When my phone goes off at 4am I surf a point break of nausea,a tube of froth tipped fear.

Hang-ten indeed.

You know that itchy feeling you get when you see people rack up a line?  (..tap,tap,tap…scrrrrrrape…scrrrrrape…) That furtive need to shit? Well that’s what Alexander Graham Bell’s lifeline legacy of  an invention does to me when it decides to go off like an air-strike at ungodly hours. So,it was a name that I hadn’t seen in a while.A painfully shy rubenesque artist friend of mine.Heavily medicated,somewhere in the pupil dilating region of 3oomg’s a day, somewhat manic but never the less very,very sweet. It read,and I quote…

“If I am so beautiful why can’t I find my love?”.

Honey,if you can tell me then we will both know.Not so much on the beauty front for me.All this dental work has left me with a head that looks like a twisted sandshoe.

Alexander Pope once said something along the lines of even a little knowledge being dangerous.Feel free to color me the mental equivalent of the Tet offensive in that case.

Ahhhh kid,I feel for you,really I do,but if I had the answer to that particular zinger the world would be my 2 for 1 Tuesday at the banquet of life with a no drink minimum,But since I was asked I will attempt to answer although, with my fatally injured if not dead heart and cataclysmic track record of failure ,why anyone would shake my tree for fruit is beyond me….

Must be the medication but I am flattered.

She had been holed up with her latest hungry forever which is why she had fallen off my radar.Not that my radar is really working per say.My radar was  salvaged  from the Mir space station from what I can gather because like everything in my life that is not my genitals,it is totally rooted.My emotional bearings have been novocaine numb for the longest time and most correspondence remains unanswered but those eleven words struck quite the chill through me.Now,what do I say? Do I ask what happened and be a shoulder to cry on or do I tell her the truth? The truth being, in my rather hefty book , is that love does not linger for the likes of us because it sees that we fail to apply its bounty to ourselves.

(Crowd goes wild!!##%$#%@!!!)

“Thank you!  Yove been a great audience! Try the streak! Your Beautiful!!!”

Now you tell me and be honest,who in the Sam hill wants to hear that kind of honesty malarkey while holed up on the bathroom floor at 2am on a Friday night with a bottle of six dollar bottle of Lambrusco,Nick Cave doing the maudlin soundtrack and a  blunt bladed daisy lady-shaver?


It’s late so I will cut the floral crap.We hate ourselves and this is what you get.

She later sent me confirmation that she is ok,not to worry and that an apprehended violence order had been taken out.Oh brother.

This is what you get alright….

And it sucks the high hard one.

And you know that I know this is true.I may as well have sent that message to myself. While mired in my weatherboard palace of a brain this evening (Read-avoiding housework) ,complete with tire swans by the bevel glass double front doors and a jacuzzi made from a giant refurbished Kentucky fried chicken bucket ( A lifelong fantasy.Don’t ask ) and a complete set of Franklin Mint Elvis Presley collectors plates rimmed in genuine 24 carat gold ,I was blissfully tallying up how I was going to spent my yet to be won but pending,one hopes and prays,lottery jackpot .Shame that all the shady surgery(“My kingdom for a gastric band!”) I desire so vehemently takes place by and large in South America.Imagine,if you will, the complete disorientation coming out of anesthesia and not understanding a word that anyone is saying .

Wait a minuite.

That’s waking up every day.

(“Good evening! Howya all feelin’ tonight? We are The Gastric Band from Los felitz! This one is called “Crohn’s disease blues! Tew-fee-four!…”)

Anyhow.It’s the endless pursuit of beauty.Look at how that message was worded. She knows she is good looking.She is always immaculately coiffed and groomed and has a certain 1940’s murder victim style about her…

So how does it all go so fucking pear-shaped hear you ask? .


Yup.You read that right.Grease.

Fuck that fucking movie.It buggered up an entire generation of women ,my wretched self included.To whit….

You futz around being together and nice and the object of your desire doesn’t give a rats ass. So you sing some songs and everyone gives you a raft of shit after they try and pierce you ears so you go and lament by a wading pool looking virginal then a maligned cool chick with pink hair takes pity on your dumb self, gives you a make over,teaches you how to smoke,you go to the fair in spray on jeans,a perm and really cute cork heals and voila! A happy ending.

And for the record? Danny Zucko? Whatever. All the smart girls know that the truth of the matter was that Rizzo had the goods.She knew the real thing.A hickey from Kenickie is like a hallmark card. I rest my case.

Fucked non?

Beauty is bunk.I am a failure on the inside and that’s what lets ya down kids. Life gets in my way and I primp for a prom that will never come.I thought that if my outsides were a pageant then my insides would fall into place.What a fucking conundrum.All it does is illicit jealousy from the one you love the most.But wait,don’t call yet! It get’s even fucking better! Then when you ease up on getting of hotness,the unbelievable lightness of meow (…Ok, Think Eartha Kitt,Ursula Andress in “Dr No”,Iggy Pop’s knob,The Runaways,thigh high boots,Mexico,long hair,Hello Kitty,Dee Dee Ramone,The bass line from “Dirt” by The Stooges,fishnet’s with the crotch ripped out…you know…all the really undeniably sexy shit….),you stand accused of the numero uno sin that every body dysmorphic worth their eating disorders dreads

“You have given up”  sneers the object of your affection and moves on to, for all I know,fatter and uglier and more drug addled  pastures which, in my narrow heart hurt experience, is usually the case.

What a week,what a week….My guitar player is missing in action.Somewhere up north I think….This does not lead to fast approaching show confidence on my behalf.I have left him more desperate voice mail messages than Chad Michael Michael’s (“This is a diaper bag I made for Faith Hill”) So I have spent the cold night nattering to Miss Emma on the phone and re-doing my whole set.Being that I am a fiscal disaster I will have to mike up my guitar. Shit. My kingdom for a Maton.

Beware (“Woooooo!”) the people who are only interested in you when you name is on a poster again.Just sayin’ is all.Falling as low as I did really showed me who was and is for real in my life….As her highness Miss Stevie Nicks would warble “Players only love you when their playing”.

And fair weathered friends are just that.

It’s raining. Again. July.( “Saigon.Shit…still in Saigon”) I still have about a million months of winter to struggle though. My Whitetrash ass is also booked in to get my new teeth on the government’s dime in two weeks.Yee-ha! The only pay off for being insane.Thank you mental health act.Five arduous bridges .Kill me now.At least nothing else is coming out tooth wise so once this bastard rain stops Lardass Mac Gee here will be running again.Thank Elvis.I hate being a fat cunt.

I look to the lower right hand side of my screen and wouldnt you just know it but its 3 in the am yet again……..