Wisdom..

 

It depends which guns one deems worth sticking to I guess.

Let us venture back through the sticky sands of time to the dire days of my mis-spent youth shall we ?

When I was just a young flannel clad reject bearing the scars of teenage humiliation and  violent acne , my wise saint of a mother dished up some wisdom that made it through to me even through I was pretending not to listen engrossed in my umpteenth reading of “Elvis and Me” by Priscilla Beaulieu-Presley ,sullen and stinking of angst,cigarettes and ennui at the kitchen table. Before I impart the wisdom bit, if there is anyone who reads this shit, happens to be handy on the sewing machine and wishes to make one of my teen dreams come true? There is a picture of Elvis and Priscilla in the aforementioned tome leaving the divorce court. Check out Priscilla’s coat. Swoon much? I am 6’3 and would dig it in a size fourteen. A tad longer in the arms too if its not to much trouble. Merci Beaucoup.

Wisdom,wisdom…where was I? She told me to pick what I am good at and stick with it. She also told me that my time would come. Not now mind , later. “Later” is not what you want to fucking hear at that age hopped up on hormones and heroin, but all five foot nothing of her magical long suffering ass was right.

She also told me that boys wouldn’t dig me till I got to the bigger cities where my own state of special would shine.

So I have tenacity and great tits. Things could always be worse.

I still tend to terrify boys though. Nothing ever really seems to change on that fucked up front. I shine like some kind of bustout beacon to the feeble minded, the felonious and the incarcerated though. ( “I saw your picture in the tattoo magazine and I felt our connection though the page.Your eyes tell me all that I need to know. You are the girl for me. I have been reading your site and I have got all the secret messages that you put in there just for me. I am currently in jail for a crime that I did not commit  no matter what my cunt whore bitch ex wife and her slime ball lawyer might say. I want to smell you….”)

I mean,what is so scary about a 6’3 heavily tattooed bass bollocking brunette with a knife fetish, 47 pairs of boots,a terrifying knowledge of obscure popular culture and punk rock, armed with a rapier wit, the world’s longest legs,hatbox’s full of lingerie and who dresses like manga porn heroine in obscenely small school uniforms? Huh? Huh?…oh…..

Still bogged down under booco boy trouble but them’s the breaks. The Friday weather is doing sweet fuck all to impress me with its black bleak pissing sky so I am languishing in my powdered confection of a bed clad in an ancient Rage Against the Machine tee-shirt, freshly washed hair and a pair of muy fetching and flammable leopard print panties with a cute little bow on each hip. Ta-da! I know right? Couldn’t you just wedge a stick up my ass and lick me like a lolly-pop? Doncha just want to eat me till your jaw cramps? My beautiful bass is panting beside me after getting flogged for the last hour.  Band practice tonight.

( The solo at the end of “Let’s go crazy” by Prince is so hip grindingly flawless. Sigh.The rain has got me more toey than a roman sandal.Yeah! I know! Listen to the worlds horniest purple clad midget you stupid woman,that will help….idiot….)

I told Thraxxy at 2am this morning that I set dress my life to make myself feel beautiful. She told me the reason she is having crap luck with her boy-du-jour is because she didn’t forward a chain email in the 9th grade. The TV buzzes in the background as I chortle and admire my new pedicure. My toes twinkle ,white and glittery like hard packed 8-balls of the purest Peruvian flake.

In the room we play in at Mal’s house ,one of the walls is nothing but sliding glass doors. Ever the narcissist ( El mondo poser ) I can’t peel my peepers off it as we tear it up. Mal chuckles every time he catches me,which is often and I cop to my vanity gladly. He is the best Butch Cassedy to my Sundance Kid. He even changed my strings for me!

Stick me in front of a reflective surface in hot pants and amplified? What did y’all think was going to happen?

Marcus takes sneaky photos of me when we jam and then puts them on Facebook. Lilli showed me tonight. I may still add up on my fingers and not own a car but by Thor and a few other totally kick ass gods I do fetching things for short shorts and black leather boots! Now I ask you ,whats the fun of rocking out in your amazing band if you don’t look like you just escaped from a 1970’s porno?

Exactly.

I moseyed on down to the store to buy sunscreen and ramen noodles yesterday and came home with white denim hot-pants ,a grip of lurid panties and a hoodie.  How does this happen to me ? But, if I am to be completely honest here who needs to eat when there is polyester to be had?  And as Miss Moss and a million anorexics intone daily like a droning gnostic prayer “Nothing takes as good as skinny feels”.  Besides I am obsessed with these smalls. My outfit of choice right now is these hip-hugging masterpieces, miles of tanned leg and beachy hair and some destroyed band tee-shirt. (” Oh Ma! I feel so prudy!” ) I may never wear pants again. I have found my look! It’s so Dogtown and they set off my tube-sock obsession beautifully. As Rosco Deluxe always said with a smile  “It’s 1978 wherever you are!”

I am the happiest little white-trash dirtbag and the whole kingdom.Come over dude! Let’s eat raw cookie dough and watch “Cannonball run”. We can make out…..

( ” Very nice.” he says,ever cool, never giving too much away while I am raw as sushi. “They would look better on your bedroom floor” I reply.”That can happen” he smiles and my loins backfire like a Harley Davidson…..)

Meanwhile,back in Hollywood…..

You write to me from the fault-line and I am so happy to see your name on my screen. I know that you are not happy and it should not be this way. I pour my solid silver salvation your way. You tell me that you are proud of me,that you have been watching my solo stuff. That means so much baby. It means the most. I play the instrument upon which you made you outlaw name. I can feel you in my fingertips fourteen thousand miles away.

My lost boy.My friend.

Getting my rusty chops up for the few shows that I have coming up with my big brother. He is jamming with Nunchukka Superfly today and is busy as always. I wrote a new song last week which has not happened in a while outside of my beloved Saint Cecilia. Of course its about some boy who won’t give me the time of day. Duh.

Beloved Thraxxy named it while we languished in my overgrown yard while waiting on Ryan ( Dressed in a Lilo and Stitch onesie naturally) to show up for our sushi fueled Tarantino  Sunday night recovery. Raising one perfect eyebrow from beneath her flawless Ronnie Spector bangs looking like a Chicano jailhouse tattoo come to life and sounding like 30 year old single malt scotch and two packs a day before the surgeon general rained on everyone parade, she christened my new baby.

Knowing who it was about she intoned “Close ,but no cigar “ with a panther smile.

And henceforth,so it shall be known. I will bellow it out on the 17th.

I then started on one about a boy that I unintentionally broke and it was just to sad for words so I scrapped it for now. Oh the damage that we bring. Went back and worked on “Napoleon’s horse’s” for Saint Cecilla instead.

Friends are the glue that hold my renegade life aloft. Behold….

Aka-Errol Flynn, bless his film-making socks, got me a job dancing in Rob Hurst of  Midnight Oil fames new bands film clip on Thursday. Cue a three day just fast. Tan,starve,stretch. I have become rather the  video vixen of late.  Not complaining mind. Lord no!  Like my mother said…my time is now. It such a tasty pay back for being called ugly for so long.   Ner,ner,ner….

Feature my dangerous curves wrapped skintight and sweating. I’m thinking Connery era Bond girl. Hair and gams honey.Picture Minxy mc Flick-tail here as a back-lit silhouette to be not only used in the clip but projected behind the band at live shows. Your welcome.

Blooming late is the only way to fly.

 

 

 

Hostage.

 

“My bed is holding me hostage. Send more icy poles and hardcore pornography.”

– ransom note unsent due to overwhelming laziness and strident lack of interest.

I dreamt that I was hanging out at The 4o Watt club during yet some other heyday that I missed ( quel sigh ) with a sarcastic and far from sober pirate boy clad in a grotty vintage Vivianne Westwood tee shirt and disdain. A louche lad of the musical persuasion who had my loins and hormones engaged in a hedonistic hoedown.

(“Oh-ho-ho” laughed Nico in her cruel storm-trooper baritone as I tried and valiantly failed to engage a heroically stoned Edie Sedgwick ( “The stars wrapped in your hair, Edie….”) in a conversation about false eyelashes.  Andy sat ,a  silent cypher black leather-clad, the ever present tape recorder at his side whirring on into oblivion,capturing the creatures and watched us all dance on the head of a pin. )

He was majestic and I could taste the rot flavored whiskey and scarlet indifference on his cruel mouth that only a scantily clad and heavily sweating  hour before was alternately wooing and devouring me.  The Rolling Stones slunk snake hipped from the jukebox even more raunchy than usual if that is possible.  My unwisely chosen suitor digs the Beatles of fucking course….. ( I like the bad boys doncha know? Oh Mick Taylor! Come back son, all is forgiven. ) So tired, exhausted by lust , I do my dope drenched Lilli Marlene impersonation, head in hand on the scarred bar top praying that he would want me forever.( ” Forever-ever-ever-ever ?” Oh Outcast….sigh…..) My long legs scissor and pretzel themselves around the bar stool. My liquid limbs forever ready to betray me ,  clumsily exposing the inner turmoil that will one day murder me.  My face crumpled like a candy wrapper.

You know what? I never imagined that it would snow this far south…..

*wake up honey…wake up…..*

Is daydreaming a vice? Vice smice. If so I embrace it for it seems to be one of mine. I get locked up in my memory, in projections, fantasy. Dreams and such have always resonated more with my Slavic witchy-poo-Gold-Dust-Woman self much more than anything I have ever come across in retarded reality.(“Reality???  Like, Ewww!”)

I live up there in my mind, romping around twenty pounds thinner and forever footloose and fancy free.  I write just to keep my hand in because I know from bitter and exacting experience that for me? Nothing else lasts. I want Plato to be right, that those who tell stories rule society. Not that I could be bothered mind ,too much work by far, but its always cute to have options don’t you think?

But really ? A lot of it depends on  if I got a scepter and an ermine trimmed cape. Oh,and slaves. Lots of slaves. And the power to ( slowly and barbarically ) execute my enemies, of whom there are many…I will leave my resume at the front shall I ?

I think that I would rather eat a tortilla made out of used toilet-paper and rancid pork with a side of cigarette butts than deal with the world.  I like my planet .Like Steven Crane liked his heart. Because it is bitter and because it is mine. Welcome to Brat-ville ,population moi. Enchanted, I’m sure. Now fuck off.

Listen up fuckers…..

In a perfect world I would be Mrs Henry Rollins by now  and have my own talk show where people would have to come and hang in my bedroom to get interviewed because I could not be arsed to leave the house. People would send me free stuff just because. I would star in a MAC advertising campaign and be BFF’s with Ru Paul.. Ampeg would have me on speed dile and cover my custom cab’s in soft white leather. Quentin Tarantino would site me as a muse and lust over my stunning size 11’s and I ,ever accommodating ,would allow him to massage all of my ten and a half perfectly pedicured little piggies to his geeky hearts illicit content. I would have a holiday named after me and the festivities would involve loud lashings of Iggy Pop and the Stooges, Shoes and wicked wet sex. ( “So what are you doing on “Fucking excellent day!”  this year?” ” Oh ,you know, the usual. Getting laid, buying shoes,wearing a tee-shirt with Lady Michele of Rollins face on it…”)  I would eat nothing but organic food and do yoga till I could kiss my own ass and cut out the middle man. I would be so zen that I would shit sandalwood.

With an internal life this rich I ask of you, now why in the name of Cassie Gaines and all that is holy would I ever lower myself to truck with reality?

Exactly my petulant little pomegranates.

Exactly.

I think that “Superstition” by Stevie Wonder can solve anything.

Go on now, get up off your fat ass and go and put it on right this minute and tell me that you can keep from moving and smiling…See!  I told you. Like you won’t have that opening riff running the grand national in your head for the rest of the week. Majestic music such as this fine specimen offers me the only hope for the future that I can bring myself to believe in. It did for me yesterday when I played it at earsplitting volume and danced through the house in one of my many voluminous chrysanthemum cluttered kimonos while brushing my teeth. Multitasker that I am, me. It just resonates through me. (“Boingggggg!” ) Plucks the E string that connects my cluttered cranium to my cunt by way of my cold anthracite heart. Motown is the heavy artillery honey .James Jamerson ( R.I.P ) is the Hiroshima of bass.

Doctors should get onto this asap…..

” We can clear that up Mr So-and so!  (Scratches out a prescription in handwriting  that looks like an ink soaked ant high on ether tap-danced across the page ) Now! I want you to take 2 Smokey Robinson’s and a Marvin Gaye with meals and a Martha Reeves before bed. Ahem ,now, if this is still bothering you in a week of so we can try a course of Stevie Wonder and a tincture of  Jackson five but let’s just see how we go with this first shall we, hmmm?

My bed decided to give me a day pass…..

It is raining so hard that my nerves are sizzling. It did not stop me and Thraxxy, my sweet soul sister in all things amazonian and rad from going out tonight though.Hell no! We are like the Pony Express! She is the much adored  cafe au lait queen that anchored my last dispatch, so now y’all know. We decided to brave the liquid elements and I had a new pair of  motorcycle boots to break in so it was a doddle.

Onward!

As we sat in the dank dark of the movie theater inhaling popcorn until out mouths puckered up like cat butts she lent across and whispered in my ear as the gusset moistening fable of undying love unfolded on the silver screen before us

Pft! He will do anything to get to the women he loves and our  caliber of dude won’t even leave the house due to the weather.”

I snorted and almost choked on a chocolate malteser.

We like them “Marinated in tattoos” as she so beautifully puts it. “We are fucking hopeless!” I lamented with a sardonic smile plastered on my kisser over sushi. But fuck we look good doing it.

We laugh like drains. We will tap dance on your graves. I accidentally purchased two pairs of boots and we pinky swore on the train ride home to let them chase us. Like, a stellar night for sure.

Now, onto to the aforementioned chase. Ring-a-fuckin’-ding-ding-y’all.

…..How’s this for a sweet-ass deal?  We will pretend to twist our ankle’s. We will run clad in sumo suits ? Tethered to the rotting carcass of a wild buffalo? We are giving  you the keys to the fucking kingdom here you pussies!  Man up for Christ’s sake !

*or at least call*

Yeah! Or at least fucking call!

Now back in the decadent Egyptian cotton embrace of my posturepedic captor. You know what? I am gonna make like my fingers can’t tap out a text,that’s what I am gonna do. I’m gonna get all Clint Eastwood with a cunt ,hold steady and see what unfolds like orgasmic origami.

You want me baby? I will be waiting and you know where to find me.

Meanwhile back under the covers, you know what? Stockholm syndrome is not all that bad at all…..

 

 

 

 

 

Hope.

It’s poker night at the pub so this finds ever grateful to be at home alone. I’ve got to say it,I’m proud of Lilli.She is making it through to the last round of her tournament every week while drinking her body weight in 5 seed cider. Bless.

My stereo is on obnoxious overdrive because there is no one here to tell me to turn it down .And here come The Angelic Upstarts following on from The Cro-mags and a heap of ELO  on an ancient  mix CD that I dug up out of the vaults and a sonic smile flutters out of the speakers and comes  to rest on my fat bitten  mouth. The weather is all grey and stompy outside throwing itself  a big old tantrum and the tacky ten dollar fan wedged in the clutter ( 3 bullets from a machine gun,earplugs,a grip of bass picks bearing my ex’s name,a baby pink porcelain deer,a Rolling Stones postcard sent to me from the road on a long ago lonesome tour, a set of knuckle dusters bearing the words “Love” and  “Hate” in 2 inch cursive letters…) on my bedside table is beating the heavy dragon blood scented air like it owes it money. Graciously reclining under a lurid polyester canopy of  highly flammable flower fairy lights,stolen setlists and ever present longing I write to you.

Can I tell just you? May I share? It’s all enough to get an urban goddess all verklempt.

Lord! It’s all I can do to even reach down and turn this thing on (“That’s what she said….”) I bumble about in my sinking ship of a brain with a leaking bucket in one callused paw and the other hand usually down my hot-pants.Literally.They are terry toweling and bright yellow with mean black racing stripes stitched down the sides.My ass looks like a bumblebee.Trust me,it’s most fetching…. Moi? I tend to over think pretty much everything until it up and flat out combusts in a shower of red glitter,diamond encrusted butt plugs,playing cards and pug puppies and then distills down to some kind of noxious meaty smelling syrup that trickles out of my ears and stains the pillowcases purple while I am fretfully sleeping.

I ponder upon how fickle and changeable our desires tend to be and how we are made to pay so dearly for them. (“Girl.you just said a mouthful! Sing on!”) That it is never the right person at what we deem to be the right time and how much damage ensues from the fact. That it can all be snuffed out in a cruel unforgiving  instant and as all of us know,you can never really go back, not when you know and believe what you do after the fall.

We rewrite ourselves just so we can keep going. See me?  Over here ding-dong. I’m the one holding the .45 to Hope’s throbbing  panicked temple as the siren’s whoop and wail outside turning it into a bonafide event .She is shaking at a  vibration so high that causes dogs to howl aggrieved a mile away and her eyelids are fluttering over grape green eyes that suck the will to power clean outta me. Faced with my seething homicidal anger,lost longings and dull silver hand cannon she has understandably wet herself and the diaphanous dress in which she is clad has stuck to her tinder-stick legs like a mummy’s bandage. The air reeks of vinegar and sulfur and no one is gonna make it out of this five star fiasco alive.I am a brute,a cad,a realist and oh how my trigger finger doth itch. But will the second bullet in the chamber be for me?

Go on with your bad selves and tell me do my fellow fuck-wits.Can any of us truly live without Hope?

Hope,all 96 pounds of her soaking wet,utterly consumes all of us fallible fools. She is a glutton. She takes all. A locust. Those skinny bitches always have the best metabolisms.( ” I just can’t seem to gain a pound!” she tittered before I garroted her with a piano wire…) Vile creatures. Brutal bitches. I’m calling it as I see it, damn the torpedoes and that is if we are not pining we are pined for. Need ,Hope’s younger delinquent cousin, also an ice cream blond for the record, is bare faced and shocking in her pathos and dire hunger.The kid is a fucking car crash. She is best kept hidden in the crawlspace of your baser emotions,trust me on this one,you won’t regret it. I need you to know that I tell you this for your own good.She will have you shanghaied before you can blink and call uncle. She will get you into bocoo trouble baby.Pull her canine teeth with pliers as soon as you sedate her lest she up’s and chews  her way clean  through those restraints you got there when she comes to and she will be swinging. Don’t mention it De nada hombre,you can thank me later. Cash only.

We all go in with the best of intentions thinking that we,with our sausage fingers and shortsightedness can handle what ever is to be dished out. Klutzes one and all. (“Way to go banana heels!”) No one ever wants to think about the sunset and tear stained ending as inevitable as they are. Of course we fucking don’t! Are you shitting me? Where is the fun and frolic in that Debbie Downer? Shut up! The deal here is that we all want to be the Victor to the spoils do we not? Now,if you say no? Sweetheart ? Angel? You ain’t nothing but a bold faced liar.

Now get your sex appeal over here,park it real hot and close and kiss me like you mean it …..

When I am loved I tend to view the other party with sticky suspicion and then pity. I see myself as so fatally flawed and corrupt that I question anyone’s sanity who declares  their troth to me. I tend to put he-who-hauls-my-ashes on a pedestal. In a recent conversation with my my wise and muy adored big brother he told me to relax and not put cock on a pedestal “That’s not where I was planning on putting it!” I texed back lightning fast and imagined him rolling his eyes. But I want to be wanted! Oh Elvis on your opiate drenched rhinestone cloud chariot how I want to be wanted! I want my bits blitzed. My junk jangled. Listen up and listen real good dirt bags,I may be a lieutenant now but beneath this ribcage of chalk and malicious marrow beats the stoic heart of a grunt. I am naught but a simple animal and there in lies the rub. A ditch digger with delusions of grandeur.

Desire I can understand because it is immediate and oh so gratifying. When I know I am desired? Woo-wee!  I become the erect nippled Forth of July.Bang! I roll like a Rockefeller. The dogs pant at my feet. (“Daddy digs you baby.You can exhale now.”)  But Love? Love utterly terrifies me.Always has and I have no doubt always will, no quarter. I think that I have suffered from Philophobia my whole life. I could be the fucking poster child for it.I was told that it is OK to trust someone,to let them in. No. No it’s fucking not.Why hand a thief the keys if you will? Here’s a shovel,now can you dig it?

This ain’t my first time at the rodeo.

Indifference is sexy why? I will tell you why. It’s because we all want to win,to turn the tide in our lust laden favor.We all want the sugar dusted attention. (“Next time don’t be so fuckin’ eager!”)  I ran into one of my stunning satellite girlfriends last night that I only see on rare and precious occasions. Six sweet feet of corseted flawless cafe creme skin and miles of flaming red curls.She is an utter goddess and has always been so. She recently escaped from a hammer horror scripted relationship and her sad fable lead me to much pondering….the nice guys in my life and yes ,I have a few don’t look so god damned surprised, have always hung their super-smart heads heads at my ,at times, ridiculous choices in paramours and rightfully so. I will be the first one to admit that I have dated some real clangers.Kissed a fair few frogs if you catch my drift and I know that y’all do. My love life is asinine.These magnificent men of mine never fail to ask me why I don’t go out with,quote un-quote, “Nice guys.”

Oh my sides!…..

Listen up haircut and listen good ’cause I ain’t gonna say this but once… You comfy? Let’s begin then….

The reason women such as myself,women who I like to say are blessed with a case of terminal uniqueness (Thank you for that description Miss Corey Parks. ) end up with the cream of the curdled crop because for one, nice boys don’t play rock and roll ( Merci beaucoup Rose Tattoo) and secondly they never approach women like us. Ever. The amount of super sweet lads who have become dear to me over the years and then admitted to me in some blighted tequila propelled moment that they always had a “Thing” for me but where to afraid to tell me could make up a pretty nifty chorus line of pre-empted imagined rejection. They then proceed to vomit on my shoes and cry. It hacks me right off.Both the technicolor yawn and the undeclared affection. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get barf off suede boots? Didn’t think so….The cool guys?  My pin-up’s and crank case crushes? Oh-ho! Let’s take a look see in my Crystal ball shall we? Come closer,I don’t bite ‘less I want to rattle your bones bay-bee….Check it out now…The cool guys are shacked up with interchangeable little voiced nothings, flimsy chicky babes of no spine or substance, baby incubators and bubble brains. Gah!  These boychiks, they put themselves down,settle for second best and avoid us amicable alpha amazon types. Meanwhile, back in the jungle,( “Yey! New York Dolls!”)  we are stuck in our huts on a Friday night while the fat chicks get fucked in the bushes by the fire after the feast is done wondering if we smell bad or something and voila! Out come the wolves.

“Attention! Attention please! Paging every juicer,felon and bong jockey,please step forward to the yellow line,I repeat,please step forward….”

We then proceed to stay with aforementioned wolf because our self esteem is so mangled from years of wondering why no one digs on our fine asses. This is a true story. This is my motherfucking life.

The  lads that I tend to lust over and that in turn fuel my moist lace clad nocturnal fantasy hours are usually certifiable, incarcerated or married to mewing milksops. Or all three. All the same thing really. Then we have The Lads who pursue me only to quit with the foxy texts and adored attention as soon as I reciprocate their level of lust. Sue me but I want the kind of combat fucking that leads to fingerprint bruises in vivid constellations to be found in odd places.Suck it up but I won’t be happy till I am peeing what looks like diluted cranberry juice for two days after the event and walking with a limp. There are certain precious times in a young vixens life when she wants to crap calligraphy. Deal with it sunshine. Don’t you go and  threaten me with a good time and then make a run for the border,you get back here now solider! You hear me?? . My stellar advice ? Don’t let your mouth write cheques that your ass can’t cash.  I guess it’s just me and my trusty vibrator then kids (“Hi-ho,hi-ho,it’s off to work we go…”) because getting back to Hope swooning in my slippery gun toting pee stained grasp, it is all too much for a romantic’s hollow heart to bear and survive….

And me having the distinction of being permanently locked in at the romantically retarded age of 17 tends not to help matters much either and that right there is a zaftig fucking understatement if ever I saw one. I am down with hickeys (“Its not a hickey babe,its a nocturnal hematoma” ) sweaty hand holding and groping blindly in the back row of the movies.I want to get finger-banged while the previews are rolling on and on and on and ohhhhhhhh!!!!...I don’t want kids and a mortgage. Hell no. I’m like Tom Waits and The Ramones honey,I don’t wanna grow up. I want to wallow in  moist anticipation and stress for days about what I am going to wear on a date and then turn up an hour early.Yoink!  I tend to think it’s because I didn’t have the high school experience when it comes to this shit. Which may also explain why I wore a Catholic school sports uniform out last night with high heeled boots. Or not. Who knows?  But my hair was fierce. Just sayin’….

You have no idea how long it takes to shave these stems. My cross to bear….

My desire is blunt force trauma equipped with talented tongues and hot tattooed hands.I want to fog the windows,condensation dripping down the panes ,down my thighs and make out for Black Sabbath saturated days. The Phone? Fuck the phone and its link to reality.Phone is off the hook comprende? You get a gold star if you can make me beg for it, my make up smeared to porno panda bear proportions ,drooling, I’m down on my knees. It’s naked and raw. It wants to chain you to the radiator pipe in the bathroom,sustain you on cherry pop tarts,Cuban cigars and orgasms.You unleashed the Kracken and now you don’t know what to do with it ?? (“And that’s what you get for fucking around with Samurai’s! Now go home to your mother!) I have worn off a fucking finger print wanking over you and now you decide you can’t handle it???  Now?? Maybe I sent too many raunchy photos? Who can say? All’s I know is that I just can’t seem win…..

The accompanying song for this dispatch is “Born to lose” by The Heartbreakers. Enjoy.

Life is so long (To be said with a bored French accent while smoking a filter-less Gitane. Beret ,lying down in World War Two,existentialism and stinky cheese optional . ) and the want-er and the wanted never seem to fall in sync. (” ‘Ow you say? Bummer in zee summer? Oui? “)  It should be like roommates who get their periods at the same time. That would be peachy.It  would be so great being that you would both be in the right place at the right time because then no one would get hurt. You can’t lie if you don’t feel it because if you do you will end up resenting the other party and that is not the correct outcome if you ever really cared and I know that you did…..You can’t disrespect what you were or what you had like that because it’s just not fair. Sad,soul destroying and so shittily true. Once the thrill is gone as my beloved BB King would croon,it’s pretty much sayonara sunshine. And it sucks.It sucks because you have to hurt someone that you probably still have many wild and wonderful feels for but alas,not the right ones.

( Sigh.)

It’s like kicking a puppy through a window pane in front of a class of autistic preschoolers after telling them they were going to get a puppet show. It’s fucking horrendous on every level for all involved.

(It’s my life and its ending with every breath….)

I can hear them running up the stairs hindered by their heavy Teflon riot gear. Clumsy armor.Upright badge bearing roaches sent for my head to be brought back on a moral stick.I ponder the acoustic tiles set in the ceiling and then focus my attention upon the wraith cradled in my arms.We look like some kind of fucked up Pietia. With my forearm I gently wipe the beads of sweat from her clammy brow,not wanting to let go of her or my gun .Her eyes flutter open and smile into mine. She curls closer to me and sighs deeply as the battering ram pounds against the locked door making it expand and retract like a wooden lung.We should have done this hours ago.She hauls herself up my side and I can feel her tender lips work their cunning way along the throbbing artery in my neck. She nibbles on my ear like an canape.I shiver.

I turn my face down towards hers,my long dark hair drowning us both like oil. I pull her in anaconda tight .Such 11th hour tenderness but ain’t that always the way?  Our lips lock. Our  tongues ever so briefly hesitate and then touch bringing sighs and electricity.The battering ram becoming more urgent and insistent.We regretfully and only momentarily break the connection to decide the conclusion.

“Death by cop?” I ask as she licks a tear that I was unaware of shedding from my cheek. “Death by cop” she whispers agreeing with the only way out that will redeem us both. The only exit. Our mouths lock once more for the road .Blind,consumed with nothing but Hope, I raise my gun to the door as it splinters apart and steadily, methodically begin squeezing out round after holy round.

They graciously return the ballistic welcome wagon.

I can taste forever.

 

 

 

Dusted.

I’m having one of those “Oh God,why do you keep kicking my ass?” days.

Food poisoning again. Again people. I am taking that as a sign from Elvis that I need to go on another fast.So I am.I’m still too fucking fat anyway and as we all know rock’n’roll does not shine its light upon the chunky unless it is to smote you with a bathtub drowning in Paris or a sandwich choking in London.Just sayin’…The evidence is all there,do your homework you heathens…where was I?…oh yeah,crapping out a kidney….. Lay in bed with my bones melting and sweating like a junkie. Lilli White-tiger brought me a big ol’ bottle of Sprite that I have been living on for the past two days. My old roommate in Long Beach is getting a new roommate and wants to know when I can get my stuff out of there and understandably so.My breathtakingly divine purple lined snakeskin boots and adored paper thin Creem magazine tee shirt amongst other treasures .Sigh. The last time I left LA I thought I would be going back…..oh well, time to try and find the worlds cheapest freight company.

Only really doing this because I had a call from the distant and white dusted mountains.Not in a Led Zeppelin kinda way either.Literally. Miss Suzanne of the Tundras dropped the dime in snow shrouded Canada and told my pool dwelling,honey tanned butt to get with the program.I tend not to get online for days at this point in the fable and I don’t feel that I am missing much but how smashing to know that I and my addled ranting is missed.And no.I am not being sarcastic.

This is a muscle that I need to flex more.My brain is becoming more cranky with atrophy by the day.Every time I write a shit storm seems to happen.I must press on.I also need to stop playing along to Black Sabbath when I am meant to be playing Saint Cecilia stuff. Got band practice tomorrow.At least I wont be crapping myself behind my amp.Literally.Me and seafood are not on speaking terms right now.

Speaking of my beloved chlorinated puddle,Date-rape (The roommates new moniker) was out there all day sinking cat piss with one of his equally moronic friends clad in generic board-shorts, a choking miasma of boundless ignorance and deepening crows feet.Bastards.He only ever smirks at me when he had company.Someone to hide behind.With the way my temper has been flaring of late I would have cleaned both their clocks could I have been bothered .This conundrum lead to me staying in my room all day breaking in my awe inspiring new suede boots while playing my bass while clad in a bikini.Naturally.My new riff  du jour is oddly reminiscent of something Hendrix-y but as that ain’t a bad thing I am gonna keep it.

The man did up and die on my birthday after all so I chose to think of it as a homage.Ner.

I am still reeling from the epiphany that befell me on Xmas day.That’s right you heretics,an epiphany.Elvis came to me, high as a fucking kite mind, and said “Michele,get thy ass on a cos-play website and dress like a Japanese school girl as frequently as possible.” God only knows what drugs Dr Nickolopoulos is pumping into the King up yonder at that big old Graceland in the sky ( I’m thinking Demerol? ) But far be it from me to question the King.

A dude almost fell of the edge of the train platform when he saw me all gussied up in my uniform.And I have a school bag. I think its a romantic thing for me as I got ejected from formal education so early in the piece. Or I’m just a pervert. Who can say really?

So its New Years eve and I am alone in the house.Outside I can hear the inebriated toothless crackers setting off illegal fireworks in the street and acting like a pack of fucking yahoos.Bless. It sounds like the Tet Offensive out there.And don’t forget the burnouts in their hotted up flatbed trucks.I love suburbia.Imagine the city and shudder in thy shoes gentle reader.All those pissed fat chicks in unwise bandage dresses three seasons out of date and brainless rugby players.I shudder. A cloud of lynx deodorant hovers and its vodka and red bull vomit all the ho- ha way home.No bloody thank you.

The year tends to wrap itself up in the most interesting ways…..My felonious ex amour called me the other night from a van hurtling through the snow somewhere in Ohio as he is on tour with Clutch and Wino over the festive season. It felt like old times.One of us always on the road. He is in good spirits and playing great shows. That makes me happy. He asked after my health and I told him about my stupid knee. He laughed and said in that voice that has always managed to touch me in places I don’t even wash  “I know how that happened bunny….” My cartilage begins to throb as I trip my way haltingly down memory lane……

I can’t even remember what country we were in let alone the town but its was all European and cobblestones.Quaint.Smelt like smoked meat and papery history.  The problem with touring is the 23 hours that you are not on stage. To cut a long story short we broke the bed. I mean we shattered its poor pine self to toothpicks.We didn’t stop and I came like the gang busters with one of my mouthwatering gams wedged between two rather unforgiving splintered slats. Combat fucking at its finest people.Unfortunately my left knee copped the brunt of it.My lad looked so very smug when I limped onto the stage a few hours later to sing “Four Corners”.It took all we had to not completely crease up laughing…..

“I remember that!” I snorted.We said our goodbyes,hung up and I felt rather sweet with it all.

I then proceeded to wander off to take photos of my butt on my outdated phone.Everyone needs a hobby.

Happy new year fuckers.

 

 

Grenade.

Its history that pulls the pin out of me.Me the big fat four hipped hand grenade.

I mean, just when I am bumbling my way through my dodgy exiled life,behold! Here he comes, Signor hellishly handsome heart hurt. Those fuck-me-daddy eyes complete with a machete hanging like a silver threat from his belt ready to re-open the tenderest of scars and twixt his perfect tombstone teeth like a metal toothpick is the pin.

Boom! Wave bub-bye baby. Here we go again.

The way that it takes you back to who and where you were then. The then that you thought had a future,a permanency since denied. I see your name staining  my screen and wonder as I wait for the missive to open with what you left of my heart in my mouth ( Crunchy.Small.Bitter.A cardiovascular kale chip….) if it will be an epic that touches me hard enough to bruise  or a few careless thrown away lines that make me do nothing but wonder.

We are wary of each other now.Who woulda thunk it?

This dispatch finds me sitting in bed eating fat overripe tomato’s drenched in balsamic vinegar,my cruel lips stained blood black. At the foot of my book cluttered cloud,amongst other queer bibilots and  demented detritus is a 3 foot inflatable Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket half full of neglected laundry,a gold treasure chest inlaid with a zillion mirrors the size of hummingbird turds and a tower of  obscenely glossy shoe boxes taking their leaning cue from Pisa. Manicure done,Stooges tickets secured.Candles burning their sweet scented hearts out before my Fleetwood Mac shrine.

And so it has come to pass that we will see each other once again…..

I think that we are always “us” somewhere out there on the perimeter of sanity and scant good sense no matter what terminal toerag you are pouring the pork into this week. My friends inform me that you are in contact with them.Promises of  backstage passes abound.I wonder how you would react if the situation was reversed?….

Oh Madden…So you get detonated and everyone looks aghast at the carnage.

Move on,nothing to see here…..

Its going to be one hell of a bitchin’ summer that’s for sure. The Soundwave circus is going to provide a smorgasbord of victims for my petulant penetrating pen and quaint old school Dictaphone. All seven foot of me hassling my heroes in the name of great journalism,or so I fervently hope. And my past right there in the flesh.We have not seen each other in so long. That is nothing new. Our lives took us all over the world long before we were ever us. But the connection has never failed.

Tripwires as thin as spiderwebs,cum like dewdrops dripping,throbbing flames illuminate the bullet besmirched perimeter.As soon as I see you I can taste you.Dangerous as the day we met ,we detonate.

I don’t need to over think this. It is a given.Bound to happen again sooner of later.Our alumni so small.Our circles so tight.

Wayne,my compadre at Reversed Records,is ever diligent in sending me reviews now that the Meldrum album is finally out. Its strange reading complementary things about what I do after so many years of nothing of the kind. So fatally flawed I only see what they don’t like and focus on that. Don’t we all? So hard to take a compliment. I shouldn’t be reading any of it at all but its a Pandora’s box to us wanker artist types. I curse myself  out about it daily.

I am bone tired and dehydrated. I am halfheartedly working on a script treatment that I should have had done days ago and research that needs to be razor sharp before I go head to head with Jimmy Bower on Thursday night. “Southern Discomfort” battering the low end of my cheap stereo  as I try to get my ever messy head sorted.The days are doing their cutsey-poo disappearing act and here I am indulging myself tapping out this.Flexing. I figure that it will get me in the swing. I figure a lot.

Its funny what trash works its way out of the woodwork when you are back in the worlds flickering focus. Who sticks their ugly heads up when you are visible once again. People tell me that I tend to only remember the bad things. Point taken. But tell me,what else can one do when they wipe it all away with their deplorable behavior? When they stomp all of the good out of a given and sweet situation with their stupidity and insecurity? Good tends to be precious and rather fragile. The Faberge egg of emotions.To insure its survival one must tend to it lovingly and with great reverence.

Its perishable you feeble minded ass clowns.Dig?

I use my past experiences in my writing to illustrate a point mostly to myself. Writers are all introspective wankers and social retards.We feel that we and what we experience are far more poignant and important than they really are (“La-de-fuckin’-da). Inflated sense of self importance and all that perpetual teenage rubbish.I admit to these disastrous and glaring shortcomings freely but most will not.I never name names and if I was to believe the butt-hurt badly spelt letters that litter my inbox like the crap that they are,no one reads my shit anyway. I laugh.

If no one reads my shit why do you? What do you care?

You would not believe how many people are going to think the last paragraph is about them.

Idiots.

I ain’t no saint. But on a good day what I am is a writer. No names and its all fair game. I leave the self editing to the pressure cooker civilians. All I am doing with my tenure on the planet is dying.I have no blood ties or spawn so who do I have to protect? Me? Sure. Whatever. There is nothing left to defend.Oh this? Honey! This is me not giving a fuck.I know right? How good does it look on me?

I can’t deal with my life in the manner that they do and nor would I want to.I need constant progress,observation,ugly religious iconography,shoes,face-melting orgasms,Iggy Pop,Bullfighters on black velvet and bass strings amongst other things.

Just looked up and gave myself a fright. My wardrobe,which no longer closes due to over population,has huge mirrored doors and I look like I need a lithium milkshake.My eyes resemble two piss holes in the snow.My hair has small bright green birds nesting in it and I have not been for a run today.

Move you stupid woman! Gather ye notebooks and sunscreen.Lose the clothes fat girl! Go gather you some dangerous Vitamin D.The tiny tan line would make your mouth water ,trust me.

Back to the script.I will be out on my sun lounge if anyone needs me.

You cant miss me.I’m the one with no pin…..

 

 

Bite.

One of my infants upped and dropped his pants in the middle of the sidewalk to show me his new tattoo last Saturday night. Minds out of the gutter please,it was adorning his leg. This kind of caper happens to me more often than you would think. People just want to share with me for some reason. He then shyly showed me the screen-saver on his phone after he had  pulled them up again and composed himself. A black and white version of a magazine cover I graced a while back right there behind his shattered screen. He rolled back down the stairs fiddling with his belt and I felt like a fucking superstar.

Just when I feel muerto on my stonking size 11 feet,sweetness brings Senorita Shit-kicker here back into the fecund fold once again.

More on magazine folly deeper into this dispatch…read on….

I then discovered that I had been robbed when I got back to my battered but beloved belongings after my shift was done. A pack of drunk hipster fucks well past their used by date by at least a decade (“Hey ! 1992 called.It wants its tribal tattoos and Arnette sunglasses back.”) clad in hundred dollar flannel shirts and corpulent mountain man facial hair had been partying in the back bar with one of my bosses. My journal was bent backed in a puddle of Jack Daniels on the dirty concrete floor and my Hello Kitty purse was empty.  Fucking cunts. I think I shocked my stoic manager who has known me since I was a Fagin-esque young upstart because I upped and burst into tears. Listen, a cowgirl can only take so much at 4am when pre-menstral.

Miss Suzanne of the Tundras pulled me up on my bad writing,bless her. Let it be said that in my last rant that it was I wearing the black dress and not the polo player that I am flirting with on the trans Atlantic flight. Not that I mind a man in a frock.Or my underwear for that matter.Serves me right  for attempting to craft this shit when exhausted. Today finds me waiting for the sun to come out so I can go and wallow by my pool….

Miss Nina returns from the world today. I cannot wait to see her. My digits are itching to dial her number.My life at this point is a lot of interviews and running. Which is not a bad thing at all. Still valiantly battling to get my weight down. I dropped to my knees upon discovering that I can fit into my daisy dukes once more.Progress is being made.I know that this  is all over the place but my life is revolving around sound bites so suck it up or turn the page.

Great,now I have to find my Bob Seegar and The Silver Bullet band best of album.

Marcus,my dream guitar god informs me that the boys are gearing up to come up and jam. Nathan- devil-drummer-boy sent me the confirmation for time and location. Upon  receiving said digital missive I find that I am a heady mix of totally shit scared and  moistly thrilled. I am singing in the shower to get ready.Since the last of my rotund solo shows ( Trust me on the rotund,I have seen the footage.I am a large mammal.) I have not really sung at all. Its nice to leave it alone for a while.Makes you fall in love all over again when it starts up once more.

I am playing one last acoustic/autistic show for the year on December 7th.One of my infants is putting on a benefit for breast cancer and its the least I can do.

Beloved whiskey twin Mark G is taking Turbonegro to Texas but took the time to write me and tell me that my postcards had made his day. I really hope that he comes here with them in December.Larry Melano,guitar tech supreme just wrote  to tell me that he is on the road with Sum41 and that he is looking forward to catching up again. Being exiled from my longed for Los Angeles its always great when the mountain comes to Mohammad so to speak.That is why summer means so much to me. The festival season brings all my friends,the pack of fucking pirates they are,back into the somewhat limited and provincial orbit that I find myself in living here.

Rosco Deluxe writes and tells me that he and his inamorata Max are getting married in Spain next July. I am so happy for them both. He has requested my presence and also requested Saint Tina’s which I thought was simply charming.

And then some of my favorite infants come to me on yet another Saturday night bestowing gifts upon me. A huge bunch of my favorite white lily’s,a gold crown studded with jewels that the King would have been proud to sport back in Vegas and a Hunter.S.Thompson tee-shirt to stretch over my rack.( Merci beacoup mon amours Neimah,Jacob and Anton.) Why all the swag  I hear you ask? Because I got what I wanted out of the Miss Inked competition and there is no way that I would have made it without my 77 crew.

(“You told me that we would dance around your crown when it was all over.” he said softly placing in on my head with his eyes twinkling and mine filling with tears.)

They voted their little fingers to the bone for me.

If you care to peruse your news stands you will find me on the cover of Inked looming like a big boobed Godzilla (“Ohhhh no! There goes Toyko!”) behind the adorable winner Miss Tash. (“I’m just the out of focus guy on the tee shirt!” Jason Lee-Almost Famous.) to be followed by five pages inside.

The way I see it we both won.She is a model and dancer.The crown will serve her well. Your stupid scribe here? Oh baby! I am naught but a foul mouthed ,over opinionated ,under educated upstart with a bad attitude and great stems. I informed them with much hand waving and salty language that they are in dire need the gonzo element and that is where I shine all two-bit tinsel and hot -damn hustle way .The world is my campaign trail and now I,the original fucked up foundling and founder Lost Boy, has finally found a home. Expect to see my by-line staining the high gloss page like blood stained buckshot every eight weeks.

The first day of work found me cozied up in the sterile IKEA decked hell of a bar at the Vibe hotel chatting to the illustrious and most charming Erik Sprague also known as The Lizard Man. The heat shimmed like it was 1969 outside the plate glass window as my nipples hardened due to the bludgeoning of the air conditioning. We filled a tape with banter and he went to off hammer corkscrews ( The implement,not the beverage but then again it could have been both,whadda I know? ) into his heavily inked head at his Newtown show and I slunk off and gussied myself up in the toilets to go to the launch party at the wharf for the new issue of the magazine.

When all around you are dressing like Kat Von D? Elect to wear a stunning skintight grey shift dress,faux Cartier jewels adorning your long languid caramel limbs, skyscraper nude heels and channel Miss Jolie. Also remember to sit like a lady all night due to your lack of underwear beneath  said dress.No one needs to see your junk young lady.

I still find it hard to mingle so I sat downstairs most of the night by the door,perched on the table by the entrance,minxy and cross gammed and chatted to my fellow staff members. Muy relived to see that my ink slinging bitter ex-amour had not made the list I heaved a rack expanding sigh of relief and proceeded to shovel a bucket full of  popcorn into my fool head and talk bitter trash to keep my compadres laughing deep into the water surrounded night. At one point I was ranting on the edge of the pier to two of my editors who listened to me wide eyed and slack jawed. My eyes were momentarily snatched by the neon of Luna Park all wanton across the waves and I gave thanks at that moment for all the disarray and heart hurt that had lead me to this exact moment.

Being underestimated by the world at large is is boon of you know how to twist and then distill it into revenge riddled fuel and I do. The Ben Fong-Torres to my Hunter S / Lester Bangs hybrid,Miss Vanessa Morgan,is shipping me off to the Soundwave festival next year to pester my heroes for hot hard copy. I think back to my small town youth, full of repression and put downs,of my truncated education and I  smile. I grin like the Cheshire cat thinking that I will be breaking bread with Jimmy Bower of Eyehategod and Down in ten days time. That I have a backstage pass for life. That my peers became my friends. That my phone book reads like a rock and roll almanac.

I want to go back in time and tell the high-as-fuck hurting 13 year old me that being a late bloomer is the best thing that will ever happen to her.That she will grow into her odd features,her height and that only the coolest and most discerning bee’s shall be drawn to her very potent and particular kind of honey.That her past will melt away like malicious ice cream,31 flavors of solid sordid suburbia will not be on her menu for much longer…….

I want to kiss her big lipped face clean off  her fine boned skull and tell her its going to be just fine.

And it is.

Second place is just dandy by me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Manic.

I mean,thank fuck I am not on meth.What I should say thank god I am not on anything.

(I will get to why in a moment….)

Besides codeine. And shitty memories. Oh,and revenge,envy,loathing , glitter and more often than not a pair of six inch heels .Anyway,who needs to be high,spending all that money you don’t have on drugs when you are mental? And by mental I mean lingering on the edges of bat-shit insane.I own real estate there.

I could lie but I won’t.Its pointless. I am unbalanced ,at times,to a spectacular degree.Always been this way .It has lead me to my greatest triumphs and most rocking adventures and alternately to the pits of despair.Pits that need to have Wagner and Diamanda Galas blaring on the decent.

Oh well.Them’s the breaks….

I feature it to be  like a wheel,dig?.I have always fancied that visual because it makes my internal i-pod blast the mariachi trumpets that herald the arrival of Johnny Cash doing “Ring of fire”. No,I have no idea why either.

So ,three days ago I was not only at the bottom of the revolution,I was under it. Tears ,tears more tears. Dreaming of radical plastic surgery,ways to kill my roommate (a bollocking great big icicle through the heart being that the evidence would melt and by the time they wanted to haul my ass into the station for questioning I would be on my way to the south of France on a stolen credit card flirting up a storm in first class with a Brazilian polo player clad in a devastating black shift dress….)

And then comes this.Manic.Manic,manic,manic! In neon. Its like all the really great drugs rolled into one.LSD,I can see everything! Speed! Watch me run for miles!.Write all night! Most of it crap!  And the zinger is that my twisted cerebral cortex doles this fun out to my fat ass au naturalle.

But just not when I want it.Sigh.

So today found me running to Keith Morris era Black Flag and cracking a sweat. A big sweat. This is the swing that comes after the foul ball that is the black hound that hunts and haunts me. Today I am untouchable.Admittedly its a tiring way to live but I will take this over the other any day. A friend gave me a set of cunning rubber band thingies for my  lamented birthday that translate into a gym in a bag kind of set up.I am swooning,I am moist,I think I am in love. I was grunting like a Russian shot putter having a stroke as I tied myself in knots in the backyard post run.

A great gift indeed.

Due to the now hyper condition of my el grande condition sleep will be a hard sell. I will have to count the whole fucking barnyard.I want to run .Now.Now being 2:26am. I won’t do it.I have been here before…..Wait till tomorrow.It will be far sweeter.The high will linger longer and that is what we want.

Aka: Errol Flynn,bless his size 12 cotton socks,keeps telling me to focus on the good things.He also listens to me spew all kinds of vile nonsense when I am putting the” Bi” back into “Bi-polar”. He is right though.I do have to keep in mind that all the top secret  shit I have been working on all year is all going to come to fruition soon and I better be ready.

So focus on the good things and run.

Running cures all.Listen up infidels….

Did I ever tell you that I  used to smoke? Oh man,I was so fucking good at it too. I looked amazing and couldn’t climb a flight of stairs without needing to rest half way up. My circulation sucked and a cloud followed me wherever I went. I was a Marlboro girl as all good white-trash seems to be and I packed fifty of the fuckers down a day for many years. Upon returning from New York in 2002 I was told by a pretentious Gothic maybe from New Zealand that I discovered living in my beloved Ranch “You will never quit, not strong enough dear”. (This is when I need you to picture a bull plowing down a fey screaming matador.) “Really?” I replied and strode next door to the drugstore in a kelly green bra,ray-bans striped pajama pants and a white towel around my hair. (I viewed the block around my house and all it contained as an extension of my living room and treated it accordingly) I returned with a box of nicotine patches and dramatically pealing the back off one in front of the whole household I slapped it on the throbbing vain in my neck and quit on the spot.

It was hell but I did it.

I later stabbed a 12′ butcher knife through the aforementioned wankers door.He moved out two days later. But that is another story….

But that is when I learned to run without the cops chasing me. I hacked and spat my way down to Bondi beach and back twice a day and my body rewarded me for my lumbering efforts.I spent a bomb on the right shoes and learned how to breathe. The voice in my head stopped screaming at me for the first time and started crooning.Color me hooked.I know,having an addictive personalty that anything can replace what came before it but running  gave me sleep and a sexy ass.It gave me posture and a stomach you could bounce a quarter off. My corpse and me were finally having a conversation that didn’t involve legal representation for both sides being present,

And twelve years later here I am .Still taping my blisters and crushing my rack down under 3 sports bras.

I ran when I lived in Long Beach by the Los Angeles river after burying two friends in as many weeks. I ran in Hamburg over rain slick cobble stones while waving to pema-tanned hookers caught white of tooth beneath glowing UV lights, I ran over the beaches of the far south coast with a shattered life and a broken heart while the love of my life screwed a blond heroin addled hooker in the bowels of Hollywood…..

Its what I do and for some reason it works.

So here is the deal, I am going to suck the life out of this upswing and let it guide me into a routine that does not involve failing myself. Granted I may be whining like a rusty pump after therapy hands me my ass on Friday but being the shrewd little opportunist that I am?

I will take what I can get when it is there to be got.

(Song for the credits- “That’s life “by The Chairman of the board, Mr Frank Sinatra .)

 

Grey.

I knew the good times,as sparse as they were, would not last. How could they?

I had a hellacious round of doctors appointments to tough out today and more to come. At this fucked point in the proceedings I am not quite sure if I have hit the wall or the wall has hit me. This fills my chest cavity with grey clouds and unicorn shit.I stumble though the front door and is that defeat and stupidity I can smell? Yep,you got it,the Dolt is home after a week away. Cue my devil-may-care angle shattered. I tried to explain to Lilli that she would feel the same way if someone had rubbed her up the wrong way as many times as he has me.She just tunes me out.

I think its a family deal here this weekend.That means drunk and shouty. How delightful.

Cue earplugs in.

I did not sign up for this.

Nor did I think I would be ferrying my fat ass back to therapy again after forever sized break. I am a malignant marginal mess listening to Guns’n’Roses ballads while clad in counterfeit Juicy couture sweatpants. Back on the couch again…Its dire but I have to do it. All my tee shirts have mustard stains on them,I’m not sleeping and my room looks like its trying to eat my bed. I am hateful and I feel much of the same.

I spend a lot of time reading Raymond Chandler in the bath floating my corpulent corpse while imbibing generic soda water in the more unsociable hours of the morning. Epson salts are lovely.I don’t pick up the phone due to the shit I know will fall out of my mouth if there is a sympathetic ear on the the other end of the line. If you know your animal,as I do mine, you know how to ride it out.

True respect is protecting the nut-jobs who are deluded and kind enough to love you from the worst of yourself. Don’t be a selfish whiner! Try it you heathens!

I requested lap band surgery from my long suffering doctor today. I burst into tears when he weighed me. He refused. “Well how about a lobotomy?” I sniffled.

No dice.

I just heard them all come home. The Dolt reproduced a while back and spawned a Ritalin deficient clone that will be bobbing and  babbling in his retarded wake. I am not a kid friendly person. I think that I am allergic. I should have been an abortion for the love of Elvis! What makes anyone think that I will be cool with anyone else’s lack of birth control is beyond me.

Saint Tina,Elvis bless her, tells me that she thinks that my darkness is inherited. Well, that’s a fucking no brainer. Not only was I denied from conception till tainted birth and then tossed aside,all of which I think I retained on a cellular level, its a well known fact that Polacks do misery like B-list actors do meth,hookers and denial.

Any country that can give the world Roman Polanski and Joseph Conrad is a dark land indeed….

So yeah,I am hiding out till I have to get back on the door tomorrow night.The rent still needs to be paid.Maybe someone should tell the Dolt that…just sayin’… There is no other option that wont land me in jail.I keep trying to clean up but all that entails is shoving shit from one side of my room to the other.

You know shit is all kinds of wrong when I decide not to hang out with my hermanos at Cannibal Corpse. If I can’t bring my A-game? Well then,I ride the bench.

A week since I caught up with Mr Pike. We lent against a battle scared road-case backstage and traded salacious tidbits about all the people that we know and share. My world is so very small and I wouldn’t have it any other way . We are all so damaged, my epic comrades and me. I adore my alpha friends who don’t give up the fight. My light burns a little brighter in the wake of their hallowed presence.

While I am stuck out here in Shitsville I need all the positive affirmations that I can get from back in the world. It all adds up and patches my addled ass back together for the next round. Mr Sult in the studio tracking what I know will be another great Clutch album.We chat about the joyous impeding birth of his second son.He tells me that he read about my band on Blabbermouth. I sit up late drinking ginger tea and do all the press that Wayne sends me in relation to Meldrum. It strangely elevates me.

Back to Therapy….sigh….

They are all going to tell me that I need to be medicated and as always I will reject it. Its funny when I think back to all the drugs I did when I was so young that I was barely bleeding and now that they are offering them to me?  I turn them down.Perverse as always.

All I can do is keep running and cover all the mirrors. Eat clean and listen to The Stooges. Write more. Prune what does not serve me from my loud existence. Sell my belongings and flee back to Marcus at The Cat Place with my Bass and rig and make lots of noise. Write,write and write. Run again. Run some more. Sweat till I see stars.

Keep my head down.

The wheel has to turn. Don’t let the ones around you pull you down.They would have one hell of a hard time of it. I’m like a fucking jumping castle with a cunt. This much fat always floats.

Stay gold fuckers.

 

 

Birth.

Holy flaming fuck. Is it that time of year again?

Bloody bugger September. the lightening lashed month of my becoming. .My glitter dipped and sequin studded sensibilities put me in the poky fund wise yet again. Too many shoes and pedicures mean empty coffers and being stuck here rather than on the coast eating mango’s with my phone switched off..

I ran for all of “Back in black” and “Powerage” today. Fat lumbering muy grande mija that I am. A nice steady sweat and well strapped knees give me a pinch of  joy every time. I outlasted the pack of half-sleeved (yawn) rugby playing date rapists who tried to keep up with me by five laps. How inquiring minds want to know? Why,by fantasizing about being on tour with Saint Cecilia  ,resplendent on stage in a fetching pair of hot-pants,my stack-heeled shit-kicker boots and a skintight Allman brothers tee-shirt all delivered wrapped in a devil may care grin. My silver fox-tail a furry metronome beating time against my sweaty thigh and/or Sir Henry of Rollins taking me out for a vegan dinner in Silverlake to discuss publishing my new book.

Aka-Errol Flynn is teaching me how to drive stick shift.3 pedals is 3 pedals too fucking many.I think that he must have a death wish and is also one of the kindest people I know.He has slept with 580 women and the stories are quite amazing.Many redheads litter his sordid history . I am fascinated. He makes great toast and me laugh. I will persist with this driving caper as when I make some paper I want to buy a copy of The General Lee.You can take the girl out of the trailer….

Look,whatever gets one foot in front of the fucking other alright?

And here comes the 18th again (“Here comes my Chinese rug”) Dee-Dee long gone.I used to sit by his grave for hours as the sun melted cancer coated over Santa Monica boulevard for another day. I still get some kind of awful lonesome for the suspended reality that is Hollywood. The endless almost  and maybe forever sauntering hand in hand down Sunset, high on smog and wet dreams. That certain light that I have written about endlessly and never managed to capture,that continues to haunt me still. I saw a derivative of it bouncing off the rail tracks as I pounded my way across the bridge on my way home today,Bon bellowing in my ears,the vermilion sky taking what little breath I had clean away.

And I think of Denny’s and the white Jeep that ended up getting impounded somewhere in New Mexico (“As apposed to Old Mexico?” “Shut up …”) Of Calgon Hawaiian Ginger scenting my too thin by far skin and naively epic hopeless hopes .Of giving myself  over and over again to the man that I loved madly and beyond all reason ,the horror slowly dawning on me that I would never be enough and would in time become nothing more than a set of songs for him to sing.

I hate my fucking birthday. I was going to concrete  over it but when I realized the effort involved I decided to do my aching Miss Haversham thing, hole up in my boudoir listening to Neil Young , Gram and Emmy Lou and leave only for select events. Such as my big brother squiring me to see Earth play tomorrow night at the Hi-fi bar. Dylan Carson delivers the brown note all the way from Portland.

I can dig it.

Then Friday will be spent at the mercy of my iron handed Korean hairdresser getting my brunette mane did. Lee Joo,who will manage to make me feel like a million bucks after a mere six torturous ass numbing hours in the chair. It is at times like this that I think that I may be somewhat spiritually remiss due to vanity taking up almost all of my pie chart so to speak. It passes quickly.Fuck it! I still pray to the King in all of his white jump-suited glory daily.

I know which side my Quaalude is buttered on thank you very much.

Another 365 days closer to the end? May as well look cute I say. Life will get you.Bet on it baby.It will fuck you five ways to Friday so why not suck it dry daily? The grim reaper moves rapidamente hombre. Give it all you have got while you have still got it to give.

Four new tattoos have helped.

Best that I leave my bed and train.The days flee.My fat does not.

And you say that you miss me?

Hell,its a forever thing….

 

 

 

Comic.

Holed up in my teenage cave,Robert Plant caterwauling about someone squeezing his lemon,clean sun spanked sheets and candles lit and wondering if this is how it will always be for me. That’s a whopping great lie.I don’t have to wonder,not really.I know this is how it is.

Not capable of accepting good.Some connections burn out and cauterize themselves as to never  reconnect again. I am of no practical consideration.Not even for myself.

I will be sure to let you know how I feel about this if the novocaine ever lets its grip on whats left of my heart go.

What do you mean  am I serious? Did I stutter?

Once upon a beer burdened time he told me that he thought that he had invented me. A most flattering concept as I felt like nothing more than curve cursed ectoplasm tethered to terra firma by my magnificent shoes.I actually thought  that he just may have been right.I found myself watching myself from the corner of the room as we tore up the bed. And I wonder how people do it, how they connect and get it to endure ,because for the life of me I just can’t seem to get it right .Not for real and not for keeps. Irrevocably damaged.

I don’t throw that down as a challenge. A gauntlet. Just a fact.

My story does not invite good dreams.My fable as flawed as the one telling it.

There is no practicality in me. I am a comic book character.A Frank Franzetta heroine with one foot planted on a polar bear,sword held aloft.Not that I am complaining about it mind…. Perpetual adolescent.Not applicable to any real life situations.I should hold myself at great distance and remain a fantasy,if that is what it is that I am….

A bass wielding,guitar slinging,tattooed romantic ever writing vagabond. There is a rock solid bet for ya…pft.

I should not be around the pure of heart.Its an oil and water kind of set up. I should not taint their white light,flawless futures and hope with my car crash machinations. It’s not right and I know that its not.It’s not polite and I pride myself upon the good manners that Saint Tina instilled in me.I just cannot bring myself truck with bad form.

Every time my inner Barbie ups and  decides to get bolshy and reignite itself I should beat it senseless with a sock full of loose change and chain it to the hot water pipe  in the basement by its ankle.Starve it in the dark.School it.Show it who’s boss.

(‘Shut up bitch!”)

I’m not going to say “Whats wrong with me?” Because I know. I don’t know the steps.(“Annnnddd,one,two,cha-cha-cha….”) I don’t know how to connect.Love.Its a learned behavior and I was truant that day.(“Miss!! The dog ate my ability to play well with others Miss!) My moral compass is cactus.Can we get real here? People like me cannot be saved ,we are irredeemable. Damage only seeks damage. Which makes most people ,well, outside of rock and roll and most maximum security penitentiary’s, too good for me and forever far beyond me.Its a lose-lose situation because damage has my number and wants me dead. Shallow grave quicklime style.

I am a touch,a pinch sad at times like these but let it be noted that I don’t feel like a victim,I feel like an autopsy.

I think that this is my lot no matter what anyone tells me,tries to convince me that I am wrong and I am sure as shit not going to lie to myself and sweet talk myself otherwise.There will be small vacations from my reality but it is to this that I am contracted to return and no baby,you just can’t come…..

So many songs I have not written,books that I have not read and miles that I have not run.

I can’t shake myself free of what I came from.My forsaken birth all the way to my magnificent  Hollywood mess….And now this.This fucked up exile.

And here I am.Ta-da!

I can never stay. You will not wake up next to me. I am moonlight mile kinda girl. I am alive at 3am and in your imagination.If you are willing to accept the charges I may put the call through if and only if it suits my selfish whims and that is what I am and all that they are, but if you want my opinion? Don’t waste the dime.The connection is faulty,your ear full of electric snow and static.I don’t translate over distance.

Baby? There’s nobody out there….

I couldn’t do it again. Fall that way.I love language.To “fall” in love. Injury is inevitable…. I know that it is not meant to be the same every time,I am not that stupid but as hard as I gaze into my crystal ball I know its just not there. Nor can I go back. I know as time goes on that there is nothing to go  back to. ( “One day” he said softly putting down his Kirrin beer as the sushi train kept ‘ rollin’ on to nowhere “I am gonna stop chasing you…” I sighed and wondered if the fish in the huge aquarium in the center of the restaurant ever felt nervous…) I would not have survived if I did. So this is this and what I have to bend my head around forever.

Am I still in love? With how it was in the beginning? Sure. The starts are always so magnificent in their stoic frailty dontcha find? Does he think of me? I strenuously doubt it. Me? I think about how flawless it was until it wasn’t.

I don’t have anything that would be of value to anyone else.Gold plated you dig?  Oh girl,you are so cold.Don’t waste anyone’s time. I know that you have better manners than that. Who needs a writer anyway? No edit and it all ends up on the page. Grist for the mill right? Its only ever flattering until its not.

Can I live without it? I have thus far and I am still standing.

Chicken sent me through Laura Christine’s bio to give me an idea of what he wants from me. My amazing Laura. And we all know what Gene’s reads like. Trust me to be in a band with the best drummer in the world.Mine is a joke comparatively. He says “Just write what you have been up to.” Oh brother! Avoiding sharp things and the contents of the cupboard under the sink that woo me with tales of oblivion. Circumnavigating my broken heart. Writing songs about my malaise. Not the most scintillating reading.

But I have my band and last time I looked my metaphorical balls.

Maybe that is all I need. Oh. And a gun.

My task is to starve the need clean out of myself. I court sleep and alternately loud noise. I dream of the stage because that is where everybody wants you and no one can have you. This is my life,this is how it goes…I knew that nothing that I ever did would be good enough so I beat myself bloody on the fact just to drive the point home knowing that it would be ignored.

What can I say? I’m a glass half empty kinda broad.

The more I talk and try? The less I know that I should.The human condition is totally flawed which is why specifics are so important.

I make lists. I try and keep myself to myself.

Its safer for all involved.Who is involved you ask?

Me.