” Seals the fucking fact that we have to bring the rock back my son!” I said looking rather smug and checking out the dude from Parkway Drives ass at the same time.

But How? Oh tell us do Michele ,you great bloody pillock…

” What it seals Rod is that I am jumping out of a giant cake in a bikini at this thing next year! We need tits Rod! Tits and cream! Yeah and rock and,and ,and …..

( I tend to stutter when I get all het up.It’s like totally cute and charming. Just ask me.)

I watched a prune faced girl on minimum wage skulk by bearing a tray of what looked like regurgitated dog food on paper plates and shuddered . Blackie looked at me calmly, used to such folly coming from his little sister, waiting for the inevitable explosion while bemusedly buttoning up his shirt…… “AND HUNTER.S.THOMPSON IS ROLLING IN HIS FUCKING GRAVE!!!! THIS IS BULLSHIT!!!”  I roared in passionate conclusion as the masses cut a rather  impressive moat around us…Rod’s eyes then proceeded to light up like roman candles.  Ruh-roh.  Long story short I have to find a bitchin’ black vinyl bikini,I wanna look like my neither regions we dipped in wet licorice dig? and a Hello Kitty tiara. Oh,and a sash, pink silk naturally .Duh.  Tell me,do you think my gun holsters would be too much? Nah. Me neither. Oh! OH! I know! I know! Pick me Miss!!! I  know! A Chewbacca mask ! Details ,details…It will be alright on the night…Look, at the very least I will have my 12″ pigsticker strapped to my tanned thigh. (” And here she is! Give her a warm Rolling Stone welcome now….Miss behave 2014!!!)  And I am gonna hand out the awards while still covered in frosting ,a dishonest sweat and malevolent glee thank you very bloody much. Might even let the winners lick me if they are worthy. Or lucky.

We should stick a tab of acid in every tenth drink.

Shouldn’t be a problem.

Bondi ink set up and were doing free tattoos.C’mon? Really? Like I wasn’t going to? ” You gonna get a tattoo tonight Michele?” asked a bunch of photographers hovering round me like lens carrying vultures with press passes. I gave them my best angle and cooed from twixt glossed lips ” Fucking ‘course I am! See ya over there at nine o’clock”

When I finally got to my overworked tattooist,obviously overwhelmed by all the crap requests that proceeded me,  he asked me with a sigh what I wanted. With a lupine grin I told him that he had been waiting for me all night and then watched the smile carve his countenance in two as I informed him of his mission.

“What are ya getting ?” crowed Murray from behind the barrier, one arm around his lady love, knowing full well what I was up too.

“”A unicorn sodomizing a dolphin!” I yelled in reply.

No. I didn’t….but there is always a next time

The tattoo machine hummed and we dove in.The flashes exploded and the ex-rock star in the seat next to me looked rather miffed at the lack of attention in her faded direction .Step aside honey,there is a new sheriff in town

He said all misty eyed that he had not carved “Fuck Off” into anyone bottom lip since his punk days in Canada. I am a giver ,what can I say?

Once again? Gold.

The next night found me looking like Anita Pallenburg’s heir apparent clad in eye wateringly short hot pants and a black gossamer almost of a top. A quarter of sticky hydroponic bud stuffed down one long butter soft pale suede boot and my bone-handled knife down the other and I was ready for anything baby. With a song in my black heart ,my hand down my drawers and my trusty Dictaphone loaded with a fresh ready -to -be -defiled tape in my bag I lit off into the muggy night.

Upon arrival I ponced around greeting old salts and freaks that I have not seen in an age. Swept into a hug when  spotted by Mario at the side of the sweaty stage. My wildly talented compadres. So very good to see you again my darlings…for if Mama cannot come to California? Well then California can feel free to hand deliver its finest to me….

Got a great interview in with my friend Dimitri Coats..of OFF! (who would look like a punk rock Robert Plant (“Does anybody remember laughter?”) if he would grow his curls out , just sayin’…. ) as Keith Morris glared across the room at me yet-a-fucking-gain another year down . We holed up nice and post gig cozy like with fresh beverages on a cigarette scared black leather couch in a red room,I hit the record button for posterity and proceeded to get very politically incorrect .I tend to ask jaw dropping questions that all the cool  journalists avoid. Mario Rubicala sat to my right snickering like Bevis and Butthead all the while lazily playing with my tail.

And no,you can’t hear the tape. I may need it for blackmail later…Just kidding!… (*maybe*)

Ever the good hostess,I mulled the stinky bud up on an old copy of Drum media,talked salacious smack and smiled my wolf smile as the night wound it sated spell over all.

Ta-da.

Stirring advice for you lost souls? Go get it

What??? What do you fucking mean what? I don’t fucking know! I’m not a mind reader! Whatever it is that makes you want to keep messing with oxygen on a daily basis that’s what. Joseph Campbell said “Follow your bliss” .Wayne Campbell said ” A sphincter says what? ”  and furthermore Sir Henry of Rollins bellowed ” Get some,get some,get some ,go again!”

What more do you need? A fucking written invitation??

What you ask me?  Whatever makes your heart soar and your rude bits fill swell as the blood drains from the rest of your corpse. Let it rain over your sinners head in a shower of sonic glitter and jail dodging good times.Finger bang the furies and write your name in the sky. Make out with your muse till your lips go numb and you cum so hard that you black out. Oh yes.…

People are shit. This country drives me mixed nuts because no body wants to be number one. They don’t have the conjones. They say that they do but they don’t,not really. They hang back with their other omega mates,huddled in a testosterone deficient pack, hampered with a regressive retarded prolonged adolescence ,tempered with date rape,low grade Thai steroids that bring naught but bloat and cystic acne on the shoulders to be sported under a hesher style tank-top proudly like pus filled epaulets and violence.  Sniggering at the lone trailblazer getting his ass handed to him in 1st place, beaten and bloodied granted  but magnificently unbowed. They, meanwhile go to the pub,argue over who’s round it is and call him a faggot.

I wish I was lying.

So go to it my little electric rosebuds. Fly my neon nightmares! Just go! Go to where you shine and set up your tee-pee on the tundra of awesome.

Peel your shoulders back and love your life out as one of my all time favorite pickled pollacks Jack Kerouac would say. (“Paragraphs! Pft! I got your paragraphs right here!)  Go on with your bad selves and pluck a fragrant (sweet)  leaf out of the Butthole Surfers strobe-light soaked book and regret something you did do rather than something you didn’t do.

It is good solid advise steeped in smutology 101 and voluminous volume mauled through Marshall stacks and s-e-x. Feature Gibby Hanes as a burning bush. Get wise oh babies of Bacchus and then proceed wantonly and with great knicker free abandon.  “Get it on! “ as Turbonegro and T-Rex would trill. Look-a-here… Take it like its Motorhead fueled MDMA and you are going out tonight to grudge fuck the lust of your life to dust..

Shameless is the hot ticket my wingless angels. Just trust the scantily clad amazon on this one ‘k?

It’s the only way.

Now peel me a grape Belulah……