Cadaver.

Sighing lustily as I waltz into the house ,one manicured finger silencing my bellowing i-pod.Miss Lilli looks up and smirks knowing that I was about to open conversation with a clanger as is my habit and inclination. Her eyes bugged out on stems at the lurid green,black and yellow ocular apocalypse hanging from my arm.My new handbag is what happens when Kimora Lee Simmons watches “Shaft” hopped up on PCP. Blinding and disturbing,granted, but with a great falsetto.I drop it dramatically at my feet and say….

“I so would have dated Joey Ramone.”

“Yeah,then you both could have checked if the door was locked ten times.”

She has a point.

I once left her a note telling her  exactly how many steps it was from the door of my shed to the train station.True story.

We agree the the “I want you around” scene in “Rock and roll high school”  is hands down one of the sexiest knicker moistening things ever committed to celluloid.I flopped on her unmade bed and commenced molesting Peanut,her teddy-bear.

“Or Lester….”

“Anyone alive?” said the redhead

“Not that I will admit to.” answered the brunette.

So all the dudes I want to write love letters to are dead.The ones that make my compromised heart hum are deceased. What does that tell me? That I am heading for a lusty future in necrophilia,the Karen Greenlee of rock and roll ? The fat guy next to me on the peak hour train today accidentally brushed against me  while my eyes were shut .I sprang up like I had been scalded and slapped his arm.I don’t know who was more shocked,me or him. So yes,I am still having a slight problem with any kind of human contact.

Which means that dead guys could really be the way to go.Bear with me…They can’t touch me,reject me,play mind games.They don’t hog all the covers and I don’t have to tell them what I am doing and why.No more sacrificing my career and sanity,I don’t have to dumb down and get yelled at for using five dollar words…..This could really work out for me…..That’s it! I’m calling it. Dead is the new black.

(“No capes!”)

Having a fantastic week of doing fuck all besides what ever pleases me.This has been a long ass time coming..

Went and got my hair done today so now I am poncing around like a herbal essence add winking at myself in all reflective surfaces.Pondering what to wear to El Mariachi Bronx (“Are you a Mexi-can or are you a Mexi-cant?”) at the Metro tomorrow evening,I have to send a search party into my wardrobe and hope that they unearth sartorial elegance.

( Lilli! Have you seen my tail?” “Check your ass” “Very funny!” “I thought so.” ” I bet you did,I want to wear it to the show”….)

Pedicure tomorrow and working on new songs.I got my first Thai massage of the year from a very skilled lady by the name of Nicky who I estimate comes in at about 110 lbs soaking wet and has a grip that could shatter a beer stein.Heaven. Big photo-shoot on Friday with Miss Ash,gig Saturday.I am on fire! I am doing stuff,getting on with my existence and it feels hunky dory.I will wait here while you put on some Bowie….

While trawling for lyrics today I had to go though a journal from a while back in my not so distant past.I put it down.I had too,I was going to be sick.I cried for the woman I was then, waging a war that she couldn’t win against an enemy that was insane.A little hindsight and knowledge are are a great thing.So,for that matter, is a lot of therapy,a gym membership and the 12″ hunting knife that I still sleep with.

Don’t look back unless that is where you are planning on going.If I was?  I would be armed to the teeth.

Bet on it.

Dear friends writing me with all the news that is not fit to print.It’s just so sad but my spidey senses are always right.Not that it wins me anything. Like the truth is not going to find its way panting to my high heel clad feet? Like people are not going to inadvertently give me the 411 on the lost and dammed? Gimme a fuckin’ break….

I lie in bed smothering  an attack of the giggles thinking about what would have happened if I had of taken up the invitation that was extended to me on the wings of so-called forever love and gone “Home” for Xmas. The look on his hookers face as she opened to door….classic.

Dead guys it is then. At least they do not come fully equipped with junkie succubus’s.

I’m going to go and wrestle my wardrobe. Tonight I get to traipse though the biblical rain and hear “Fallen” live.

Sigh.Life is sweet.

Flaw.

Ah! My lethal humanity.How I do vigorously disappoint myself day after endless fucking day.

Is the mighty messenger Mercury out of phase? On long service leave from Valhalla? Where is my almanac?  To quote The Pixies ” Where is my mind ?”

Because no matter how hard I try? Right now? I suck.

Leizel and Professor Chicken are undoubtedly having a great time back in the LBC.Hanging with the hounds and going to the all-you-can-eat sushi buffet. You could set my massive emerald green jealousy in a ring and flog it to Elisabeth Taylor.Got an email saying that they miss me.Which is kind of weird really because I miss me too.

What a bad machine I am.What a asinine adolescent. Eugh. Sue me, but I was thinking about the conduct of attraction.Its all very scientific in the light of my continuing nun-like abstinence.Pheromones and what have you.How one wants and gets wanted in return .The chemicals that we secrete. How we so callously overlook the ones that love us for all that we are and even more importantly all that we are not.Who adore and appreciate our presence and potential,untapped and otherwise .And how do we replay such myopic magnificent adoration? Why we aim for the universe devouring wormholes that will never sate nor satisfy of course! Fools one and all. Me at the top of the list if you please.

Let’s just say that I am a real pie-in-the-sky kinda broad.A cake shop in the clouds.A romance retard.

Recently I have been loitering around and hiding behind burnished copper potted palm trees  in the forecourt of The Ritz of self loathing ( Note: The clotted cream generously dolloped with chunky strawberry preserves on  fresh scones that they serve in a most charming afternoon tea must be experienced.Divine, somewhat like angel cum or non addictive opiates one imagines…) in a Burberry trench coat,with the collar turned up, eavesdropping like a complete sneak,while others discuss my ridiculous reprobate reputation over tart apple martinis and spite spread thin on cruel crackers.

A horrible place to find oneself in when the reserves are low and the troops AWOL.Barricades unprotected and such.I know better,I really do but human nature is soft in the gourd and selling pens for charity outside the train station.

The cavalry tends not to arrive and the portly concierge keeps giving me dirty looks from the front desk while whispering to the bucktoothed bellhop by his side clad in ill fitting moth bothered red velvet.A most gratingly severe lack of beatitude is shadowing my every paranoid move.You ask yourself,on repeat,what the hell you are doing but to no avail.There is always more of “them” than you unfortunately  and sometimes this is the way that the chips fall no matter how debonair you are with the flying of your mighty freak flag….

Loathsome.

But at such reckless,feckless times it pays with healthy interest to remember that your reputation is merely what the unwashed masses think about your brilliant bodacious self. It is best to let them have it,trust me you don’t need it and like carrion they are they will pick over the bones of your singular greatness while trying to debase you while you should be off doing other things.Worthy things.Sleeping and Riverboat gambling are two that come to mind.

Get to it then.

Easier said than done,I know, but it is a start.

It is ones character that one must nurture and focus upon. That is what you are baby.Stick figures to Caravaggio Mon Cheri,Merlot to lighter fluid,Tiffany to Target….getting a grip on the general gist here ? Good, now moving on….the other,being the reputation, is what they say you are and who gives a five flavored fuck what ill thought out,badly phrased petty poppycock they are going to come up with. Oh, besides the other malignant morons in the coven of cunts that make up the general populace of peons of which, my darling, you will never be a member.See? Entirely unworthy of ones time. So get your derriere behind the bar, and mix us up a jug of  mint julep’s and come join me on the porch,there is a nice breeze slow dancing up off the river and I know that I am utterly parched from all this jabbering .Don’t be stingy with the bourbon honey…

Fuck them all.

Me and the gym have been locked in a battle of wills all week.I swear that Elvis lays trip wires for me,little toughen-the-fuck-up tests to keep me on my still overweight toes….So up the stairs I limp dragging all my crap,four pound weights taped around each wrist and ankle as if it wasn’t all hard enough as is. I lumber like Dr Frankenstein’s bride.I scare camera wielding pods of  wide eyed Japanese tourists while the riff from Blue Oyster Cults “Godzilla” pounds away on my ever trusty internal i-pod. I swipe the little doohickey that beeps me in and my eyes swing automatically to one of the big screen TVs that is spewing Channel V into the empty room above the treadmills lined up like stormtroopers against the back wall. And boom! Wouldn’t you just know it? There is my heartbreak incarnate swinging like a sexy gate in high definition no less.Live on stage the year that we met.I hear him say “Thank you!” (…that voice used to say it loved you,your name as it came.,a prayer….) to the rabid crowd as the tune ends and the screen goes blank.This feels like being smashed in the back of the head with a fence palling.It makes my ass clench and my stomach turn to stagnant water.

I only just make it to the bathroom.

Cleaned up and only slightly more composed I grab the 10kg dumbbells from the curved rack and hunker down on my trusty bike for an ass numbing hour on level 20.My knees grind like unoiled gears .I tell them to shut up and think of mini skirted great gammed glory.They calm down and we ride nowhere for sixty sweat soaked minutes.

A boon! Steve Tyler was on “Ellen” and I had the place to myself so when I was bellowing “Dream on” at the top of my lusty lungs I was not only sweaty but secure and shameless.

So I guess it all balances out in the end does it not?

Today’s lesson? Fuck your reputation,cherish your character and under no circumstances watch music television.

I wait on correspondence that never comes.My sultry salutations sadly un-reciprocated.

Doors that are fraught and hot-wired with only the funnest kind of sexy peril remain unopened but tempting or so I want to believe,oh so desperately....( knock-knock? ) I ask Miss Emma if she thinks that I am ever pondered upon,pictured in compromising positions complete,one hopes, with lashings with aorta aggravating lust .She replies,carmine of lip and ever kind of heart that she cannot imagine for one second that said person has stopped thinking of me. Hoping against hope that my sage gamine friend is correct,I lay my tired head against her hip  and she absentmindedly plays with my hair,fingers wandering over my scalp ,soothing me as I sigh and relax. The movie in my Orson-epic mind (….rosebud.) has a new star,a virtual Valentino and I wonder if I will ever get it right. Sheer folly,utter caprice,I know,I know…Doubtful but the dialogue is reminiscent of Bogart and Bacall and the kiss will be worth dying for.

Two of my infants went down on bended knee at the door and presented me with a cellophane wrapped rose last night. Huge face opening smiles and jaws grinding at light speed they both kissed me,one on each cheek and fell down the stairs encased in a mist of youth and amyl nitrate whooping like Indians as I attempted not to cry.I never think that anything sweet is going to befall my statuesque self so when it does I come undone.I held onto it all night,both the flower and I wilting as the Valium slow night bled out arduously towards the dawn.

That and the eighteen year old that keeps asking me out,snaking an arm around me which I slap.”Where would we go?” I inquire from my great height into his clear brown eyes ” Mcdonalds?”  “If you like baby!” he winks.I have to smile and shoo him away.This kid has got balls the size of coconuts.I told Jr and Wendy about him when the came to my side of the city for dinner last night.He raised an eyebrow as I whined over a Japanese meal “What would one do with a child?” I sniffed waving my chopsticks around “Tell him about the 90’s” said my dry witted baby brother. I have tee shirts older than these delinquents.That I still wear.

I am a novitiate to noise.Sister Michele.

I have decided that my wardrobe,my look at this point in time, is a rock version of  my beloved VS angels.The hours that I spend on the pec deck at the gym and the amount of bras that I own ( Better not to ask ,but somewhere in the vicinity of two drawers full…) have deemed it so.I am a storm in a c-cup.I think that I will flag the wings though,well at least until next Halloween.

I am tickled that some of my Club 77 crew are coming to see me play next weekend.I keep all the component’s of my life so separate.Every once in a while a lost rock-child finds their way to my neon drenched door and the look on their face is priceless and ever so ego affirming “What are YOU doing here?” they gasp while all my infants look on puzzled from behind the velvet rope. Photos are taken on phones and complements kindly accepted . “What was that about Seven?” lisps one of my baby fags handing me a red-bull complete with the bendy straw that I requested as not to louse up my lipstick .I push his purple fringe behind his ear and plant a kiss on his throbbing temple by way of thanks. “Mistaken identity honey” I reply with a Mona Lisa smile.

They don’t know who I am here and for some reason it calms me.I get to recreate.Here I have no weight of any past on my shoulders.To them I am just the door-girl with a sigh inducing rack and a rapier wit,not a mass of seething anger and fierce volume,not some reprobate rock royalties ex-fiancee,not my former and present bands personified . And its just lovely.I like it, flexing my femininity,channeling Blondie and all my rock heroine’s. Playing dress ups.It’s a cute way to make a lazy photographed living. Taking a break from ones self,selective schizophrenia,is something that I highly recommend.

I got into trouble for bawling out a rude suit tonight.I have known Glen,my boss, since I was a baby brat and when he gave me that look,you know the one that means  “I am not angry, just disappointed” I felt like shit but then he said that its hard to tell me off because I am so funny. That made me feel better.

Fucking ass-clown …I called this tit fuck a “Home-schooled advertisement for abortion” and then went onto say that his girlfriend had a face like a dumpster fire and legs like a piano. He insulted my grey rabbit Russian issue army hat. What is a girl to do? Not one of my most feminine moments I admit especially when capped with a stadium worthy bellow of “FUCK OFF YOU CUNT!!!!” complete with throbbing neck vein,to seal the deal. A-hem Miss M….I saw one of my hydra of security from the corner of my eye shaking with ill concealed mirth,biting the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from laughing out loud.

When I was on the road with he-who-stomped-my-heart we had a tour manager  who said to us both with no small amount of slack jawed awe “Neither one of you has a firewall!” We laughed and  heartily agreed. I don’t. And nor do I want one.There is no five second delay on Chanel Michele,you don’t dig the program? Change the station cowboy….

It was all ho-hum after that until…..

I saw someone,a lanky self possessed lad, who echoed some of the finer points of someone that meant (means?) everything to me in the early hours of this morning. It was all I could do not to lay my hand on his forearm,to test his presence.He and his girl were so very sweet and I was not feeling anything carnal or untoward you must understand,nothing of the kind.It was some kind of reflex in my memory.A spasm.A trigger that I could have done without being pulled. A cold shock laced with longing for the unobtainable.

( Bloody Pavlov…..)

He was physical reminder.

I wonder where you are ,what the state of your state is in the state on the fault-line.Who you are with and if you are well.

So little time and such scant contact but give me an inch and I take a mile. I build castles,empires that balance on one brick of illicit and stolen time.An architect of the absurd,that’s me.I weave roads and bridges from screaming feedback and sweat stained tee shirts.I see you in my dreams heaving alabaster above me,spit a tightrope between your mouth and mine.Eye to eye.Your heartbeat a metronome to the steady beat of my long dormant desire. Reactivated by your wanton interest,your appreciation of my soft white underbelly,my hidden vulnerabilities, I was hooked in a hit…… (I need more ,please don’t go….) There was not enough time and like a fool (“Idiot!”) I exercised my seldom used rusty restraint,afraid of driving you away ,wanting so badly to show you all that I am.

Knowing somehow that you were much of the same.Knowing that you could handle it.Hold-fast in the knowledge that I saw you.Please.I know that you saw me too.

And now you are gone.

And I remain flawed in the absence of your company.

Verb.

I have shit to do.

Michele is a verb.A doing word.

The minute that I get the right tools together to construct a list my brain goes as blank as a wall.

Picture a balloon animal in the Macy’s parade deflating while red nosed children howl in terror below,a candle being snuffed out,flooding the engine because the car won’t start,static rolling drunk on a TV set in an empty room that smells of loneliness,mildew and burnt nachos. My brain is Swiss cheese and thinks of nothing but chord progressions that need mastering,my lost ones,the ones I love who don’t love me or themselves for that matter,my shitty vanity and nasty narcissism and running from adulthood like someone lit my feet on fire and my ass is starting to catch.

Pen in hand,paper before me and duhhhhhhhhhhh.….Not an interesting wall covered in priceless Keith Harrings or Andy Warhol’s either.Oh no. More along the lithium lines of a wall at Bellevue psychiatric hospital,splattered with crazy persons fecal matter,a sponge painted feature wall in a bogans living room complete with a huge print of a frangipani. Elvis,I feel nauseous. Or,even better, I write the list half asleep with my eye mask still on and upon awakening it looks like a first year psychology students attempt at avant garde poetry.

Barf.

I have to go out there.To do things that must be done.

Shit.

Hence the absolute abortion of an attempt at making a list

I wake up at six am and try to get back to sleep.No joy.I was dreaming that I was having lunch in a low end  Texan strip-club with the actress who played Beth in the timeless 80’s film classic “Better off dead” staring the ever lust worthy and forever fatally cool John Cusack. ( “Sorry your mom blew up Ricky.”)

That vacation is becoming more necessary by the day.I am addled.

Onto red-bull number two and dreading wading through the rain and the ugly-as-fuck day dwellers to achieve all my missions in civilian meantime  today.I am guessing that my higher self,my delightful evil half will chose to reward me with a large bottle of perfume for surviving my mission so it will be worth it.Shoes are never nor will they ever will be out of the question either,I want,nay,need to be compensated for my suffering.

Lilli busted me lugging huge stacks of books out of my room this morning and piling them all over the place,literary jenga towers.”I am looking for my floor” I mewled looking most fetching in my bright blue silk kimono,Twisted sister Tee shirt and a pair of new,well ,new for moi but inherited from Miss Nina ,black terry toweling hot pants complete with drawstring sides.Score!

“Fair enough” she muttered darkly,her red hair sleep-tossed and urgent and went to have a shower.

So much for laundry.

I figure if I hit all my marks nice and early I will be able to come home and pass out all afternoon then spend all night up and writing.

I can’t imagine living by the constraints of other people’s time management. Being told what to do and when to do it.Slow suicide with a meager wage? I think bloody buggery not.It would confound and then destroy me.I wouldn’t last a day.I get cramps just thinking about it.I have been carousing round the world like a Sinatra happy retiree since I absconded from the nest at a drastically non legal age complete with a song in my heart and my head up my ass.( In the year of our Lord1712 fact fans)

I have no idea what anyone else was aspiring to be at that rather tender time and age but I was living in a 6th floor cold water walk up garret on Crown street,chain smoking Marlboro’s and  imagining that Truman Capote would think I was a bonafide heroine,that he would write slow southern tales about me. Signed to a monster modeling agency that did not have the slightest clue what to do with me and my non-salable -but- oh– so -intriguing look,I starved and went on many,many castings where then ,as now and always,I was the most unusual creature in the room.

So I got a fake id and went to work in a bar.

Unusual is great,make no mistake but it did not feel like a blessing at 15.North shore blonds abounded and I wanted to be Beatrice Dalle. It was doomed from the start. Predators,perverts and pederasts made big eyes at me, got me high,fed and watered.I took what they offered and turned on my heel and sauntered away.God looks after drunks and children,both categories that I happened to fit. I danced all night,took leave of my scant senses like a baby of Bacchus beneath an air conditioning duct in my favorite club while free drinks made their much appreciated way across the bar.I flew over the city.I hid behind the music and the make up.

Who ever said it was right.You can never go home again.

Everyone else, as far as I can recall ,were busy finishing high school, doing accounting courses or childcare diplomas while I slept the clammy days away in a nest of foam mattresses and quilts in the dormer beneath one of my two windows.The other had a sink in it that I would pee in rather than leg it down four flights of dark stairs due to the junkies stealing the light-bulbs,to use the rank communal bathrooms.

I played the Spanish guitar that had belonged to my dead aunt  and ignored my bitter booker when she called me to go for jobs I knew I would not land in a month of sundays.Rising again in the twilight after long nights of voyeurism and being a brat as only a fifteen year old can be .I spent hours watching drag queens fall down the stairs at the taxi club.

And that is that.

Still considering selling a kidney to fund a trip home to California. In that tender moment between asleep and awake I think that I am going to wake up on the floor next to Leizel’s drum-kit with my hound snoring and farting contentedly on top of me. I miss my friends. I really do.First and foremost this album must get done so I have something to present on my travels. I would tell you the name of the platter ahead of time but I know that some knob would steal it so my lips remain sealed.

Miss Ashley bird,milliner to moi, is letting the white tiger and I shoot all of her stunning creations so so I must channel Lisa Fossingrives-Penn and think of swan-like necks , projecting  my bones and lashings of snotty hauteur.All in deep black and white naturally.

Oh quel moody!

I cried outside of a rockabilly store yesterday.Sobbed. The poster in the window informing my disbelieving eyes that the one and only Roky Erickson is coming to Sydney.The gay James Dean-esque shop assistant minced out of the shop and gave me a tissue,bless his Levi 501 clad self. Just when faith is running oh-so-low Elvis sends me a sign to keep going.ROKY!!!!! I am going to be a mess.I just know it.Waterproof mascara that night. Ah, the sounds that tie you back to what you wasted your love on until you plum ran out. Time flees but the scars still itch like a bitch.

Viva la solo album Miss M….

I have eleven smashing songs done so far.I change the music every time I play them though,not real promising but they will settle soon enough.Going to air a few new ones at the next show.I think that I will keep to myself this Big Day Out. Unless one of my angels sees fit to bestow laminates upon my hallowed head it is just not going to happen.And that is ok.I am planning on my new band being on it sooner rather than later.

Looks like my fine feline self will be surfing the waves of what was and now is again with my dear Miss Emma .Soundgarden it is then.

Training is going well.Lots of clean eating and enough sit ups to twist me so hard I could shit a croissant.I have to be up to run again in what feels like five fucking minutes.I have pictures of the Victoria’s secret Angels next to my shrine of Iggy Pop featuring a red votive candle,the bass tablature for “Dirt” and that black and white picture of him with his nob out. Lean and mean is the order of the day and much like Sir Henry of Rollins ,my will is iron.

So there.

Anyway…..

Who needs a list when you have a gun?

Shimmer.

She danced on the table barefoot as the trumpet moaned and laughed in cahoots with her from the bandstand.Hands upturned in a hosanna,hips loose and rolling,nimble and fleet footed she dodged flirty crystal and stoic flatware.

The last day of the year and she was queen of all that she surveyed.As far as the absinthe addled eye could see…..

Every cold eyed women in the room wanted her dead as their men sent up impure thoughts and dirty wishes borne upon fleet wings and plumes of dirty cigar smoke.She stood in a quivering blancmange and shivered as the chocolate oozed though her eleven tiny toes and the drum solo matched her wanton heart, beat for syncopated beat.

“She is so cool” sighed the waiters from the service entrance devouring her with greedy underpaid eyes as the light played with the gold sequins coating her carnal carriage,her fornication worthy frame……

If you can return to the scene of every crime and memory can you wipe the past and build a future?

My life,the social experiment.Behold.

The playful puppy is now a card carrying hound of Baskerville  and the tumbledown shed a bonafide recording studio.Abundant squeaky toy festivities with the Dee-Dee dog and songs to be sung.Now,what could be finer on a sleep deprived Sunday,I ask of you? What a difference a year both makes and brings.Pictures of my past everywhere so I shut my tired eyes and gave Blackie the voice that he requested and wanted.

“Too professional! Too good! Make it rougher…”

I have to smile when I think of all the abuse that I used to get in the studio for not being good enough.He patiently explains the simplicity of the structure and suddenly the light bulb, dim as it may be,flickers in my taurine soaked brain.I match my breathing and dictation to his and double it flawlessly.I sound like a country educated 6th grader and as the maestro is satisfied ,I think its a wrap.

I strap on Luke’s bass and tear it up while playbacks are being studied and decided on.I like that people know that I can bring it,that they ask me to cloud up their albums.It is rare that I feel useful so I will preen in it while I am able.Guest voice du jour.I wink slyly at a picture of my lost boy,caught in the glare of his former and now faded glory,me safe behind four strings of Fender goodness and  manage to remember who I am and what I came from.I run the bass line from “Habit” and sing it under my breath.Think about what it has cost and caused, getting this far.Nina asked me how old I was today and I told her that 27 just seems to keep on rolling….Luke and I talk about my album and I vow to get all my tracks in order when I go away in February.I like the studio that he has built and feel that good things can bloom within the safety of its poster plastered walls.

This is more important to me that I know how to articulate.To be safe to create again.Bootcamp and then down to stay in the ‘gong and tear my black heart clean out, surrounded by my necessary miscellany of a  million notebooks,my framed pictures of Fleetwood Mac and The Ramones,tarot cars,old ticket-stubs and my plaster bust of Elvis.I need to do this by myself and for myself,with trusted and kind friends to wipe all the crap from my musical past.From the munted,weed dependent,beer-soaked cocksucker in Tourettes who made me feel like I was useless and told me repeatedly that “Your not a real musician Michele” until I believed it.To the battering my confidence took as a guitarist and a person on the tour of a thousand tears with my dreadfully messed up and forever lost inamorata.

I figure if I can do this? Then I can do anything and write my own ticket.Lilli was chatting to Marcus post Looking Glass gig on saturday night when he so sweetly said “You know I am in a band with Michele now?” She grinned and hugged him as its all I can talk about.

A vigorous un-lubricated jailhouse buttfuck the cunts who put me down.

Wow,I don’t see Gene Hoglan asking you to be in a band with him and then saying you are one of the greatest vocalists he has ever worked with on the record or Glen from Skin-lab asking you to move to San Fransisco to front his new band for that matter.Nope.Jeepers,didn’t see you in the studio when I was doing vocals for Strapping Young Lad or the Hard-on’s.Nor did I catch sight of you in any film clips with Rose Tattoo or The Murder Dolls among others…oh!…That’s right! That would be because you weren’t fucking in them were you?

I could bang on in this vein for alot longer but I wont.(“Breathe Michele,go to the happy place.”) I will make my teen-aged self take her Ritalin and go to her room.

I get to wondering if the hurt ever goes away or if I just bury it till it ups and gives me cancer.Or another album.

Hmmmmmm?

So I am petty huh ? So what? Like you are not? That is just what I thought.As humans that is how we roll,it’s all details really,the tapestry of a life.At some points our slights are what define our battles.I just chose to air my grievances rather than pretend that I am cooler than I am. Rather than pretend that spite rolls off the oiled back that I was quite obviously not fitted with at birth.

I hear it take shape and I know that I am good enough to play it all and that I am roping in so many of my heroes.Calling favors and color me utterly delighted at the reaction to my stuttering requests.Gee shucks,fuck yeah!

Luke said that I was more terrifying acoustic that hardcore.I can see that.I am sitting still vibrating with all the pent up shit rather than sweating and punching it out behind a wall of sound.It would be hard to watch.But that will come later.The cage of sound.It has been so long since I fronted a band.Oh! but what a band it was. Last run was with Meldrum in 09 ending at The Whiskey on Sunset.Good lord,how time flies when you are on the run.Shame that memories are tainted by accusations that were so baseless that I have to laugh lest I weep. My ex accused me of servicing ,for want of a better word, my whole band while on tour.

Gene so badly wanted him to be on that run.Said that they would have been one of the best rhythm sections since Bonham and JP Jones. But he didn’t do it and I got in the van alone.Yet I never hesitated to give my all to him over a million miles and shows.I wish that it could have worked out.I think that I always will.

I am not good with unfinished business and lose ends.Nor do I roll comfortably with people who give themselves to trash and conduits of desperate disarray.Bitter fuck-holes with mercenary intentions.Pinch faced peroxide rodents hocking the hot Hollywood ticket.Succubus’s who attach them selves to names and master in the art of drug related extortion.

My lead wrapped knuckles strike at the bag like a viper and it is that face that I see as the sweat blinds me and I push though another set,another 3 minutes.Inspiration is inspiration is it not? Work with what is available to you.If you were fighting for your life would you win?

Like an illusion I sneak back stage and start again.Take up my birth bound mantle one again.A mirage ,I tempt you from your arid loveless place with promises of teenage anarchy and adventures on the high seas of sound.I tempt you with scar heavy kisses that thieve the breath from your lungs.Do ya? Do ya wanna? I know that you do.I saw it in your eyes,your palms flat against my cheeks,studying me,your equal,your lost,your anemia.

In the vast space of your absence I think of you constantly.

( Qui m’ont conduit et t’ont conduite,

-Melancoliques pelerins,-

Jusqu’,a cette heure dont la fuite

Tournoie au son des tambourins.) *

I shimmer on the periphery and wait for you to take your true place by my side.

(*- Merci Paul Verlaine,mon amour.x)

See.

A blind guy flirted with me on the train this morning.

This is not a euphemism.Kind of like the time when a hooker gave me a sun lounge.That wasn’t a euphemism either.She really did.Its out by the pool.

Back to the train.He was also blind drunk.Double blind.He fell over me,recovered his poise rapidly,deftly folded his cane in two and then proceed to chat me up all the way to Riverwood. It was cool because I could keep reading my magazine as we talked and I didn’t feel rude in the slightest. It’s rare that you can study someone at great length and not offend.So I did. Or I shut my tired eyes and then we were just two sets of sounds.I tried to imagine how he visualized me from my voice alone.I also realized that my voice is kind of sad sounding but not in a bad way.

Just low and blue.And exhausted.

He took hold of my elbow with iron fingers as we left the train and I guided him into the lift.”I trust you” he smiled and I gazed into his sightless eyes,the corneas thick and opaque.I like that he didn’t wear dark glasses as not to offend the masses with his disability and how no one knew where to look. Good on him. Fuck everyone else.The tradesman in the lift looked uncomfortable.Me and my new friend chatted about shoes in great depth.I dug that.I told him how tall I was and that I am addicted to high heels and he laughed.

“Bet you must stomp guys!” he crowed.”On occasion” I smiled as we made our way to the bus stop.He then told me about the trip that he is taking to England with his cricket team and how drunk he plans on getting.

He is a blind bowler for the Australian team.Really.I love my life,I really do.

He said that I sounded pretty.A blind guy thinks I am a fox.Is there some deeper meaning in this? That you would have to be blind to think I was a looker? Not surprised by much these days.More resigned.

Elvis,Gladys and Vernon! As if my  confidence wasn’t shaky enough as it is.

I called Miss Emma as she had been up all night wrangling tickets to Coachella to get her take on my journey home.She said that it was flattering ,that even the blind could sense my charisma and zesty hotness.Pft! I told her to go to bed.She then informed me that as she is going to be away for her birthday she up and bestowed her ticket to go and see “Jay and Silent Bob” live at the Enmore theatre on my grumpy old self..

I had a sneaky cry in the shower over her generosity.

That was after I wasted somewhere in the vicinity of half an hour using the hand mirror to see if my ass has shrunk anymore.Let it be never be  said that I don’t know how to wisely use and delegate my time. I then sang “Total Control”  by the Motels with a German accent into a half empty tube of body scrub.Do I know how to party or what?

So…..

Waving,rather pointlessly,to my new blind buddy I got off the bus.

I then walked home from the station with the sweet obese girl who favors perilous and lurid tube tops and lives a few blocks north of me.The walk home slays her no matter how slow we go.She is free of ankles.She is a night shift cleaner in the city who admires my false eyelash prowess and my recently unearthed Fleetwood mac tee-shirt.(Yes!) The sky is leering cloudy and mean as we reach her gate.She wheezes a sweet goodnight and I head home at a rapid clip to the hovel and lament my lack of training over the last few days as my gym membership has lapsed.

So now Monday means not only picking up my new cop boots,Gareth Pugh’s limited edition M.A.C miscellany and a fur coat but also a trip to up my torture tenure.I shoot in two weeks so it must be done.Many protein shakes and miles ahead.

I have plateaued on the weight loss front and my sleeping pattern is all over the place so time to harden the fuck up and get my now fetchingly auburn-think-Stephine-Seymour-in-the- “November rain”-film clip head in the game.Getting in touch with my inner Ava Gardner.

Nice.

I meander to my in-box and…….

Oh? You remembered who I am?

Staccato messages from the trenches free of friendship and emotion.Cold  dire dispatches to the last solder who defended you.

6 long weeks of radio silence after dreamy,delightful daily contact and then a few words,a shitty one line salutation to the new year from the west coast and then nada.Sweet fuck all.

The heroin hindered set up roadblocks and lay in opiated wait. Some people make it so hard to care for them,so very difficult.You don’t have to sell it to me any more son,if you say it ain’t worth it? Well then, who am I to argue? .Some people have to try to break anything good that comes into their self hating orbit so they can tell themselves that they knew it wouldn’t work out.

Saboteurs my dears.Plain and simple.But you don’t stop caring.You just do it at a distance and under glass.It switches from hot hearted alchemy to bare numbers and sterile science in the shake of a lambs tail .The picture fades and forgets its origin.It has been traced so many times with a poison pen that its hard to tell what it once was.You fill a Ferrari with water instead of gas?

Well.

Still waiting for the magic pixies to arrive and build my wardrobe.And the liposuction sprites.Well,I figure now that I  know that the shoe angels exist what is the harm in putting out the feelers…

Blackie is picking me up at some ungodly hour on Sunday but as I never get much time with him  its so worth it.Sing fat girl sing! I half halfheartedly worked on a new song for the 28th.Its nice having new subjects and muses.The ones that I happily discover frolicking in my frontal lobe make me smile.They are lovely.They have no idea that they inhabit my imagination and it is there that I can enjoy the pleasure of their company unhindered by reality,time or the churlishly adult restraints that keep them from me.

Oh ho! So much for my “I am not going to get into any fights at work” resolution. Pft! I lasted 15 days.A pitiful effort,I know…

Kicking ass.And in a halter neck top and high heeled boots no less.

Oh well……

Elle a du chien.

Avec  moi.

Heartbreaker.

I just woke up with a splintering migraine that painkillers and red-bull are only beginning to negate and fix an hour later.

I idle beneath soft covers and many pillows,my engine softly turning over and I wonder why I love the Heart-breakers so damn much,why I just can’t seem to deflect myself from the ones who will do and deliver such catastrophic damage,what is the allure,goddamn it!? (” Duh! Johnny Thunders plays the guitar like a pornstar fucks AND he has the best hair like,ever…”)

So of course that leads to “Chinese rocks” being served from my speakers at a volume that is not aiding my headache but who cares?  The heart-breakers in question are the fine boned fools that turn my feline head and then stomp my tender heart.But fuck this song rules.

(Nice one Dee-Dee,je te amour mon cheri…)

I wonder if I had of grown up,say,within the right parameters and so on,if nice boys (don’t play rock and roll) would ring my bell.Doubtful but one does wonder….But it has always been the doomed and degenerate that have appealed. From the fey gay boy that I gave a card to,featuring a rather lurid ice-cream sunday, proclaiming my love  in the 3rd grade to the neo-classic guitar hero at alternative school who skateboarded wearing a green velvet dressing gown while smoking roll-your-own cigarettes,waist length black hair snaking in his wake.  The list is long and crushinly painful. Most unrequited and if not? Utterly horrible flaming endings shot through with arrows of crippling embarrassment. It is easier to stay single. Ah,my type? It varies.It is usually some shockingly literate well spoken fool,a lexicon devil in tight jeans, who can coax the devil’s music from a Gibson at horn inducing volume,wants to kiss for hours,who quotes “Cool hand Luke” and tells me that I smell amazing and Ta-da!

I am cactus.

Then,quel naturellement, there are the ones that decide that I am the answer to their perverse prayers.Some twit living in his mom’s basement who writes me love letters in his own blood that rhyme “Michele” with Dorothy Parker’s “Fresh hell” while strung out on meth and sleeping with his dad’s girlfriend? Yep.Fanatical,bless their cotton socks,fans who get my signature or lyrics tattooed on them and wait three hours to show it to me after the next show in their town.Uh-huh. Perverts who want to buy my dirty underwear.Ok.

I am like the Statue of Liberty for the doomed “Give me your ego driven,Your addicted,Your deluded,your felonious”.

Gimme three priors,a rotten childhood,a glimmer of hope and a neck tattoo and I am a girl-juice puddle.Little Miss Fix-it.

Kill me now.It is for my own good.

And the ones that I pine for? The super talented ocean size infatuations that I long to sail my “S.S Hot-damn!” over ,poised saucily on the prow with a devil-may-care grin,great hair, a fucking massive sword and no knickers ? Usually taken and/or completely indifferent to my quasi-adolescent charms and chronic peter-pan-itis .

I am going to join a fucking convent.

The house strangely quiet as Lilli no longer plastered to the sofa watching endless TV. I dreamt that I was married to a hybrid of George Harrison and Jerry Only(!) .That will learn me for reading Patti Boyd’s nowhere NEAR raunchy enough autobiography before passing out. What did I expect? She up and left a genius for the most sterile boring guitar player of all time. Eric Clapton shits me to tears. And now you are gonna say “Layla” right? Fuck Layla! Duane Allman wrote the beginning of “Layla”.Those eight notes straight out of the gate showing you the way to heaven? That was ol’ Skydog. Don’t get me started……

The door was ho-hum on the weekend.I saw someone who offended me get smeared like dogshit under a shoe scant meters away from my excellent self.As his eyes rolled like a cow stuck in a bog and found my face on his blood blotted periphery ,I winked and waved.

My insomnia caught me on the fly and threw me under its 18 or so wheels for the last two days.This tends to happen to me at least once a month and now I don’t fight it because there is just no point.It is bigger and more powerful than I will ever be.I sleep on and off around the clock and it is done with me.I feel a bit shell shocked so I think that I will stay put.I could be cleaning up my room and washing my sheets that are bearing a striking resemblance to the shroud of Turin but I am not.Nor am I working on my tan.There was no food in the house when I first surfaced last night either so I am looking fetchingly svelte.

I should lose my own number for forgetting that it is Capt Barnes and Sgt Elias.In between beating black bears to death with her bare hands and making Divine glass beads Miss Suzanne of the Tundras gently corrected me.To the watchdogs that save me from slipping even deeper into the quagmire of stupidity from whence I came? I salute you.

Rather excited to be playing a show with Blackie and Keish at Repressed records in Newtown on Jan 28th. Between 7-9 I do believe.I shall be resplendent in a full face of slap and something slinky as I have to make haste to my delinquent door for another endless Saturday night after the fact. I despair my musical discipline,I really do.The house is person free right now so I should be practicing but I am muse free.The minxes.Perversely they descend at 2am when civilians are catatonic.I can’t win.

One thing that I will say in favor of the drunkenness of others is that with the right amount of prying I can gather mucho grande information.

I have an acquaintance,for all purposes of protecting the non-sober and vulnerable,that I shall call H. H is an alpha stone cold fox that causes women to lubricate just by walking by looking stoic,preoccupied and devastatingly handsome.Being that I am a fully demilitarized fuck free zone (“Incoming!! INCOM…Wait…..wha?…..no, scratch that…..”) I have absolutely no shame in asking ridiculously personal questions about other people’s peccadilloes.

Observe.

“H, everybody wants you.” I say while grasping the i-pad that I never use to my heaving c-cup chest while all our friends clutter the entrance to the tattoo shop next to my club wondering what I will say next. “No!” exclaims H ,the light catching his gold tooth.“Yes! “ I reply laser eyes pinning him to the wall.Sir Iggy’s line about hypnotizing chickens comes to mind,I plow on relentless. “But you always look so fucking aloof and constipated that it takes a commando like myself to draw attention to the fact,now what is your type? Inquiring minds want to know” .The look on his too-cool-for-school face is fucking priceless. He cant quite believe that someone is calling him on this shit.

My girlfriends should send me big bunches of white roses (hint) for getting the lowdown.

Alas,it is just like I thought it would be.The posse of tattooed vixens visibly deflate as his desires take shape.

Schoolgirls,prom-dresses.So young you can still smell the breast milk on them.

Typical.

Not that I care.We decide that we need a radio show “Howard Stern with tits!” I crow and he splutters.

He then goes on to tell me,in the spirit of some kind of miss-guided quid pro quo, that they they have a friend who is utterly infatuated with me.My ears prick up and my neither regions as ever stay Sahara dry.Ho-hum. Said lad in question is in a long term relationship but shakes like jelly in my high healed wake.How quaint. In a moment of what can be clarified as either stupidity and/or weakness he confided to his friends that he would like to get fucked raw by me as I choked him out.

Kind of like a pornographic WWF I guess.One can only imagine the outfit I would be wearing…..

So there you have it.The boys of my stripe and calibre want to fuck the alumni of St Trinians and /or are surrounded by razor-wire in long term arrangements and /or are completely mental.Magic, just fucking magic that. All I want to be not only adored for my smokin’ hot body but my brilliant mind to boot and lads look at me and think of wresting on a shower curtain covered in baby oil.

Naturally.

I am not going to say that I wasn’t a just a little flattered,I am human after all.But much like bad gas and summer vacations,it passed quickly.I told them I didn’t want to know who it was.It made a nice change from the drug addled infants on my door trying to chat me up,ever mixing up their ambition and their ability,bless their cotton socks,pupils dilated to manga size. Being an alpha girl is a lonesome road.But you hold out for the big guns.Picture me in my foxhole with a pointed stick and half an Archie comic.

Sigh.

Thank Elvis I have never defined myself by who happens to be at my side.I always want to be the black velvet beneath their diamond and hope that they feel the same,there is nothing finer than knowing that someone has your back, is there not? I live for that shit.I always lust after the Bonnie and Clyde scenario.Back to back,guns drawn.Sigh.I really am stunted in the ways of relating to other animals if my friends and peers are anything to go by.Nothing lasts.Even Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore have gone the way of the dodo after twenty seven sound soaked years.Twenty seven years! Can I just say that I fucking hate Sonic Youth? Thank you.But can you imagine trying to divide that record collection? Just thinking about it makes me want to lie down in a dark room with a wet cloth over my eyes.

You are your own forever.Deal with it.

I have an ex who needs a girlfriend at all times.His pattern never changes.He tells the new hole how bad the last hole was,tells her that she is different and she takes up the challenge.( And yes,I,your stunning scribe, fell for this bullshit hook,line and sinker as well…gulp.) He does what he always does,ruins everything and then hunts for a new hole.I am naturally suspicious of someone who cannot operate under their own steam and delight in their solitude.

Serves me right for hanging out with drama queen drug addicts really.

That was then and this is now.

Going to the store would mean getting dressed and dealing with people.I think that I will stay hungry( Ah ,Twisted Sister!) .Nothing is worth dealing with the animals.Nothing.It is inevitable and will happen sooner or later.I have a yen for a heap of sushi so I believe that shall be my mission when the sun descends.

It is beyond me why my clothes do not fold themselves.And to think that I held out such hope for the new millennium.Meals in a pill,rocket packs and so on.No joy.I thought it would be like the Jetsons by now.Ah life! How you do disappoint.

I have to hustle up enough coin to buy a brick at my beloved Annandale Hotel.Buy a brick and save the venue.Wish I had a blank check to throw at my most adored Rule brothers.My name etched on the outside of one of the greatest venues of all time.It thrills me to the core when I remember the adventures that have taken place between those four walls.Some of which,admittedly, should take the 5th.Some of which saved my life.

So buying a brick for 250 shekels is the least I can do.

Back to my imagination,the page,the gym and the road.

Fleetwood Mac was playing when I walked into the tattoo shop tonight.I smiled.

Award.

Thank Elvis the stupid season is done for another three hundred and sixty odd sunsets.

My patience was getting thinner than Karen Carpenter.I like watching them though,the drones, deflating as their free time flees screaming from them like a schoolboy from a drunk priest. Before they have to limber up their jaws and pad their knees once again for the next round of minimum wage cock-sucking.Yee-ha. The hang dog look on their fool faces fair floats my boat,it must be said.All the suckers skinned,shuffled and shunted aside for another year.All the sheep shagging inbred shit stains taking up my tattooist’s precious time with their pithy,cookie-cutter requests for 3rd hand mediocrity.

Time that could be spend on my far more worthy dermis.

(Upon observing a massive tribal piece being applied to a sun-burnt drunk Irishman I lent close to Ryan and said sotto voce “The 90’s called,they want their ink back” .He choked on his Snickers bar and I smirked like the bitch that I am.)

Can I get an amen?.

January finds me living closer to the bone and may I state for the record, most happy for it.Miss Lilli been off all week and is slowly putting our bombsite of a home in order.My room looks like some kind of shonky art installation,think Tracy Emmin but without the fuck-stains and used rubbers thank you. I will get to it, I have to for Miss Emma is coming over on Sunday and she ,much like my big brother,has a touch of the Howard Hughes about her. I am useless when I am on a roll and let it slip even for a second .I am the only person I know who manages to lose their bed.While it is still somewhere in their room. I have a touch of the Pig-pen from Peanuts about me.

I threw out 42 red-bull cans a few days ago so that is a thing.

Was struck by a fabulous idea due to Miss Lilli’s domestic spaz out.Much like Collette,I write while in bed.I am in bed right now eating sushi. With my fingers. And writing. So there you have it. I am Usually sans pants and clad  in my favorite baby blue Suicidal tendencies tee shirt.So why the fuck do I need an office when I can have a..wait for it,wait for it….TA DA!…walk in wardrobe!

Brilliant,I know right? This only occurred to me when the white-tiger unearthed about ten bags of my clothes and shoes from the carnage that was our sun-room.

I know that my fucking Fleetwood Mac tee-shirt is hiding in there somewhere.Jimmy Hoffa is probably in there.

I feel like I have been rotating the same outfits since we moved in.That is because I have been.But  now that I am no longer dwelling on the dire periphery of “Fat chickdom” ,thank Christ! ( Think a hand crocheted menstrual calender,think a dog-ear copy of  “The female eunuch”.A battered,out of tune nylon string guitar and multiple cat ownership…..shudder…you feel dirty now,dontcha?….) It is high time to drag out the glad rags and “Get it on!” as Marc Bolan would growl over Tony Viscontti’s echo laden,reverb soaked, smokin’ hot production.My neither regions are humming like a power-plant just thinking about it.

The threads and the tune.

Go and listen to “Children of the revolution” right now just for the strings alone.Loud,you know the drill….

Sigh.

Had a blissful time at Miss Emma’s the other night.Stranded (…yeah im so far from home…) on the sofa and thrumming with hard earned exhaustion,we watched a rather raunchy star studded vampire movie called “Suck” and inhaled so much Thai seafood salad that I thought I was going to shit an aquarium.Good times indeed.

Have been writing fatal and fully formed songs that I am actually happy with. Many notebooks clutter one of my backing breakingly heavy handbags and lines just pour from my pen.Admittedly I am still writing a bit about my haphazard heart but its nowhere near as bad as it was.I was heading for a triple-live-at-the-Budokan effort in self pity and indulgence. Meh.Screw it.

I am taking off down to Wollongong with Blackie on the 15th to record a duet for his new album.(“The Captain and Tennille!” I yell. He wisely says nothing .) I don’t know how I ever got so lucky but I am stoked. It is going to be rad.I need to find the cd that he burnt me of the track in question though…hopeless, I know.His stuff is always so heart clenchingly sweet.I will get to do a mega girly-girl voice and play with Luke Hy-test’s dog,the hyperactive Dee-Dee.Kicking goals all round champ!

I almost choked to death while reading the new Rolling Stone two nights ago.True story….

Done with the brilliant Soundgarden feature by the ever-excellent Rod Yates,I flicked absentmindedly and daydreamed of cruising round the small hopeless towns of my desperate youth,tyres chewing up the road to nowhere as “Badmotorfinger” provided the soundtrack to my sweaty discontent. The Rolling Stone awards.Seems that they are having their big,open bar, hoity -toity , back slapping thing soon so I languidly perused the nominees and promptly proceeded to lose my shit in both stereo and mono .Spitting vanilla protein shake all over the hallowed pages I clocked with manga-wide eyes and a rumba-ing heart that The Hard-on’s have been nominated in the “Immortal” category.

Me. “WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

And deservedly so. Along with Sir Nick Cave and a scant sacred few other illuminated people of sonic magnitude and tireless service to me getting my groove on.

About fucking time says I.

So, I text Blackie,who endearingly has no idea what I am banging on about and even after I explain it he is not really fussed in the slightest.”Its the one with Soundgarden on the cover!” I type furiously “Oh,I chucked that issue out.” Sir Laconic of cool-ville replies.I want to be him when I grow up.That is punk as fuck! Me? Oh my God, I would find everyone who had pissed me off since the day I was conceived and shove the mere nomination,not to mention the statuette or what ever the hell they give you, sideways up their asses and seal the deal with a nine inch nail just for luck. He just tells me that he had a crap night and hopes that I am doing ok.

What a dude.We are talking a dude of Lebowski stature here are we not?

That band are the rug that ties my room together,capisce ?

Not only should they win but the Australian government should pony up and pay them a grip of tax free cash for just being them.In a pirate treasure chest. Dressed as pirates. And their own national holiday. With a song that school kids have to learn.Fuck only knows they have worked long enough for it.

When I resided in Hamburg and got chatting to like minded Krauts about music in shady bars on the Reeperbahn, no word of a lie,The Hard-on’s would be in the first five Australian bands that they mentioned to me. Every time. I also knew a blunt-banged barmaid at The Kogge hotel,a salubrious watering hole that brewed me many cups of peppermint tea,who had a red Radio Birdmen tattoo on the inside of her wrist. What was I talking about? Oh yeah…What drives me batshit mental is that all my friends back in LA make a living off their music and it angers me to the point of much loud ranting with obscene hand gestures and made up words that the same does not hold sway here.It makes me sick is what it does.

I hope that they win.They have been winning in my eyes for over a quarter of a century anyway but it’s always peachy to have your ass kissed.

I have to start demoing my stuff because I know that this year is going to take off before I manage to extradite my head from my ass on a more regular basis..I have a much needed and anxiously awaited boot-camp in February so I am thinking then will be the time to get it together on the recording before recording front.Have Dictaphone,will travel.I need the ocean and no contact with the outside world right now.Wait,I always need that! Finances permitting ,I would take that option for-sweet-fuckin-ever.Was wasting time at the tattoo shop last night and it makes me want to set peoples heads on fire and then put it out with a shovel.

I hear that my  biological gypsy grandmother has divined my cards and what not and that my year is a 5 and ment to be most foxy.I draw from my own deck almost nightly and my tarot is promising. Slavic witches have a hot-line to the other side. Ner.No complaints from the pants free wackjob here. I am feeling good and as Captain Elias says?

“Feeling good is good enough.”

If you have to ask where that line originates we are no longer friends.Lose my number.

Time to get some sleep and hopefully dream of what I am going to wear on the door tonight. Or Ninjas.Or of making out.But not with the ninjas. I am delirious.Look,it’s all  fine by me. Whatever.As long as the shoes are good and the lighting is right?

I am a happy camper.

Vanity.

I’m am lousy with it. Utterly rife I tell you.And I fucking adore it.

Could this be the start of something good? Could this be,I shake to think,some kind of love?

Take care of the investment and the stocks shall rise.

All I know is that it is a damn sight better than the sackcloth and ashes caper that I have been Lady Mc Beth-ing my way though over the last insufferable fucking year and a bit.

(Song for the last sentence “Teenage Kicks” by The Undertones.Loud.)

Now that I have lost the first 14 pounds of the miserable 20 that I am arduously beating from my fabulously boned frame,every reflective surface knows my number and calls sweetly to me as I saunter by,my name sounding clit-tickling profane when hissed from the shadows ( ….baby,honey,sweet thang.Oh mama you wanna spend some slow sweet time? Mmmm-Mm! Girl,you know I just hate to see you go but I  just love to watch you leave…) My eternal studded belt sliding lower on my sinewy hips by the day.I sweet talk my body and thank it by way of care for retaining its militant muscle memory.

2012.I figure its got to be great for a fringe dwelling whack job like myself. The world is meant to end. Darwin yawns,scratches his ass and presses the big red button in heaven and I end up,post apocalypse, fishing with bobby pins and dental floss while living in a cave and tending the ornery herd of goats that I have thoughtfully named after a plethora of deceased rock gods.(“Brian Jones! Don’t eat that can!!” ) Sounds like heaven right there.At night the sky glows distant and hot as the cities burn to the ground,a Bruegel vision of hell.

Cha,cha,cha.

I accidentally spent my rent money at Chanel last Thursday.I don’t know how.It just ,well, happened.

So now I have the cashmere skin of a well heeled Manhattan snot,a bottle of Allure that begged to come home with me and a grumpy landlord.

Never mind.

Bending my corpse to my reinstated iron will.Kissing a photocopied picture of Sir Henry Rollins on the way out my door to terrorise all my beloved shirt lifters at the gym. Treating myself like a science experiment.Amazed that it,being my body, still talks to me and  even more amazed that I have now been writing White-trash for a tumultuous sonic powered well traveled decade.My,I was a serious young thing.I seem to be getting younger as I get older.Let them eat brioche. Re-reading is as embarrassing as your mother pulling out baby pictures when you bring someone home for the first time so I avoid it and forge forward.

Ten fucking years.Who would have thunk it?

And there were all my school reports saying that I couldn’t stick with anything! Pft. A pox upon them, the pooch screwing ,philistine gob shites.

As the year of the cad slow bleeds from the calendars pages and pools rank on the floor ,I find myself reshaping and realigning.”Run you fat fuck!” elegantly scrawled in MAC Russian Red lipstick across the salvaged 1950’s mirror that lords over my product packed altar of a dressing table.

I stretch for hours in my dancers woollen warm up gear, my joints yodel pain arias , my face looks like a wet tomato on the verge of a coronary and my back is long and panelled with plates of muscle due to the bazillion plies I do daily with wrist weights on .I stand tall but that is also due to the  new 15cm very foxy buckle bedecked wooden heeled boots that I accidentally purchased last week.I don’t know how this keeps happening to me? Oh wait,yes I do.Thanks to my weekend folly as the door doyenne du jour ,I now get shoes for half price due to a charming  petite brunette by the name of Tia. My shoe angel.I knew that they had to exist.

How does this arrangement work you ask?

She gets in for free and I get her staff discount.Everybody wins.

Peachy non?

I woke up with an empty red-bull can wedged under my fatigued thigh.The breakfast of champions.With the amount that I imbibe I must have the wings of a 747.My room is a delta of blue tins.I am so louche,I throw the cans hither and yon like Henry the eighth flinging chicken legs and great mauled joints of mutton from the banquet table to the dogs and servants huddled dirty and starving on the floor below. I still believe in my heart of hearts that someone should clean up after me so that I can devote even more of my time to doing nothing but what ever it is that I want to do.Or plotting my wardrobe choices.I wonder what I am going to wear on New Years Eve at the club.I am thinking a lot of leg action and the aforementioned half price shoes of doom.Thank Elvis for small mercies,at least the trains will be running round the clock so I will be able to get gone toot- sweet once the killing floor has been swept clear for another year.

Lets just hope that I don’t up and beat someone to death with the broom before the clock strikes midnight.

I have now resided in my green grotto of a room since the eternally blighted month of September and I still have not unpacked all my belongings.What I have done is gone online and perused firearms.Did you know that you can get a Hello Kitty .45 with a Yankee speed grip? Keep that in mind for my birthday.

Homicide.If I could do it? and get away with it? C’mon,you know that I would.I bet that you would too.Saint Peter would snigger at the new arrivals “So,it says here that you were shot with a pink gun?” The book keeping angles titter behind him….As my late night bus chock-o-block full of illegal immigrants,slack skinned twitching tweekers and deodorant dodging shift workers trundles up the hill I smile as I see the marquee for the Bankstown gun shop appear like a concrete push in the right direction.I feel like Mohammad arriving at the mountain.I plan all my massacres in slow motion and the soundtrack is phenomenal.

I have stopped chowing down on my poor fingernails and my hair looks like it should be heading to San Francisco circa 1967 to hang at a love-in.(“Pst! Wanna score?..got some mescaline that will let you ride the snake chica….) I find myself channeling Georges Marciano’s Guess Jeans advertising campaigns when it comes to starlet-style make up,big bambi “Oh Daddy!” come -hither -and -fuck -my -fillings -out eyes and wholesome cleavage and Anita Pallenberg in her hotter -than- hell slayday for pretty much everything else at this point.Even if my fags are the only ones appreciating my finely crafted efforts vocally with much hand waiving and squealing ,its doing wonders for my well being and bludgeoned self esteem. So yeah,my wild locks are so long that they tickle the crack of my tight high stepping ass.My big blue eyes see all.Can I also mention that my thighs no longer touch? That my six pack ( Not the Black flag kind,the stomach kind) has made a very welcome re- appeance?

Dangerous.This feeling good again caper.And about fucking time! Being admired as I strut around doing a heap of sweet fuck all in my small life. Dude opened the door at the gym for me last night.One of the pink mafia but still.I am not invisible any more and it makes me giddy.Intoxicating. Gangsters with great hair,heavy tans,chiclet capped teeth and outrageous cars tell me I am looking good and then ask for training tips while eying off the storm-trooper lines running from my lower abs deep  into the waist of my jeans.So naturally I exhale and flex ever so slightly as I lay out fables of many,many sets with weighted ankles suspended in the roman chair followed by more high kicks that a Rockettes matinee at Radio City Music Hall.I preen on a subtle and low level because I fucking well can and because I worked my ass off to get back to where I am meant to be.And I am only halfway there.Now,what was I saying about dangerous?

I am feeling the best I have felt in ages.

I think that this is the good kind of vanity. Fuck it,if life doesn’t come equipped with a cheer squad ? I am a DIY punk baby from way back and I am calling in a Mexican wave to herald my salty return from the broken badlands.Ticker tape made from moot ,lie filled love letters rain down on my amazon head and I wink and wave at my insecurities held at bay by the neon yellow barricades and Tom of Finland cops who line my triumphant route back to where I am ment to be.

But it can go in iron grey and sad directions at the slightest memory.Which sadly reminds one of the other,the  bad kind of vanity.The one that leaves you martyred on the the jagged rocks of co-dependance,draped in rotten rags of regret. The bad kind was what got my fool head  thinking that I could save someone who didn’t want to be saved. That kind of sad shit is just pure pissed off poison to the marrow,rotten to the root.

Some love should come with a paste on warning from the surgeon general just like they slap on the cigarette’s packets.But instead of the usual graphic pictures of rotting gangrenous feet and lungs it would show a tear stained fat chick inhaling a mountain of Mounds bars,food stains Picasso-ing down the front of her XX-L tee shirt and sending obsessives texts till 2am.Some days my bones still ache with fading worry,my mail unanswered,my mighty love unaccepted and unreturned…..But onward Dark Horse,I must call a spade a shovel at this point or all will be abandoned and lost and that is not an option. I don’t want my hopeless hopes bolstered anymore.I don’t want to be lied to anymore and I am done with lying to myself when it comes to the fickle follies of my hard heart.

Some people man,just because they don’t want you doesn’t mean that they will let you go.Calls from far away places on the road and you slip back into the language of you ,the shorthand of speech gilded by the  years of your shared history.You save around about,I don’t know,say two thousand messages on your phone because even when it was bad it was yours.Do not listen to Jeff Buckley in low light,avoid certain numbers dripping in 12 string virtuosity from Pink Floyd and all will remain ever tenuous but eminently doable.And that is all I ask for..

Maybe.

I used to cry all the time thinking that the saddest boy that I have ever known would not see the Hollywood sign again until he is 55.

But people,if you give then even half a chance, can just grind down all the good left in you.Down,down,down to a fine powder and snort it off a non porous surface right before your very own disbelieving eyes as you sag on your knees,stunned by their cruelty and drained by their greed.I have a stack of cool vinyl and stuff that I was hording for him.His string lipped,bitter harridan intercepts his mail so I guess that it can just collect dust in the corner next to my bass. Back to Sodom and Gomorrah by the sea and he won’t talk to me.I lose my failed forever yet again to a more terrifying big picture that demands total supplication and devotion to the death.

Old habits,I am coming to believe do not die hard at all,they just get harder.

All the promises and such fed to me ,dripping dirty on a transatlantic sticky spoon turn to ashes on my talented tongue. You wanna know a thing? Want to dig on the conclusion that I have finally arrived at  with the help of a few amazing people and a whole grip of pelvis pounding dirty Rock and Roll?

Brace yourself….

I am far to hot and vital not to mention way to smart to be someones midlife crisis angst outlet that gets dropped like a hot potato for a cheap brittle high and a haggard whore every time a tour ends.

Its fascinating to watch self immolation as long as it is from a distance.You don’t want to lose your bangs and eyebrows in the inferno.”Safety first kids!” says Smokey the bear. We all watch because in one way or another we have all been rejected by the human torch there,so now we observe as impassively as we are able and try not to let it eat away at us .This is a noble idea and a hard practice.My self esteem looks like a burn victim,piebald patched ,candy apple red raw and shiny with scars. But alive.

My flat-line has got the hiccups.A pulse.

Desperate people need running partners when they are going down the shitter,no fool wants to fall alone.Makes me think of Robert Stone’s line in “Dog Soldiers.”I’ve been waiting my whole like to fuck up like this”. It takes a lot longer than you think to hit bottom and then it runs in levels much like Mr Alighieri’s inferno.It delights in showing you how much worse it can get and trust me on this,it does.You court disaster for long enough and before you know it she moves in and doesn’t  pay rent,blows your fiendish friends for eight-balls and a fist-full of clean rigs while you are at the store stocking up on Top Ramen and sells all your vinyl for heroin . Charming. Miss me much?

You know what they say ,”You got’s dance with the one that brung you” (…annnnnd one-two-three-two-two-three….) And it? Your whole sordid self inflicted life? Brace yourself as it becomes a tweek fueled version of the depression dance off in “They shoot horses,don’t they?”.

A parody,a stereotype.The stars granite beneath my tired Hollywood converse of around about the region of a million dusty desert dry miles and I held on to something that wanted me to do no such thing.I was a diversion,a hope that faded,a warm hole,a toy to dismantle.These fucking cowboys,pft,they tell me that they have got away with “It” whatever “It” is.What did you win dear? I am ever so curious to know what the sweep-stake of stupid prize is.

It’s a long labour you know,giving birth to the end.They push and push till they tear the perineum of your patience clean in two.You are exhausted ( “Keep sewing” you tell the Doctor doing the embroidery on your catastrophe of a cunt “Just leave me a hole to pee out of “. You cry big barren sobs and hit the button that they have so thoughtfully provided for you to self administer the nectar of the gods into your hungry veins. Demerol for dinner and you fly away)

A perverse breech birth feet first and flailing with anger from the get go.

( the nurses wanted to let this one sleep itself to death….)

To find out who they could be in the lack of their self-inflicted shit storm? Ha! You must be kidding me! All that does is send them even further down.Courage is a rare thing and not to be found here. Get higher to get lower.Shake appeal right? Like The Stooges threw down.

Chicken shit.

Me and my jaunty bright orange toenails,rapier sharp wit and kissable mouth are flying solo through the shitty non-summer.I buy outrageous  perfume,weighted wantonly with jasmine and patchouli, hot off junkie fences sporting  big open sores on their faces from picking out the invisible bugs. I eat like an finicky nine year old but I smell like ten speed ,white walled tyred trouble. The heavy bottles clog the surface of my black glass topped dressing table and my scent soaked dreams.I drink nothing but tepid tap-water and Red-bull.My skin is smooth and calm,it gratefully sucks up the almond oil that I lavish on it straight out of the piping hot shower.My machine runs on sashimi and teen-aged longing.

My machine runs on select memory and dreams.Lost hotel room loops and scant stolen hours.On the possibility of possibility.On suede,gold Rolex’s and hot Vegas air.It drifts on the memory of the corona of light that surrounded the Chevalier’s head like a halo as he coaxed us higher with his guitar,a star.On salt and cinnamon flooded air.On superstition and Cherio’s book of numbers.I am the black cat bone and the spilled salt.The scar in my mouth a train-wreck of soft pink beging like James Brown sweating though his mohair suit bathed triumphant  in the blistering footlights at The Apollo.

“Please,please,please,please” it moans..

My machine running at all is reason enough to light the white candles for protection,to prolong the gift and give great thanks for its magnificent reinstatement.To give gratitude frequently to the greater forces both above and below.Powder’s burnt to delta gods and swamp saints. I reconnect with all that I thought I had lost.Fingernails and hair offered to an ever greedy flame and precise chalk circles.

Tell me? Did you forget what you were fucking with child?

Red candles for love.Pink for desire.Black for…..

Is it vanity to wonder if I am thought of in secret? If I am wanted even for a split second? My knees buckle and my fat lipped mouth floods with saliva at the prospect but I harbour very few allusions.Mama didn’t raise no fool and contrary to what one may think I am not as dumb as I look.I know where all the bodies are buried ,I am the map,my instinct the compass.Wish that I had the energy,impetus or better still ,the red hot inspiration to get my flirt on but some things are always going to come up roses nowhere but in my imagination.

I will still write songs to people who don’t even know I am alive.Who touch me and don’t even know it.

Laz had his birthday shindig  a few days ago which I missed.But as I gave him a well written card I don’t feel so bad.Plastic bags full of rubbery magic mushrooms and gallons of red wine in his terrifying  ill lit horror house lording on the edge of the too hip enclave of shitty Newtown.I won’t hear from him for a while I do believe and Elvis only knows what state he will be in when I do.Why am I picturing Dennis Hopper in Apocalypse Now?

I am hanging for this year to be done and dusted.Only days to go now and I am rubbing my hands like a Shylock.How I have paid and paid and paid.I must be responsible for some part of a far away Brazilian rain forest being defoliated with the amount of notebooks that I have filled this year with amoral crap and bell-tower talk downs.( Hand me the bullhorn,we have to get this crazy cunt down from there …..”Put down the gun Michele,no one wants to hurt you…” *click-clank* …”FUCK YOU PIG! COME GET ME!!!!!” ) A few good songs snuck  into the mix so its not too shabby all in all.

Vanity,thy name is Michele.

( ! )

Wanted.WANTED!

Oh Elvis!.Please stop watching those white pantie clad school girls wrestle on your circular bed for just a moment and hear my prayer. How I want to be wanted! Adored! Like that song by The Stone Roses.Pay attention to me! Kiss my sleek butt! And then I get to run away without being touched.Fucking teenager! What the hell is wrong with me? Where is this all coming from?? You know that shiny feeling you get when you gaze at someone who rattles your keys? Like windowpane acid and your face gets all tight and you can smell the spices that their skin spritzes out like a stoned perfume tester on minimum wage and the bold blood beneath their skin? You,know,you know! Oh God….

When all you want  is hear them say your name,roll it around on a talented tongue like thirty year old scotch.Savouring the sound of you.Feed it to you with a spit soaked kiss.

I need a cold shower and a good slap upside the head is what I need…

And I want flowers! *stamps foot* You heard me.Acres of them. Fields. But not the “Gee! I’m sorry I ruined your life ” variety.I want flowers just because I happen to be a stone cold fox with great taste in music and high heels and can tell you the only song that  AC/DC ever recorded in the key of B and more importantly,why. Goddamn it! Its not a need thing thank Elvis,for need will be the undoing of us all,I swear.Its  a ,I don’t know, kinda a  more a gamy wanton desire thingy which has reared it well coiffed head since I started training like a fucking marine again.

Desire! Well take a looky-loo at me! I thought that I was done with it but I guess that it ain’t done with me.Kinda glad to tell you the truth.Want and need .Oh brother.And hark,Saint Tina having the gall to tell me that I didn’t know the difference twixt the two.Pft. The cheek. Well, at least I am clever enough at this point in the almost abandoned game not to want to be needed.

The gnarly root of the matter at hand here is confidence.I have finally got a bit of confidence back and now I shall become utterly insufferable.In hot pants no less.Smug in leather listening to Turbo Negro all the while imagining kicking your ass effortlessly.

Fuck it,why not?

I lost my fucking mind in the jungle.I got off the boat.I didn’t even know who I was.And when I did ? Then I was made to feel by the one I entrusted with my priceless heart that I wasn’t good enough and me, like a total dumb fuck ,believed him.It was him that wasn’t good enough and wanted to make me pay for his mountain of issues while I provided the tissues.Ah! 10cc had it right ,the things we do for love in-deed.

Me and my big bad-ass brain and stuttering career in autistic punk are just Amos and Andy thank you very much.My new band is going to destroy everything in its path.I have two of the best guitar players I have ever know in my corner.Life is sweet. Fuck the naysayers and the drug fueled heart slayers.I had so many friends die this year and I will not put up with people who don’t respect their allotted time on the planet.I Think of Michelle Meldrum’s ding-a-ling,euro-trash ex husband raising the adored fruit of her womb and it makes me puke. She is gone. Skoota is gone.George,Crystal Lil,Mia? Gone,gone,gone.

You want your slow suicide? Fuck you swinging. All you self indulgent ungrateful cunts can go eat a slow roasted bowl of dick and choke.I will piss on your graves.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever said Blake and he was right. I am breathing,this shit of a year as almost done,I get whistled at from building sights,I smell amazing and I can fit into all my raunchy clothes again.That is where its at. That and Van Halen doing “Hot for teacher”, my Budweiser bikini,the book on mass murder that I am reading…I am going to suck the juice out of everything and swallow the seeds.Let a garden grow inside me.Play my guitar and sing at top volume in the shower.

And I am going to look like a tattooed wet dream while I do.

And if you don’t like it? You can fuck off.

Roast marshmallows over the raging bonfire that is fed and fueled by my widows weeds.

Thank you Elvis and Amen.

Possibility.

Fear.

Mostly of hurt and rejection.I am just not game enough to put myself out there.I will always feel like the prom scene in “Carrie” in that respect.Always waiting for the bucket to drop so to speak.

Which is why I dwell in my imagination.

Let us go back….Back, back though the swirling stinky mists of rock n roll time…..

When I was the rampaging lead singer of Tourette’s sometime round the dawn of the 1800’s,if I had to room with someone on tour it would always be the alpha bass god,Rosco Deluxe.We stuck together,he and I , he was my confidant and closest friend. I am sure he was happy to see the end of me when the band split up but even though he now resides in Berlin and I in stagnant suburbia,nowheresville,we are still and will always be brothers.

I have no secrets from that lad.Any of you that have lived though a band and excessive touring know that privacy is never at a premium and Lord! Did we talk.He is a surgeon that one,cut though all of my shit with the greatest of ease.I harboured illogical crushes accompanied by damp over-gazed at photographs through much of the duration of the band.Deluxe would roll his eyes and set me straight.

“He does not even know I am alive” I would whiningly lament ,sprawled fetchingly at the foot of Roscoe’s bed at our cranky abode high above Hamburg.

Ross would look up from the soft glow of his computer screen and drawl in that laconic voice. “Babes,we have been over this,I know you are great and I imagine so does he but …”

“But what?” I would ask from the floor knowing the answer but hoping that with the umpteenth retelling that it would sink into my thick skull.

“Meat and three veg!” we both exclaim at the same time and crack up.

Allow me to explain.

The Bass Gods’ rather poignant theory is that I am the absolute business, hands down,bless him.Well that’s how he would start it,listing all my attributes and I would luxuriate in it,wallow.Oink,oink,oink. But as we all know the good things never last.I am then informed that while lads may pine at a distance,flirt on drunken occasion and hang my picture on their wall they will always go home to she who is steady.Good but not too good,smart but not castrating with a monumental vocabulary,pretty but not Slavicly stunning,focused but not too driven.In a craptacular nutshell ,the pussy packing  equivalent of the old staple meal of meat and three vegetables.

Safe,secure,steady and sure.

Which I guess makes me some kind of Mongolian barbecue.

Sigh.

I would protest vehemently that man can not live on bland alone and that I could be all those things too.That if only they would see past it all,blah,blah,blah.

Ross cocked his eyebrow at me like a trigger.

“Yeah,when you are not jumping off stage barefoot in a suit trying to beat up Neo-Nazis in Frankfurt”

“Once! That happened once!!!”

So in my sodden imagination I stayed while the objects of my erstwhile desire had no fucking idea.Not a clue.This has been a lifelong pattern and knowing that I am an acquired taste is cold fucking comfort indeed.

My big brother always tries to make me feel better about it.You know,not being bland enough.Long a dater of shockingly stunning women,a true connoisseur,  he mutters darkly under his breath “Men are terrified of cheekbones!” To tell you the truth,I am not entirely sure what this means but strangely it makes me feel better.

And here I am again….

You get so used to feeling like shit that you are not entirely sure what to do with your fine self when you don’t.Except for buying more shoes….Oh,and staying in bed watching Roman Polanski movies.Then you have pedicures and playing your bass at a volume that sends the dogs next door postal,I would like to think with happiness but being that I am rather heavy handed when it comes to my all consuming love of distortion especially when it comes to walloping out Dave Alexander’s immortal lines at fuck worthy Wembley volume,probably not.

Can I just say that everything sounds and I actually play better in a Dukes of Hazard tee shirt and hot pants?

All I had to do,I have finally figured out, was cut out the cancer and get out of my own way.There it is.Cut the shit and self sympathy and get out of your own way.Face it home-school,you are not missed and you were not even kissed in the last-dire-shit-is-on-fire months so wave bye-bye and let it go….

(“You have to be kissed” he said and I melted.)

I find myself giggling.Yeah,I know right? Big shark smiles for no reason as well. Because I finally got right with myself.I also get to get right in front of Lilli’s lens next week.First real shoot in about a year.

Tempis fuckin’ fugit and so on and so forth. I am hot to trot now.Time to get back in the ring and work my over disciplined ass off.

I will tell you what kills me and takes the cake while I am at it? Don’t mind if I do,pull up a pew.This will digress and take a while….You know,the usual…

Stifled sensualists forced to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous soul squelching catholic education tend to be a mess.Yes, I am refering to moi.I personally, am a sensory overload in thigh high boots.But I temper it you see less the hounds come sniffing round my hem.Catholicism makes everything thing seem oh-so  dangerously dirty and forbidden.I still have to stop myself sitting a novena when I feel ripe with foxy thoughts.Its a low down crying shame really.This is why I am stuck in tumescent adolescence when it comes to the the rare covert-able member of the opposite sex.

Can I just say that I was fucking great at being an almost wife,at being in love.This is not something that I fling around willy nilly, you dig?

This shit is-tell-me-all-about-it-Harry-Winston precious.The mere gossamer thought of it even more so.And I am never going to squander it again.So here are my ravishing loins under self inflicted lock and key while my 15 year old imagination is chugging pony cans of Coors,listening to Ted Nugent, high on prime weed under black-lights and going buck wild on a limited loop of shit-hot possibility and I am loathe to admit,totally impractical fantasy.Look ma! No hands!

Oh well,them’s the breaks…

Still not,erm, interfering with myself at this point but let it be duly noted that I have rather lofty hopes on the self abuse front for the New Year.That’s about a squillion hail Marys right there…

A-hem.

Its not the fear of feeling it,it beings pretty much anything really,but it is the fear of putting my trust in someone else when I do.Which is why pinning is the only way to fly. (“Please make sure your tray table is secured and that you seat is in the upright position…”) I have always fared better at internalized romance.Miss Emma smirked at my wanton prowling and devil-may-care gratuitous hair flicking the other night and gave me a big old hug. I must have looked like a demented Whitesnake film clip.I am such a tool.It has been so long since I have felt dangerous with my own femininity.Since I even remembered that I had any femininity to speak of. What a fucking hoot.It’s like Russ Meyer has crafted me from beyond the grave.

And it’s safe cause it is mine.I am not going to waste this on some lank haired loser with a Stratocaster.Perish the thought! Bugger off! No! I am going to keep it churning and burning inside like a frosty machine full of molten cherry red fuck in my wah-pedal saturated ( Think Larry Graham in Sly and The Family Stone) over active cranium.

The voice in my head is tuned to drop-A.It thrums through me like a current connected to my cu…well…..it breathes down my long neck,warm and whisky scented.It touches me on all the hot points where my pulse dances fast and visible beneath my dermis.I quietly slide my flimsy black lace smalls off under the cover of the table and shove them in his pocket.Rewarded with a lupine grin I blush like a virgin.

Fantasy rules.I have depended on it my whole life.It saved me,it was and I think is ,all I have.Take it from the girl they used to call “Double bag” in high school.Oh,you are just gonna love this…The preface being that if you were dumb enough to want to fuck me? You put two bags over my head in case the first one broke.From my mouth to God’s ear.Funny huh?

Ha,ha,ha.

I was the oldest virgin I knew.No small wonder that I lived inside my head and I still do.At least the rent is paid up

As David Lee Roth once said “At least they know what I drink in here”

During a much needed and probably the best conversation I have had in the past 20 odd ( in more ways than one,trust me.) months. I was earnestly asked if member’s of the rock elite ever tried to make a move on my leggy self.

I  proceed to choke laughing on my water.Wildly flattered though,it must be said.

Never! I shit you not….

Maybe because I have never seen myself like that.That I don’t rate myself as how should I put it,want-able? High school lingers for a real long time.As do soul destroying relationships that you bet the farm on and lost .I still see myself as one of the boys.

The other party claimed amazement which made me feel all special and drippy inside.

They also looked at me like I was prime rib.

And I am so shocked and colour me reignited and spastically grateful.I have come from being told if I put on weight that I had let myself go to if I was fit that I looked ugly and like a boy.

(!!@##$%$$?????!!!@#!#@?!)

This being just a sample and reason is how I ended up in the wilderness for well over a now lost and sadly lamented year and then some.

Miss Ash tells me that my pictorials are eagerly awaited and wanted sight unseen by magazines and I have to pinch myself.She says that people are awaiting my return,that interest is high.I feel like I should be flinging caterwauling infants into a volcano by way of thanks being that my gratitude is so massive.

And Sing?

Like a fucking bird.In the shower,on the train,in the gym.Perched on the end of my notebook strewn bed ,guitar cradled in my inked arms nutting out the arrangements that I want to wrangle for my album.

Tweet,tweet,tweet.

And to think that I didn’t sing till Blackie put me on that show last summer,that my voice was gone.And even then I sounded like a puppy trying to shit a pot roast cause I was so shattered.This,this feeling? Being able to soar again? Is the ducks nuts! I am purring like a prestige vehicle AND I am in a new band come 2012.

…………..oh…mmm!….ohhhh….OHHHHH!!!! Oh god….god yes! yessss! YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!

The cerebral and sonic orgasms in lieu of the physical? Honey,I will take my licks where I can get ’em.

I feel like I am back in my body.The training helps like you wouldn’t believe.Elvis bless the serotonin! Wooo-weee! All sweat,blood pounding and just a bee’s dick,there slightest-est pinch of reemerging desire.For what? Just to be.And that is more than enough.

I liberally douse myself in a mist of Chanel Gardenia and spring long limbed into my big white bed naked as a jaybird and squeaky clean after using up every last drop of the hot water.A Moorish witch sprawled on an acre of bazillion thread count Egyptian cotton…..and finally,I dream again.

Tangled in my long hair are ghost fingers,stars,fast cars and Gibson guitars.

Movement saves me.It is imperative.I run for miles to nothing but my beloved Bon Scott saturated  AC/DC.

I shave,pluck,oil,scrub,condition,de-tangle,moisturise,exfoliate,file,trim,buff,gloss,shine,brush,polish,lacquer ,loofah

and

shine

shine

shine.

“Oh if you could see me now!”

I think as I float in the bath,my buff brown bod borne aloft bobbing on ebson salts and good vibes.KISS blasting though the empty house and I snigger like Muttley as I picture the sad sack of scrawny smacked out shit that was drafted in as my replacement.

Ho,ho,ho.

I could not give a shit if I tried.

And with that? I raise my glass to possibility.

Cheers.

Security.

I think the biggest perk of being the reigning door bitch in Sydney (Are you gonna argue with me ? Yeah,that’s what I thought… ) besides all my beloved super-talented freaky-deek,technicolor, gay infants -of -the -night custom making me the most unbelievable and  fabulous clothes and jewelry, is my boys.

The three headed hydra that makes up  my security detail.Not only do they protect me from the unwashed masses,more importantly they protect the unwashed masses from me.

But its the shoulders to cry,or should I say whine on and the secret boy information that they provide to this sore hearted goddess that I am most grateful for.

Chris and James are brothers and wildly different. James is a rottweiler on a choke chain but also one of the kindest and most blunt people I know. He has also given me great tips on how to do the most damage to another person without having to do jail time or community service. Sharp as a tack with laser eyes. Then we have his baby brother Chris who sees all.When the door is slow I get my elbow into the knots on the back of his neck and shoulders which he loves,the great pillow.Nothing gets past this kid.Tends to be quiet but he’s dumb like a fox ,a watcher,Not one to underestimate.

Then last but not least is Adam.Turns out that he served in the same battalion as my gung-ho bat-shit insane youngest uncle,doing water jumps out of low flying Huey’s in the pitch dark and other such crazy shit that makes my sphincter clench with fear.Not the kind of dude you want to make angry. I am not sure if its the military connection or what but he understands me to a T. I start training mixed martial arts with him in the new year about which I am so excited.

All three of my boys,whom I fuss and cluck over like some kind of demented  Jewish mother, are utterly devoted to their children whose names sweetly decorate their necks and forearms in swirling  ink reminiscent of the gangsters I used to see  menacing the corners back in the LBC.

I don’t faze them.You have no idea how novel and cool that is for me.Its a total gift considering that civilian men tend to be utterly petrified of me. Its like hanging out with my brothers and cousins growing up all over again.I ask them about all the sacred workings of the male psyche and they set me straight with no fanfare or bullshit on even my stupidest inquiries.

And believe me when I tell you that I have some absolute clangers.My ex went through my hot pink heart like a dick driven natural disaster.These guys are like the emotional Red Cross to me.Patching up the war zone that I have become.I am some lucky cowgirl to have them,I can tell you that for nix.

Between the three of them and my poor,poor shrink I have come to understand so fucking much about how and why my hollow heart got stomped.Like that immortal line in Spinal Tap “A bit too much fucking perspective”.

And they always notice when I have lost more weight.

My boys,not my shrink.

There are more platonic angelic men in my life that you could poke and e-z-bar at right now.

Joe and Steve.The nut brown,body shaven queens at the gym who give me a tight botox smirk as I yell at the cage fighting while pumping away on my favorite bike cranked up to level 20 for a solid hour.I must look utterly deranged .On top of this I am doing shoulder presses with ten kg free weights at the same time.”You call THAT a kimora you pussy!??!!” I bellow from beneath my towel wrapped neck and sodden grey Everlast hoodie.

“Choke him OUT you useless FUCK!!! ARGHHH!!!!!”

Cue weights being flung to the ground in disgust.

Charming,I know.

They elegantly spot each other and roll their eyes.Joe told me that I was butch enough for all of them at that hour of the morning .He squealed like a girl and jumped as I smacked him hard on his Lycra clad ass and growled “You got that right Nancy!” and we cracked up.

Although his boyfriend Steve is a bit weird around me now.

They know the gist  of my travails and fucked up fables as I frequent their brilliant coffee shop.They love,love,love me.They also claim that they and their butt loving brethren basically dreamt me into existence. This would actually not surprise me at this point but then again,I think that very little would.

Moi,hatched from the collective mardi gras mooching, rainbow wrapped minds of the gay universe. Duh,of course.I am imagining a Crisco conducted delivery to the dulcet tones of Donna Summer,complete with Jimmy Choo platforms and glitter afterbirth.It make sense. Steve, Joe’s better half tells me that I am the woman they all want to be.

Which is sweet and explains my false eyelash addiction.

Joe then schools me as only a man who wears MAC concealer and a devastating smokey eye during business hours can.Drinking me in from beneath his perfect eyebrows with a discerning diamond eye.I blush under the scrutiny and he clucks his sharp tongue and pushes my wild witchy hair back from my face with a fluid and great gentleness .

“You are way too finely tuned and well put together for some hetero pig to dig angel-baby.” he harrumphs.

I smirk and the moment is broken.We then bitch about all the people we don’t like.This is a long list….

At least pole-smokers get my wit.I find myself cranked up to eleven and free as a profanity fueled bird of prey around them.Real boys shy away from my mind which,of course, leads me to verbally annihilate them in mixed company.My dance card remains empty.

“So I am bound for masturbation and Sex in the city marathons with you lot for the rest of my foxy existence?” I ask Joe.

“There are worse things!” he pouts and flounces off  pretending to be offended.I watch as he  serves  three fat chicks tottering on bargain shopping swollen cankles with much sighing and eye rolling. I smile,my tongue toying with the scar inside my lip. Naturally they order skim lattes and bollocking great artery clogging slabs of chocolate mud cake with cream.

“Swine” hisses Steve on the way past and I snort into genteelly into my bucket of free chai tea.

Elvis love them though.They make me feel like a cross between Raquel Welsh and the Terminator.

Security guards and Fags.

And I fucking adore them.