Muse.

They would take cocaine,eat microwaved hot pockets and play Tony Hawk  for twelve hours straight.

I would slowly skate up and down Santa Monica blvd and wonder when and if my time was ever going to come .Surrounded yet again by fine boned sociopath addicts,broke and fat I wandered LA like a homeless person with the dogs that no one but me ever walked.

It all fell away as such times do,a laconic west coast landslide into the ocean of the past and I still wonder how it affected me.On what levels.Because even after all these years new epiphanies bloom within me and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were planted at that time.I saw that if I was never going to be beautiful I better be loud or funny as fuck.They stumbled half cut,intoxicated on what their superior genetics got them with little or no effort on their part whatsoever,the rubes that it reeled in.Trust me,I learned what nonchalant beauty can bring a gifted grifter at the feet of the masters.I miss the city of angels.The city doesn’t even notice that I am gone.That is what makes it so attractive.

You have got to love a city that plays hard to get.

Every headache is an aneurysm,every bump a tumor.Its lack of sleep that makes me unravel.I ain’t wrapped so tight right now.It takes you under.

I have been hiding out in my beloved bunker yet again.The week is almost done with itself and I am back on the deviant door tomorrow night.Had a great late single ladies Valentines night out with Lili White Tiger and Miss Annabelle.We ate sushi and the went to see “The girl with the dragon tattoo”. Who knew that a revenge rape scene with a giant William Burroughs-esqe silver dildo would make me so very happy? When Lili showed me the Swedish version first she almost had to sit on me to calm me down.I was cheering.I was buzzing like a cheap TV.

A good night was had by all.

Miss Nina just sent me the poster for the show on the 30th of march.I almost soiled myself laughing.Ray Ahn is like a fine wine getting better with age.He is not only one of the greatest bass players punk rock has ever produced but the most amazing artist as any fan of The Hard-on’s can attest to.To see my name on any of his work is humbling beyond measure.I will have to get this one printed and framed.He astounds me .Hope to get another show in before then though.

My nerves,the fear of not being good enough are forcing me into many hours of hypnotic practice daily.I am self taught so when I finally work out a riff I stay on it,high on the meagre but tasty achievement for hours.Which is what happened today.My voice is also in fine form so I just want to show off.I am not really much good for anything else.

My memories find me waking up in a cold sweat with Hello Kitty locked in a death grip kimora.(“MIOWWW!!!” “Sorry baby,Sorry!”) I remember even before we began the stories would swirl though the booths and bathrooms on the strip,telling me what the deal was,that a prince was really a thief. I held my mud and kept going.What ever destiny had in store for the two of us was not due to arrive for many more years.I had never believed in myself but I believed when it came to us and all that we could become….

Back to there here and now.

Don’t make nice to my face.Don’t ask me what I am doing and how.I have the inside line,it all gets back to my scared ears in the end and you have no idea what you are fucking with and what I am capable of…

Beware of sheltered lunatics in clever costumes with manic opinions.Beware of cunning Republican hearts throbbing ill informed beneath tattooed rib cages.The poverty deluxe aroma of patchouli and sloppy hand rolled cigarettes can never mask the stench of marrow deep ignorance.Takes allot of money to look as poor as you…..Your views on pro-life,adoption and my gender make me sick to my molten  core. I am not the cowgirl that you want to fuck with.Take your medication,sponge of the government that you claim to despise,lie to yourself and fade from my life forever more.Asshole.

Safer for you all round.

I never have to wonder why I hate people as much as I do.They write the script and I get to be Ray Liotta once again.Not bad work if you can get it  I’ve gotta say.

Songs arriving down the line at a great clip.Spent the day with Saint Tina yesterday.Seeing people see us never fails to amuse me.They have no idea what we would have in common and why we are having such a good time.We talked our shoe shopping asses off and she covered me with kisses and went home.I am still bad with people loving me.It makes me question their lack of taste not to mention their sanity but when I can leave myself alone for a minute it is appreciated and pretty damn cool.

I yelled at the dude at the newsagent for not selling me the winning lottery ticket.Again.He thought I was joking.The fool.

Ross,forever being a bigger person than I will ever be ,went and had a coffee with the guitarist from our old band.Why I really have no idea but each to their own.As I embark on another cycle of my career with some of the most talented people I know ,I have to smirk thinking about that loser with his kraut Yoko writing jingles for used car yards.

Someone up there likes me.

I wonder sometimes if I should let shit go and forgive.Nah.Now why in the hell would I do that? People are too wishy-washy.Try too hard to make it all pastel and politically correct.I am not living in Monet baby,I want Miro.I want Picasso! I want fucking Titan in all his oil rich massive glory.I want it loud and covering the ceiling of my inner white-trash Sistine chapel.I want more.

And why not? Why not live by your own technicolor sonic mandate? I have set my existence up to do nothing but.

As always my writing is centering on a most surprising,unexpected but most welcome object of wild and wanton desire.I must send up silent thanks for them because some absolute corkers are coming down the line.Well that and torrid, terrifying fables of my not so distant past and what it has turned me into.Out on a longing limb once again…Lord Elvis on Dilaudid high,it is so much easier this way,in my fecund imagination.Safer by far.And one never knows what gifts time and tenacity will bestow.

Fucking teenager.

Being in a band with Marcus has really inspired me to apply myself to what I am doing,to train it daily and its helping me a lot.

I have solid subject matter,good and bad,past and pure dirty imagination and I am honing it,distilling it over and over. Up all night ,me and Hello Kitty hanging on the boat of my bed drifting though the dark, armed with black felt tip pens,miles of paper and gallons of peppermint tea.Still wouldn’t mind having a servant who took dictation though.

Time to buy another lottery ticket.

Game.

While on the door last night regally rocking my Stevie Nicks top hat and far too much gold glitter dusted cleavage( Make the lyrical connection people,work with me here,its 7;30 in the am and I am not doing all the hard graft here.Give a hustler a break,I am knackered .) I caught up with an old friend. Dapper as ever and cooler than anyone has a right to be, he informed me with a definable twinkle in his eye that he was back in the game.

( Game? What is this game that you speak of? Enough of your foolishness peasant ! Water for my horses and wine for my men immediately !)

I said that I was delighted for him and after wishing him a fond farewell I played nice with the kiddies,processed them though the portal,down the stairs to their Saturday night sins of choice, flipped my switch to autopilot and commenced  stomping around indelicately in my bog of a mind.

Looking for clues.

“Are there rules to this game?” I wondered as security barreled past me in a flying wedge yelling to call an ambulance to attend to an overdose freshly discovered in the grotty back ally. ” And if so who sets them and why did I never receive my copy?” I pondered as the flashing blue and red lights of the emergency vehicle turned the whole world into a momentary  disco of near -death. Which leads me to think that everyone else did get the memo and that I am the delegated water-boy

I have to say it.I am just not game to play the game.Because, being that I am not reckless and only fearless in great ,very rare and triumphant situations I don’t think that I have the cojones. for such feckless folly any longer. People seem to move on with an effortless grace that has thus far avoided me.My ex dithered around for a few weeks,tripped and fell smack bang dick deep into a whore so I guess it can’t be all that difficult.

Literature and film has buggered it up for me.I know that I am in need more psychiatric evaluation because I found myself shedding a hot tear or ten the other morning at the romance between Tyler and Marla upon my umpteenth re-reading of “Fight club”. Gary Ollman and Chloe Webb in “Sid and Nancy”

I should take myself outside and give myself an uppercut.Try and knock some sense into myself.

I am crap at games and I can say with no vestige of doubt in my pea brain whatsoever that I am also one fuck of a sore loser.It was an evergreen feature of all my school reports that I did not,yet again,play well with others.Only to be topped by my “Intolerance of her peers” noted in my kindergarten report. This observation at 5 tender years old people.Read it and weep.

But who amongst us can claim to be good at loss but the self flagellating martyrs and the moving target meek? Not a badge this boyscout of the boondocks cares to earn thank you very much.I thought I was meek at one point but it turns out I was just low in iron.What a hellacious role to delegate to ones self.I try to manifest Clint Eastwood not Lenny in “Of mice and men” They are not going to inherit the earth either,the meek.They are fuel for heartless alphas with psychotic tendencies and flash cars.That’s the thing with hard case sociopaths.No empathy equals zero remorse.God I hate the days when I feel like grist to such evil mills.Barricades must be refortified daily.

I envy them too.Sick I know,I know….Imagine the liberty of being completely remorseless.But I have seen the true lowliness of their lives,the emptiness dulled by narcotics and bold denial.I think that I will pass.

Some of my bolshy brats have taken to calling me Angelina Von D.I still don’t let ’em in for free mind.I am quick to their game.Not a shabby combination it must be said though,it makes me smile as I starve myself down once again on clean food and protein shakes.I will take any kindness wherever it comes from.Can’t wait to be free of this silly flu so I can head back to the gym. I need the endorphins.I need to have more control.

I will always desire more control.

What I need is to not think about Valentines day. It will find me in my white sheeted bed with the giant Hello Kitty plush toy that an admirer bestowed on the sad eyed lady of the lowlands here yesterday.It is sitting next to me right now,fathomless black plastic eyes radiating Tokyo zen and soothing my bruised ego and heretic heart.

My heathen teen-aged ticker is sending out smoke signals.To someone who I doubt thinks of me at all for I am too shy to admit any kind of admiration at this point and its platonic.Well,zesty and platonic? Contact would be unwelcome and unreciprocated. I sure can pick ’em.

I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I got my hands on it anyway so there you have it.

I feel faint imagining what would befall me if it got its hands on me though.

Why is a “crush” called that? It should be called an “Inflate” or something more buoyant,more uplifting.I feel hot-wired and helium filled when in the midst of one.Immortal,immoral and ripe for carnal corruption.It has been far too long since I was languid with longing.My ripeness speckled with rust.My lust has leprosy damn it.Desire does absolute wonders for the complexion,lights you up like the Christmas tree at The Rockefeller center (“Ohhhh! ….Ahhhhhh!”) .I still do long to a pathetically minimal degree but feel too pitiful in my pedestrian pursuits that balk and falter at the blocks.I could never say you know? Never tell them how I feel.Stand there hiding behind a curtain of lank hair,silent before your confused face, drawing the alphabet with the toe of my sneaker in the dirt sending out brainwaves to please ….

(kiss me,kiss me,miss me when I am not around,write my name on your jeans,kiss mekissmemissmekissmekiissmekis….)

All the coolest babes belong to someone else anyway.Its a rort I tell you.

I write lists of what I don’t want and need these days and they are depressingly long and vain glorious.Its not that I don’t appreciate the turgid emails that fly through the in box on my ancient My space account because I do.These admirers seem to think that my private life is spent in Frank Frazetta’s sword wielding polar bear riding world.I am grateful to be seen as such a powerful entity but the reality is banal , in terry toweling hot pants and an Elvis tee shirt as she hunt and pecks this dire dispatch.

Then they ask me to send them dirty underwear or signed photos reassuring me of stamped self addressed envelopes. I press delete.Later skater.

Sigh.

No white roses for moi tomorrow I am so sure.I was going to take myself shopping but I am skint as usual due to scrimping for a new amp for my new band so I will sit around and sing George Jones songs to Hello Kitty and make myself cry.Tres pathetique.

Better to be flying solo with my torrid imagination and playing my guitar than compromise myself at the hands of someone who doesn’t dig Emmy Lou Harris,Sam Cooke,Motorhead and T-Rex in equal measure.Who just needs a warm hole to fuck.So I’m picky.Sue me.I miss the best of my ex but that is long gone and far from anywhere I find myself these days so whatever’s clever right?

You know what? Fuck the game and gimme a crush bartender,straight up no chaser.Keep the change.

Miss Karen called to inform me that we are now in the possession of three nights worth of tickets to the incomparable and ever majestic Renaissance man of puck rock amazingness,Sir Henry of Rollins,who,more flatteringly to me than to Monsieur Rollins I am so sure , my ex accused me of having a red hot road affair with.I know,the mind fairly boggles does it not? Mon dieu.

Roky Erickson in march.Because if you’ve got ghosts? Well then,you’ve got everything….

And I get to open for The Hard-on’s at the end of this month.Shows in far north Queensland in July.Not too shabby at all.

As far as I am concerned the only “Game”  in town is rock and fuckin’ roll.

Hope love is kind to you today.

Me and kitty are gonna hit the hay.

Pirate.

Ugh.

Must I?

Time to re-enter the filthy frey once again.Bugger it.

I have actually felt quite chipper the last two days with my demented sleeping pattern that shakes me awake from eight in the evening till twelve midday the next day when I pass out in a fever fatigued heap.There is one pill left in the blister pack and alas the rent ain’t gonna pay itself so you know the drill…hi ho hi ho etc.As I type this,my period Mike Tyson-ing my womb like a pigskin speed-bag and I am surrounded by pyramids of paper and guitars that are threatening to avalanche off my bed at the slightest wrong move.The thing is here is that I have written and practiced more in the last week and felt better about my self as an artist in said seven days than I have in the last two years.

Which leads me to fervently believe that someone should pay me for being myself. A “sugar person” so to speak,I ain’t sexist.Someone to pay for my every wild hearted whim but without the fucking thank you most kindly.A patron! That was the word I was looking for.A Peggy Guggenheim of my very own.A benefactor.Yes bloody please..So ,if there are any offers? Do not hesitate to reach out from beneath the burden of your millions and allow me to relive you of some of the bothersome weight,to assist in shouldering your tiring load.Why,its no trouble at all…

I am a virtual saint am I not?.I should be canonized as generation bum’s answer to Mother Theresa.

I look up and catch sight of myself in the massive mirrors that adorn the wardrobe at the foot of my bed.Resplendent in my ex’s manky navy blue track pants and my excellent Plasmatics tour tank top from 1984,my stark boned visage peering out from behind a fast hardening grey mud mask,my mane an electrocuted mess.What a prize.Now I ask of you,who wouldn’t want to invest in such a fine and rare specimen.? (“What do you call an Italian astronaut?)

Ex-actly.

I can just see it now…….

I wake up,push my silk sleep mask up onto my forehead and there, at the foot on my California king-sized bed on the art deco beveled mirrored table is a silver salver.Upon it is a card of Tiffany’s blue folded in half.I crawl down to it,flop on my stomach and open it.”Good morning gorgeous” it reads in bold black print akin to the labels on the bottles in Alice in wonderland. My eyes scroll to the next line “You look fabulous,have you lost weight? Have a great day!” I grin and glace down at the not insignificant pile of the crisp 100 dollar notes delightfully green and rude against the reflective riot of surfaces. Smiling ,I slither over wanton acres of Porthault sheets back up to the head of the bed and press the bell for my manservant to serve my breakfast and run my bath.

“The Bulgari oil mum?” he inquires in his charming clipped British tone while placing my breakfast tray down gently on the football field of bed at my side complete with the days papers.”Yes please James,that sounds lovely” I reply. Walking softly across the room he draws the heavy theatre grade velvet curtains back from the panoramic windows and I sigh at the sheer majesty of the view before me.Central Park looks like a giants jewellery box from this high up. Crammed with evergreen emeralds ,deciduous rubies all surrounding the huge sapphire of the lake. I peruse the black Chinese  lacquered tray before me inlaid with fierce curling  mother of pearl dragons My egg white omelet a cloud of protein perfection.I throw my wheat-grass shot back like the reformed alcoholic that I am and suck on a quarter of blood orange to quell the bitterness. I languidly lean back into my damask nest of swan down pillows and peruse the front page of The New York Times as my peppermint tea steams and cools……

I have loved being a shut in though.Thrived on it.Doing my Warhol phone -as-a-lifeline thing once again.I have chewed up hours to my most missed Miss Bliss who is marooned in the winter-struck South of France and who is gestating my second goddaughter as we speak.I don’t even know if she wants me to be the bebe’s godmother,I have just assumed the mantle in static bothered long distance conversation and she is too polite to tell me to fuck off.I make a great godmother.Just ask me and I will tell you.Granted,I never get to see GG and the Fish but they know that I am in for life. Being GG’s godmother is actually one of my proudest achievements.

Amongst being able to tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue , conduct entire conversations in fluent “Het-feild-UH!”, and provide a home for smashing shoes and strange clothes…

I am on a ridiculously generous and strangely cheap phone plan that bestows oodles of hours of credit that need to be spent before a certain date or they cruelly cancel them.Which is how I ended up on the wire to California for about three hours.My ear actually hurt by the time I hung up. Brilliant.Rebuilding bridges that I thought were irreparable.

When Leizel put my “son” on speakerphone ,meaning my hound Henry and I heard his wet snuffling and LF in the background saying “Dude,that’s your mom! Say hello!” I unraveled totally and completely.This has got to be the year that I go home.Two years exile has almost done me in,I cannot stand it any more.I need that certain vapidness that only the lotus eating state of California can provide.(Read “The Odyssey” for Gods sake!) . Menstrual emotional mayhem+homesickness+the flu+ my dog and one of my best friends (read:one of my only friends) on the phone at the same time= WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Stayed on the phone last night till 3am with Miss Emma alternately planning world domination,snickering or complaining about men.I miss her company.Tonight me and Miss Nina burnt up the wire with strength,support and fearsome intellect.

That and the avalanche of daily text exchanged with Marcus,the resident guitar god of the far flung south and I am plum  tuckered out.He did the support for Scott from Neurosis last night and was brilliant as always.Blackie takes up the same mantle in Sydney on Saturday.Ah my brilliant boys,you all shine to blind….

I have never worked so hard at my lyrics and playing as I am for this band.I am a bundle of nerves but at the same time wildly excited.A heady combination to be sure.My left hand is callus central and my right wrist is crying for mercy.The bridge on my bass is quite high which makes is a real punisher but the gift of playing on my beautiful beast as she is right now is that when I get around to getting it lowered its going to feel like silk.Been finger picking on my old girl like a hillbilly as well.Just hours of acoustic noodling.Now I know why all those dirty wanna be rock-star lads were always attempting to gloam onto benevolent babes such as my romantically retarded self. We paid the bills while they got to practice for ten hours a day,pretend to be Jimmy Page and order in pizza on our dime.Boys can be such whores.

Shameless things.

Miss Emma calls me “Eric-a Avery” and we giggle like we never left the back of the bus in the 7th grade.And my bass-lines swoon and swoop like reggae loops and I stand legs braced apart and head down like the true child of the Ramones that I am . I hypnotize myself.My crackly lead bent back on its self and duct tapped for tenuous connection to my shitty shoebox of an amp.I play and the tide sucks my bottom end delivering Ophelia ass out deep  into the fathomless sonic sea.

Every note a love letter.Every riff a secret.And I call to you by way of sound my lost Chevalier and I see you everywhere I go….

Back to the hooker lads.Just like that ace Cheap Trick song.(“He’s a whore” A great track.Got to love the Trick…) Bloody hell,I’m not putting it down,not by a long shot! Christ! if I could forfeit my pride and my self respect and find some one to believe in me enough to pay my uber slacking way I would be up to exactly the same caper.Good luck to ’em ,the soul sucking life support system to riffs and dicks that they are.

Marcus and Nixon do this amazing gypsy Jazz thing acoustically which leads me to fantasies of doing encores like Led Zeppelin,sitting on the edge of the stage gazing out into a stadium sea of lighters…what? What?? Listen hombre,there is no point in dreaming if you are not going to dream big.I am the Cecil.B.De mille of dreamers,me.

I am sure that Lilli will be happy to see the back of me for a while.I have the habit,as you know,of being up all night so when the poor child trembles from her room in the morning I am bouncing round like Tigger annoying the crap out of her.Poor child.I make her tea,I jump on her bed,I loiter in the door way sprouting crap (“A piece of slice? It makes no sense small child! Well,erm,maybe it does but that doesn’t mean that I have to like it ! Its like saying “Two twins”Argh!! .Why is it not “A slice of slice? God!...etc,etc…”)

It is a Lourdes sanctioned miracle that this woman has not smothered me in my sleep.I am to the trying art of annoyance what coal is to Newcastle.

Not looking forward to the endless dullards and trash that constitute the unwashed masses.I have had such a nice time in my room which I think is the cleanest it has been since I moved in.Spent a happy hour noodling away at my dressing table,cleaning my make up brushes and lovingly wiping down the army of black NARS compacts that are lined up like soldiers with disinfectant wipes today.Heaven for a Virgo.Found a stack of my CDs that got buried in the Revesby exodus and have been drowning my snot filled senses in Glen Goldberg ‘s Bach variations and a heap of Chopin.It reminds me of living in Hamburg sitting in my window high above the sleet and dog-shit strewn cobblestone streets listening to the classical station being beamed down from Berlin,the cranes at the ship yards looking like Gods meccano set,lights winking and flirting with my solitary self in the night.

My pirates life.

So many things yet to achieve.So many shows yet to play.Time to build up the war chest and be the Captain of my destiny.Oh darlin’, it is and shall always be war all the time.

I blow as kiss to my black velvet portrait of the King and call it a day.

Definition.

When someone dies we say that we have “Lost” them.

Which insinuates,wrongly, that they may be found again.

Dead is dead.

Personally? I like to think that when I get called back to the happy hunting ground everyone that I have planted or have scattered to the four winds (why only four?) will be lining the driveway up to the sacred double doors at Graceland waving  as I regally cruise by in my headache inducing candy-orange-metal-flecked cherry, and I am talking as in virgin here people, 1970 convertible Dodge Challenger and it is there we shall rally like Viking Gods in the ankle grazing shag-piled Jungle Room,joyously pixilated off our asses on only the finest medical grade pharmaceuticals ( No stepped on street trash for the likes of us! Yo-ho-ho! ) care of shady Dr Nickalopolous ,feasting upon Delta Mae’s artery agonizing southern faire and shooting out television sets with silver plated .44’s.

But for now ,stuck like gum beneath the high-top of this mortal coil,I am angry at incorrect word usage. It smacks of nothing but avoidance and denial and it gets me mad as Ted Bundy in the stand.Howling pissed comprende? They are “Gone”.Full stop people,not coming back.Carbon and ashes.Fertilizer.I know that I will find my tail,my hot pink Chanel handbag and my Roller skates at some point just like I found my missing for months Fleetwood Mac tee shirt but I know for damn sure I am not going to be going through one of my infinite  boxes of  crap or delving into the murky rag choked depths of my Narnia-like wardrobe and just happen upon one of my many dead.

Not ” lost”

Dead.

Irretrievable.

And it never stops sucking and at that horrific soul numbing moment,the point of impact,of confirmation of death, I vow never to get close to another animal again.All bravura and bullshit  granted but my intentions are laser sharp and smart enough for Mensa, so eat it.

To not let anyone new in.Because its all to hard.I don’t give a fuck if loving is all part of the human experience.Go to Byron Bay,wedge a  sharp chunk of rose quartz up your vegan butt and talk to the dolphins you hippy scum-sucking trustafarian tie-dyed tools,noodle away at your past life regressions and rot.Assholes. I have no vacancies you see. I am full up.I am brokering no applications,no,not even with references.I avoid the few that I claim to love as it is and to this day I have no idea why the hell they put up with me or my behavior.

Could be because I am such a great deal in  small  rapido doses.

I have a sinking feeling that my front and armor are just too good. I can’t cruise around with my sceptically sociopathic  colors on show for all the world to see now can I? It’s just not cricket old chum.It is a constant source of amazement to me that no one really takes the fact that I am so fatally flawed seriously.I warn them,I tell them and then they act shocked when I coldly follow through.Personally? In all honesty?  I am shocked that they are shocked.Shocked that I am not fucking around here, because I just don’t have the time nor the inclination.The one thing I have managed to do is  made an uneasy treaty with the beast and I am better off being true to myself than bowing to the  nonsensical needs of others and compromising myself. In my book silt “Settles”  not people.I mean,what kind of epic life’s ambition is that ? To settle? Really? Dang. The things that they want from me to temper their own disarray and enable some kind of to- little-too-late self forgiveness.Over time you must make peace with yourself.I have not,nor do I think that I will ever mange this fine and noble feat but my war is honorable.Weapons are downed once a year , trenches and foxholes scrambled out of  for a friendly game of football on the battlefield,goals scored on the shattered bones and decomposing soft tissue of the…..lost…..

The dead.

And that is the frailty of us all.The ego that drives us on.We love and lose and we think that we are immortal.

I sat across from what I think was an old man on the train tonight.Could have just been a ball-sack in a bad suit for all I know.You know when people get so old they become genderless and look like some half baked character that Jim Henson rejected? He could have been a hundred years old in the shade but that didn’t stop him from checking out my legs.I dropped a hot wink at him and he smiled,demonstrating the fine work of his dentist manifested into blinding dentures..And in that smile,that brief moment,I could see him,the young and vital him in his milky blue eyes.It pinned me to my seat like a a nail shot from a gun.Crucified cold on it,the fate that awaits us all.He winked back,snapped the moment and we both laughed.

And  you can bet your ass that he never thought that time would catch him,no sir.That he looks in the mirror and wonders what the hell happened to the shell that he carries his younger self around in.

Christ ! If that is the case what hope is there for me? I still wake up in the early evening,stretch and fire a lupine grin at my Iggy poster,yawn and think “Well alright! 1992! ” and then have a mid-sized meltdown because I am still not getting it right and its twenty fucking years later.How in the hell did that happen?? “Nevermind” is now classic rock ?! ( hangs head weeping ) Oh rage! Oh despair!. I have no idea even where to begin when it comes to being a grown up.All my friends have small  people and mortgages.Gross.

Meanwhile,back in the jungle ( New York Dolls rule!) I am considering buying a handbag that costs as much a small car,thank you very much bloody Ralph bloody Lauren.I wear thigh high tube sox with terry toweling hot pants.I am bereft of a drivers license.I rehearse my Grammy acceptance speech into a broken wooden spoon while sliding back and forth on the kitchen tiles in my tiger slippers, my black silk magnolia splattered kimono flaring and fluttering, a homage to any number of Stevie Nicks film-clips from the 80’s while I am waiting for my two minute noodles to boil. And as time marches on, jackbooted and precise,I have still not worked out how to be a real live card carrying adult.

Not that I would know what to do with myself if I was mind you.It doesn’t look like much of a red hot good time from where I am perched.

Don’t go thinking that I am outside the house of grown up forlornly fogging up the windows like Tiny Tim at Christmas.Far from it.

I just stay trapped in the amoebic amber of adolescence.

And wonder how to keep leaving people behind.

Because,naively, I thought that we were all in the mix for life.Duh. Go to the back of the line Madden.I know right? What can I tell ya? I am a dreamer…There are a few rare birds that have gone the distance with my redneck raconteur self, bless them .But all the ones that kicked up the biggest stink while fervently pledging their freaky forever? Gone.Gone.Gone.They cashed it in,sold the hot-rod,got the girl with child,hung up the guitar.And they have the gall,the tenacity to look at me like I owe them money? To dare to look down at me from their compromised position feigning smugness and security? What-the-fuck-ever. The amoral bottom feeding dirty stop-outs! Fucking traitors one and all if you ask me. Ok,so I am in the minority and these clowns  obviously can’t keep up the good fight when pressure  is applied by parents and peer…hold on,hold up one fucking second! You know what? Good fuckin’ riddance to them! Ha! natural selection comes to the party, dances on the coffee table drunk  and pukes in the aquarium once again.

Thank you brother! Phew.A close call…

I was risking the infection of mediocrity just being around those schmendricks.Oy vey….

Because they have surpassed me on the highway.I am still hitchhiking while they zoom past smugly encased in the air conditioned  Cadillacs of brittle competency and I splutter on the off ramp and eat their dust.But at least I can still look myself in the eye.This ,none of this is a complaint just an observance,dig?.You can’t not be what you are without utterly horrific repercussions.Attempting such self treachery,from what I have ascertained and sadly observed in the field,  leads to ass cancer,self loathing,unwise haircuts,belly fat ,infidelity,domestic affray and  booco bitterness. Think I will pass ,thanks.

And my hectic vanity and perceptual youth, much like Amy Winehouse sings the sweet refrain of “No,no,no!” The light has left all but a few of them,they look harried ,string lipped and very,very un-cute and that is not what I want.

Freud’s renegade devil-may-care buddy Jung threw it down most succinctly “What is not brought to conciseness comes to us as fate.” Which I like to think influenced Sarah Conner in the most excellent “Terminator two” into carving  lawn furniture up with the epithet  “No fate but what we make.” Maybe? Who can say? But then to throw it back to everyone’s favorite bearded Viennese phallic obsessives dying words “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar”.

This is giving me a headache.

Call it like it is.Is it really so hard? Really? Oh dude….And here was my dumb ass thinking that you were cleverly constructed of sterner stuff.Now,that is a misery inducing mistake I shall not be making again…Some days,admittedly, it is going to take more courage than you think you have but take a real long hard look at the alternative. Are you going to moonlight as a contender your whole life? Spout time rotted rhetoric to the other civilian soaks at the bar every Friday night? A weekday warrior but a weekend coward? I am to busy to preach but if that is how you are going to roll? Then we are done.D-o-n-e.

“No hard feelings” to quote The Undertones former lead singer Mr Fergal Sharkey ,”There’s no feelings at all” .

In summation Your Honor?

I want people to call the shot,quit with the passive aggression already,stop complaining because they are afraid to change their lives and last but not least to stay the fuck out of my way.Just tell it like it is,just like Sir Arron Neville of my beloved New Orleans or just fuck off out of it and lie to yourself  somewhere out of the line of my ever neon hued ,brilliant, dream dappled vision.

That’s all.I don’t think that I am asking too much.

Anything else on this fine tiger-print sporting evening I hear you ask ?

Sure.

I want to buy the world a coke.

Ignition.

8:04 am.I have read three books and inhaled two protein shakes.The drugs have turned my colon to mush and I am losing booco weight Hershey squirt style.Too much information? Fuck off then.

The sun is  up and I am determined to ignore it.Shut it out totally.(Ner.) I think the antibiotics are starting to really kick in ,thank fuck for that.I don’t have time for this sickness malarkey.Here’s to the radically expensive black damask curtains that I have been dragging around and hanging in my vampire lairs since The Ranch.

Buh-bye world.It’s dandy being me.

Spoke to the Fish earlier.And amongst other things he said that he was looking for a wife.”If that’s the case what are you doing alone in bed on a Saturday night?” I inquired “Exactly!” he crowed confusing me and then rapidly changing the subject.I hate it when he pulls that stunt so I told him that women are naught but an ill advised folly that will force you to compromise when it comes to life defining deal breakers such as the manly pursuits of bow hunting,sofa dwelling and whittling.Wives,from what I can gather, tend not to find fart lighting amusing either.

That shut him up.

Me? I’m just looking for the Hawaii tee-shirt that John Mac vie wore in all the promo shots for “Rumors”.

And I am fucking well right too.About the wife thing. But I do really want that tee-shirt….

I don’t know from relationships.I mean,take a gander at my track record.(shudder) The only event ever run on my track was an egg and spoon race and I came last .Men don’t know what they bloody want and I have far too much to do to sit around and try and work it out for them.They only up and break your heart only to then settle for a  heroin addicted peroxided prostitute in the end so why bother?

Me? Songs to write and shows to play.Bravo!

All I know is that men do not want the whole package.Especially one that is 6’3,ferociously literate and not too hard on the eye as long as the lighting is right.I have banged on about this at great length before so I will can it.The Fish agreed with me though.Thank god for the gold standard coterie of stellar males in my life. My Band,Leefish,Blackie,Rossco,Francis,Toddski,Gene,Laz.I am one lucky broad.

I see the clumsy folk dance of courtship and it makes my rock infused ruby red blood run arctic cold.I am utterly crap at hauteur unless its that time of the month,I have the shits or  I hate you.Same goes with mystery. Useless.I wear all my organs on my sleeve,not just my heretic heart. Great visual huh?

Saint Tina always used to roll her eyes and wring her hands with despair even when I was just a mere stain,an infant ” Darling” she would coo looking perplexed as I ignored her,buried in a book as usual  “You don’t have to tell everyone everything.” I see her point but if you don’t lay it on the table people will just use it against you later so bugger it,in for a penny in for a pound I say. Although,that said, I am sure that she appreciates me protecting her from the sordid vagaries that constitute my unorthodox existence.I figure its the least I can do. The last time she saw me she said looking at my tattoo covered arms. “I just pretend that its a tee shirt that you can take off  .”

Bless.

The band has been on my mind all night.It’s on my mind all the time.Its where I am meant to be you know,hanging with a pack of dementedly talented gentlemen and making a ruckus.Fish says that I am an honorary dude anyway and he is right.I have been hanging in the locker room of life for far too long,my existence is a sausage-fest and I am a femme non grata to the dick-packers that I treasure and claim as my brothers.

But on the dating front? A predicament to be sure.Alphas just up and turn to jealous insecure fuck-wads behind closed doors and the alternative seems to be passive doormats.No thank you.Ye gods,I don’t want to wear the pants all the time.Actually I would like someone to peel  the pants off me and then…

But just thinking about that makes me hyperventilate with panic while grasping for a paper bag so guess I will have to work on that some.

In lieu of getting my fuck on I will get my noise on.

I think part of the problem is that as a performer and a person I tend to be somewhat amorphous.I am a shape shifter.I personally don’t have a problem with it but I am yet to meet anyone who can handle it.I have worked out that that is where so much of my grief comes from in relation to the breakdown of what I fervently believed was going to be the most enduring relationship of my life. He ticked all the right boxes on so many levels.Made me feel like a girl and treasured,supported my career,well in the beginning anyway.We had years of tenuous friendship and shared history on our sides and such similar stories that bound us even tighter. I accepted his wild uncompromising life without a moments hesitation and I guess that I was a fool to think that I would be afforded the same courtesy and amnesty in return.

It aches rather than hurts these days so I guess that is a good sign.

Being back in the public eye again always brings about interesting situations and times.Especially since I have visually and physically recreated myself several times since Tourette’s fell apart.Who wants to remain stagnant? Its bad enough that I haven’t progressed past the age of seventeen emotionally,I will be fresh fucked and hog tied if I am going to stay locked in 2002 visually.Gone are the hairy arm pits and tons of dreadlocks.Gone is the extra thirty kilos that I used to hide beneath, angry and spitting like a cat .I have paid my dues and I can do what ever the hell I want now,my pedigree is assured and I worked my ass off to make it so.

Meet me in the car park after the show if you want to argue the point and we will see who comes out on top.Hope you have your medical insurance paid up….

Meldrum was the launch pad for me to grow into being the woman I am meant to be.I started on the last run in Hamburg before Tourette’s split.Got serious about my training and my voice and it lead on from there.Still too shy to really let rip visually I spent a few years in my beloved black suit channeling Sir Nick Cave and his Highness Sir Johnny Cash. I felt free and hot for the first time.

And I got to play The Whiskey au go-go .Twice.

Anyone who knows me knows sartorially that I am a weird hybrid of Steven Tyler,Joan Jett,Anita Pallenberg,Stevie Nicks and a pyromaniac 14 year old boy lost in 1978. Or something.And that’s just today.So I guess I am finally at the point when I feel comfortable enough to just be myself,whoever she is this time round,on stage which is just lovely.Getting to hide behind my bass helps more than you think as well.

So here we go again.I want to take this band to great and uncharted territories and I think that they feel the same.Its so nice to be excited about something and the King only knows  that only music can do it to me every time.From the big white 10 LP gold and blue bordered Elvis box set from Readers Digest that my sad old pa gave me when I was a kid to jumping on my bed only this week to Slayer’s timeless 28 minute,ten song magnum opus “Reign in blood” Music defines ,soothes ,shapes and solidifies my drive,my very soul and sense of purpose.

The MC5 have saved my life,so,for that matter, has Clutch,Olivia Newton John,The Specials.Black Sabbath,Johnny Thunders,Rose Tattoo,Buddy Guy…..This list is endless,its twenty chinese phone books thick and the feeling it produces timeless.I will never die. Hallelujah..You dig where I am coming from?  Your girl here is a  flame forced fanatic .

To whit? An example?

The date of the last show that rattled me to my marrow and re-lit the path for me one again ended up tattooed on both of my shoulders being the slave to symmetry that I am.You heard me. The date. Of the show. I ain’t fucking around here people.I don’t have time to mess around and when it touches you?  Reignites you? Well,you must make a grand gesture,a mark, a reminder.Homage must be paid.It’s that fucking simple.

Some rather astounding new photos of my fine self are starting to come out and its always interesting to gauge reactions. I think I am the best that I have ever been and am mucho stoked that I am a late bloomer and only now hitting my creative stride.I would have loused this up so bad at 19. And getting to play with my hero’s and peers has given me the confidence that I was so sorely lacking. From all the amazing acts that I have toured with over the last riotous decade to the divine people that have shone their light on me and requested collaboration with the stuttering mess that I am I thank you from the bottom of my rotten heart.I am beyond grateful. You have no idea.

Just a 6″3  socially challenged autodidact from the sticks and I basically forced my dreams to come true at gun point.

My hours so unsociable and my ear plugs always in. Marcus is basically a socially retarded shut in much like myself which is one of the myriad of reasons why I adore him and we get along so well.Chatting to The Fish tonight we spoke of how it is going to be once this beast goes live.Nixon is hands-down one of the greatest showmen I have ever seen and I ain’t too shabby either.I just hope that all our alpha territorial pissing doesn’t cancel each other out.

Its been so long since I have been this hopped up about a creative venture and mixed with other like minded animals.Solo stuff is a muy different beast .That’s me pitting myself as a six stringed David against the audiences Goliath.A mix between wanking and picking your nose in public while everyone reads your diary and laughs at your spelling mistakes.Its not all that unappealing,don’t get me wrong,I mean,I have really grown to love doing it,its just not a band and that is what my life has been so sorely and sadly lacking. My head is spinning.

This is better than anything I could have  imagined.

Well, better than anything that would most probably just get me arrested anyway.

Band.

So, I am drowning in snot and had an epic fight with my roommate which almost ended when she locked me out of her room. So I went outside and yelled abuse through her window.Someone got their Joe Pesci on…

No passive aggression for this little solider,no sir-ree.

We are now not talking but that’s cool.I yelled everything that I wanted to say.

Have spent the night in bed coughing my fat guts up and alternately texting my guitar player Marcus Depasquale.It is so fucking rad to be able to say that..”My guitar player”. I am now to four super-talented guys their “Singer/bass player” on top of that and its the best feeling in the world.I never thought that I would ever be in a band again let alone one with some of the guys that have written songs that have made up huge dashing parts of the soundtrack to my very existence and kept me company on my trailblazing vagabond life.

Phew.

I am using my sick time to write songs about Gilles de Rais and to get all my lyrics into a swanky new notebook.Marcus is so great.Finally a supernaturally talented being who has all the time in the world to teach and guide less talented beings ie: me. Unlike drunk fuck-wits who make you feel like shit while riding on your coat-tales. Note to self: never work with insecure addicts again. When I think of how great my old band was at the point when we broke up due to one cuntish six stringers fear of success?…well,lets just say there were a lot of things broken in the summer of ’07.Should have been his chicken neck but life will get him in the end.Last time I saw him he looked shiny with dirt and tweaked out his limited mind while I was glowing with rude health and borne aloft on wings of vengeance.

Rosco Deluxe ,Bass god and brother is back in town from Berlin for a few months and I cant wait to catch up with him and hopefully get some bass lessons. Have to wait till I am a bit more healthy than this though.Its been ages since I have had the unfettered pleasure of his company and I know that we will pick up where we left off.

I really have to get my game face on.I used to feel physically sick going in to work with Pointy mc Asshole in my old band but  I know working with this new band is going to be a lot more organic and way cooler.A death march in the last days of World War Two would a walk in the fucking clover compared to being in my old band .Giving myself a hysterectomy with a broken beer bottle would be a joy comparatively.Ok,I will stop.You get the picture…

We are a five piece .(We ARE!!!!) Two guitarists,two bass players and the best sloppy drummer in the world! I mean that in the best way too. Three vocalists and about the same amount of tunings.The bliss of being a sideman is hard to explain .I get to step up when needed and then my bass drags me back into the shadows.

Do you have any idea how loud and heavy it will be?

I really want an Ampeg but if a Marshall is good enough for Lemmy? Well then….

Swaddled in fever and a dirty migraine I imagine getting in the van again.Going on tour and I am craving it like a highway narcotic. Even the idea of jamming and rehearsing,which I used to hate with a passion usually applied to ugly shoes,neo-nazis and 99.9% of humanity in general has my limited and broken heart  all aflame.Just when you think that you are shit out of luck and ta-da!! Elvis grants you a boon. That and I have to get busy on organizing another mid year acoustic show at my beloved Club 77. I am happy to be loud again.

So let me tell you about  my new brothers.

Sigh,I finally have the band of pirates that I always wanted,that I craved .For the record ,I did in Tourettes as well ,bar the guitar player.Ross Empson and Michael Quigley taught me,and I am not saying this lightly, how to be a front-man.They constructed the best wall of rhythm outside of Muscle Shoals Alabama and its there that I earned my stripes and I am in their debt always and forever.

But after Meldrum and playing with Michelle Meldrum( R.I.P) ,Gene Hoglan,Laura Christine and Freda Stahl and the traveling the world acoustic with my sadly lost felonious fuck- up of an ex for a million miles .Onto doing my own laborious solo shit and getting to play with the best big brother in the world,Blackie,well,lets just say that I am ready to step up.

As an amazing man once said to me in a fog of punk rock greatness and post show euphoria before sadly exiting my life. “Get your wings.”

And I have.

Ok,the boys in the band….

Josh Nixon and I met ten years ago when our presence was requested to be part of a group interview for the now defunct “Kerrang” magazine. I was foul due to just quitting smoking as we all grouped at my beloved Annandale hotel. I can hardly remember anyone else at the table so strong was the impression Nixon made on me.We monopolized the proceedings and I gleefully received much fabulously inarticulate  hate mail from the battalion of semi-homosexual metal-heads who where never quite sure if they wanted to fight me,fuck me or be me over the coming months.

This  fortuitous crossing of paths lead to me becoming  friend of the man  and a fanatical fan of his incomparable band,Pod People,who it must be noted are the laziest band I think this country has ever produced only putting out  two long players in almost twenty years .That topped with his  brief but blistering early to mid o0’s defection to my fanatically worshiped Blood Duster during their immortal “Cunt” era sealed his stoner star status in my baby blue orbs for-fuckin-ever.

And now I am in a band with him.

Fuck.

Then you have Nathan from Sumonus on the drums and Marcus on guitar and Jason from the band Daredevil who have loved since I first heard them on 1st bass and then lanky here on second and therefore tuned down a step  2nd bass.The angles wept Patron silver while dressed in the finest Alexander McQueen and the perimeter burnt all night long. Thank you Elvis. To hear how brilliant Marcus is I suggest that you make aural acquaintance with a song from his band Looking Glass by the name of “Freya” Its is the finest seven minutes and one second you can have with your clothes on. Trust me.

I’m giddy with it.I remember devouring  Sir Hanks oh-so-necessary tome “Get in the van” and day-dreaming about what it must have felt like to step into the mighty Black Flag. This is my version of that. Intimidation mixed with balls of steel. My dear friend Leizel from the LBC wrote to me of feeling invisible. I know the vibe all to well but suddenly I am the non-mulleted Courtney Cox to a four headed stoner version of Bruce Springsteen in the “Dancing in the dark” film-clip .True! I have been plucked out of the marauding masses and pulled on stage by the peers that I admire.

I shall dance recklessly and with great abandon!

Hot damn!

See you at the show.

Moron.

This is all slightly regressive I freely admit but I am going to blame it on the,hold on,I wanna get the spelling right….Clarithromycin 250mg and the Amoxycillin and Clavulanic acid 875mg/125mg.The latter of which could choke a mule.

Felled by some renegade virus once again due to the fact that all it does here is fucking rain.I am  quel miserable and sleeping on and off around the clock.Worst luck for me it is now the weekend which means people will be home.I despise  having people around when I am like this.Gutted that I cannot lord over my door tonight but I feel like I have been run over by a truck and I look like someone lit a fire on my face and put it out with a fork. Door greatness is therefore not an option. I know from daft past experience that its better to see it through when it comes to being ill or it will strike again.

Sickness always turns my obstinate head towards the duel destination of Lost Romance and spite.Come join me now as I wander,fever struck and grumpy, though my take on the human condition while armed with a debilitating sinus infection,a flame thrower and a ball peen hammer in case of hand-to-hand combat.

The title refers not only to me but to the bastard thing that flips around like a strafed fish in my red glitter rib cage.Heart?

Meh. Maybe once…now its the non-fucking-stop-daytime-Emmy-award-winning-soft-focus-montage entitled “The death of hope”

My languishing lackluster love-pump is a short bus window licker.It chats to the fire hydrant outside the station and has the mental maturity level of a severely challenged nine year old.(…look-it all the rabbits George!)

See ,I have this problem.Or let’s try and think positive….I Had this problem…..( That right there is an understatement that is of gold medal winning proportions let me tall ya….) Onwards dark horse….,Ok, so I have many but this one that I just happen to be  doing a foxy power point presentation on this fine evening runs as such.I have loved once and I do not know how to stop.There, said it. Unfortunately the one I gave myself to is like a shitty old Cadillac that just stops and starts ,stops and starts the live long fucking day.

I’m starting to think that common sense better fire a .45 into my engine block soon ’cause this shit needs to stop.

It will pass.I am getting stronger by the day.

So let us focus instead on the vagaries of the human condition when it comes to relationshits,and no,that is not a typo….

They love the chase.That’s what it comes down to,not the kill and sitting here tonight in my Van Halen tee shirt( 51-50…duh.) and  stripy Auschwitz pajama pants with a fetching balsamic vinegar satin on the left knee ,I can see how I am not the pinnacle of prizes when it comes to the evergreen quest of bagging a hottie.But that’s not the point…what was my point?…oh yeah….So, you open yourself up again and what happens?

From what I can ascertain they forget your number and go back and mess with the walking dead in the city of angels.They don’t pick up the phone after weeks of daily contact,they lie about their supposed single status.One hopes that one would wrap one’s meat? Or stick to finger banging while wearing a Hazmat suit? Just sayin’ ,just sayin….

As for me? I was last handled *ahem* July 2010. That’s a barren eighteen  frozen  months of fuck free living.My hymen has grown back over. Still can’t jerk off.It has almost become casual conversation topic in my rather small and needless to say ,addled,social circle.

Scene-Bar.Almost empty and dim lit.

Barmaid pulling a pint looks up as Fat ass Mc loveless walks in.

“Knocked the top off it yet?”

Close up on staff looking on with curiosity and pan to loveless.

“Nah……”

I jump on Pornhub every few weeks to see if its gonna work.Douse myself in the finest hardcore butt-fucking-squirt-fest- 3 way- hoo- hah and -so -on -etc that the net has to offer.But to no avail.I may as well be watching wildlife documentaries.Which,I guess I am.

Yawn.

It doesn’t. Work that is.

I should donate myself to medical science.They could use me as a door stop at Sloan-Kettering.Maybe a nice water feature? In some little- used courtyard perhaps.Cut one of my legs off ,stand me in a hole and stick a hose up my ass and voila!

boring…..

The only cool thing I have done of late was sit on the floor of a pet shop today and made out with  a 1200 dollar pug puppy.He was licking me like I was covered in mince.Loving on me like I was a bacon Popsicle.I wish I could have got him.Made me long for the puppy I left behind in the LBC.When Henry Rollins of Black Flag,to use his full name,was just a baby burrito I used to wake up with him snoring half on my face,usually with his front paw in my mouth.

It’s never the same and there is nothing that interests me at all.I was ever so captivated by the future I lost you see…..

So what of a future now I wonder? I have a hard time summoning up any real hunger anymore.Much like my beloved Stones I try and I try and I try and I try.….You can’t go back but where do you go when all you wanted is gone? I was speaking to Saint Tina about it recently.When you strip back all the shit that we do,say and buy to make ourselves feel more important that the fertilizer we are bound by our very existence to become …..the bottom line,as I see it ,so that is how I am going to call it,on human relations runs as thus.

1-Who are you?

2-What the in the hell do you want?

3-What is it going to cost me (Financially ,emotionally etc)

4-How long will it take me to recover when you are done and gone.

Ta-da! Pretty fucking astute if I do say so myself.

While I was in bed for 2 weeks with the last sinus infection that wanted to kill me I let my guard down.In that snot coated time I slept and had my hope re-ignited.I guess everyone must have an Achilles heel (right? Right??? please say they do,please,please…..) ’cause I am the fucking point walker.I am the insomniac that can’t leave a detail alone.( poke…poke..poke….)

I am 8 million note books and a homicidal urge as forbiddingly huge as the Hindenburg that I have to deflate by the day.

I hate that I am a fool in one place alone.That there is one person that can toy with me.That’s just the kind of  sneaky bastard feeling that makes a fifth of scotch sing to me like a siren,syringes sweet and swaying,loaded up with 30cc’s of  narcotic numb and sweet bubble free nevermore,Marlboro’s rasp and march like white soldiers panting to decorate the snarling corner of my fat pout,sharp things know me by name and wanna open me swift and flashy like an a discount rug warehouse…

“But no!” cries our fat manically depressed heroine. “Cause I can’t let it win.”

I’m not entirely sure what I think it is that I would forfeit at this late point of the game.It’s tempting only for the briefest of moments.I  may not dig myself right now (” Envelope pl-ease…..and “No-brainer of the year goes toooooooooooo”……) but to dwell in the ranks of those I hate would be signing the slowest death warrant of all time.So that,bummer in the summer for my eternal teenager,is o-u-t.

Everyone I know is a finger pointing bullshit artist so eager to lovingly expose the faults of their so called nearest and dearest.Who left the drugs out so the kids could find them,who’s drinking too much,who is cock struck or pussy whipped.And these are the gods children.To paraphrase Hemingway,We are all fucked up and loused from the get go.No matter how much money or talent.

And the ones you love who cannot extend themselves the same courtesy will lay down with the lower beasts of the fucked field,with dogs,heroin hounds of  little or no distinction because in the 3 ringed circus of their self punishment they think that they deserve no better and and its a self fulfilling prophesy doncha know….

See,real love is almost like a second job and ya gotta work at it.Here was my dumb ass thinking I was worth it.That my dusty diploma was finally gonna be of some use.Ha.Hahaha….Why have someone who loves you,wants the best for you,supports all that you are and do ,good and bad when you can have an under fed,bitter faced,junkie hustler whore?

I know right? What was I thinking.Pass me the smelling salts and dim the lights on your way out if y’all would be so kind…..

Lord Elvis,I am a tired mama,lying here with the scent of puppy and ennui cloying and kinda sweet…..I had to cancel a show.I have never done that in my life.Fond memories of puking on stage in Berlin after having two teeth removed by a barbaric dentist in Hamburg the day before.

“Mit Gas?” I simpered hopefully from the prone position unable to take my eyes off the rolls of fat that encircled her neck like soft pink garlands of Vienna sausage.

“Nein!” she barked at me “Nein Gas!”

“Oh! so Now you don’t believe in gas??” I muttered darkly.

“Vat?” she barked

“Nothing ! Lets do this…”

And thanks to the largess of my record company paying my insurance I got butchered and lived to puke another show. I was dreaming that I had a show this Friday that I did months ago .I should have be practicing now but I had a sad on that I couldn’t seem to shake. I was opening a fashion parade for my friend Hexy.The Courtney to her Givenchy so to speak….Wishing I had big white angel wings to wear….Then I was in a hotel room in the twisted innards of Sydney with someone who knocked my socks off, too good to be true his plaid shirt like a perspiration soaked puddle on the floor,our intentions illicit….

Ah Dreams! Its safe there and Stevie Nicks wrote the mighty Fleetwood Mac’s only U.S number one hit about them so you know its gold standard all the way ( How do I know shit like that?)

Remember kids.

How much is it going to cost me?

Everybody leaves.

I am a moron.

Enemy.

..ww=3-4–67-begin transmission-..

Due to vulnerability everything is double or nothing.

You have to be careful child.The predators can smell it emanating from your pores and they will come on cloven hooves bearing empty gifts.You will be blinded by the shine,the presentation.Deny them.

Consider yourself warned and arm yourself accordingly.

This is where you have shored up and it is imperative to have the right weapons.The correct protection.A filter.A deep trench filled with feces smeared bamboo spears,upright and waiting.A Kevlar coating.

Pretend that they are speaking in a different language because for all practical purposes of self preservation they are.Sidekicks,almost ran’s who smell distress who want to kiss your ever festering ill disguised wounds with a hot open mouth.The sheen of  your tears brings tumescence and carnal glee.Your vulnerability is their call to arms.They are the cock-lead jackasses that roam your arid plains out for blood.

Your blood,the finest vintage, specifically.

Carnal carrion.They circle endless.

You may as well have a target tattooed on your dermis.This is real and it is lethal.This is what it is and we have no time to talk of a cure.We must speak of strategy and defense.

Human contact will do it,compliments even more so.Interest must be deflected at all costs and trust will never again be an option.Kindness kills. Your need will have a bodycount of one.

You.

The hollow halls inside of you thrum with grief and eye watering petrol fumes.These monsters that come creeping are lit matches and your fuse is so alluring.You will go up like the Overlook hotel so keep them at bay with that colossal intellect and speed racer mouth .Mae West of the boondocks.

Blind them with science and run.

Nothing is worth it as you have by now found out.It would never mean what you wanted it too,not really.You would be too caught up watching yourself watch yourself,watch your self baby because the wolf will not leave your door,he will lean on the bell and drive you mad. And in a damaged way that perversely pleases you.Smarten up and pay attention. Divorce your head from the clouds.Its a miasma that sprays from your soul and lets the monsters know that you are in residence in the Summer palace of heartbreak. The flag need not be raised because they know,they know…..

They watch your every move,shadow your dreams and poison your food.Your life must be lead unassisted by human contact.It is a fatal frailty.

And yet perversely you engage yourself,your shell harder now than ever.In part to prove that you can,to register a victory for the self in light of the failure of a lifetime.But you are terrified of contact yet, like a siren ,you sit on the ragged rocks and sing so sweetly only to have them come and lay tribute at your twitching tail.You want to reject them as you yourself have been rejected.It is petty and predictable. A waste of time spent on other things,on reinforcements.

Ever the human,so fucking fallible.Gives you a  little rush don’t it baby,a little tingle huh? A feminine power trip and you are drunk on it.Tipsy on titillating,teasing the animals ,holding yourself  just out of reach.Active and progressing in the art of artifice recreating your every atom,rejecting age and origin you endlessly tweak and tune the machine and sell it on to the masses.

You flame your own pyre.You die everyday only to rise like the carpenters son once the light hits the mirror and you paint yourself back into existence once again.

Never thought it would feel so good didja? That you cold ,be so very cruel…and you are the reaction to the abysmal actions that were taken against you in the sacred bond of trust.In love.And now your heart is ice and beauty is your god.Your wounds define your actions both taken and thought and this is how it is. So best you make firm friends with it.Your twin,your anemia.She has the right idea ,listen to her,she is smarter than you but there is always room and time to learn ,so forsake your ego and do so.Take her lessons and apply them.She is practical alchemy.Her soul a waste land.There are worse things to aspire to my broken one.

They want to take.To plunder.That is why they are nice.Why they take an interest in you.Flowers and compliments.Dinner invitations and phone numbers.Lies.All lies.They want to violate you with their bodies.Twist you to their desires.To fuck you and then fuck you.And you will do nothing but pay.It will cost you and although the safe is locked it protects air,it is bereft of bounty.But they are not to know that.They see treasures ,a priceless jewel to hang from their ego.They will debase you,undermine you when the lights go down.Break you like a wild horse and hang you out to dry because of their own insecurities.It will all be your fault once again.

You know this is the truth.It always has been.

To all ? You say no.

You refuse as is now your right and your duty.If you do not?

You will die.

..end transmission..3-4-1=wd-7..end transmi..

Store.

My underfed fake Chanel wallet becomes bulimic when I play shows in record stores.

It hurls straight into the register.Honks its plastic innards clean out.

And Repressed Records is a trinket and treasure stuffed mecca for an emotionally stunted, upwardly mobile,amazonian  musical type like myself. I should of gone in wearing blinkers but if I had of done so I would not be writing this dispatch gleefully clad in a Gram Parsons and the Fallen Angels tee-shirt in a shade of navy that makes my eyes glow like cold kerosene dipped Ceylon sapphires.Oh and not to mention the 2 new royally cool Ramones rags to add to my ever growing arsenal of rock tee shirts which,by my rather foggy estimation, is hovering in the late seventies at least in terms of numbers.There was a  muy fetching Stooges number out of my price range giving me the eye as I tuned up my ever faithful old girl and inscribed the date on her chipped hide with a sharpie as I do at every show.

To know where you are going you got to know where you have been……

I had to borrow money off Miss Karen to fund my folly as it was as it was.Mortifying. She just smirked from beneath her platinum bangs and handed over the coin.Bloody buggery Blake and his dammed carols to excess and roads to wisdom and so on.Prick. Do you think he was referring to vinyl,Ozzy dolls and Elvis belt buckles? Please discuss.

Keish opened the show,a whippet thin coffee hued energy source humming with great hair and crafty lyrics.The shop,located in my much despised hamlet of Newtown began filling up with singles lesbian mothers toting their turkey baster miracles on fat government funded hips,tender young punks in brand new doc’s complete with serious eyeliner and lashings of ennui,fauxhemains as slight as the poems they craft in ironic rooms located like afterthought’s at the back of damp share houses ,nicotine stained fingers clutching at damp brown paper bags bursting with long necks of Coopers ale to dull the pain,old fans of all of our collective bands and a gaggle of my laconic and needless to say endearing awesome  and wildly talented friends.

It was packed by the time I got on stage,well ,behind the microphone in the close quarters corner anyway..Me and Blackie unintentionally both wearing tee-shirts that we had gifted upon one another.Mine a harrowing,ever able to offend black and white photo of Ron Ashton in his full Nazi get up ,a forearm locked around Iggy’s dazed and bleeding neck.(“Will you wear this cause you know I wont” he said referring to the swastika around Ron’s arm “You bet your ass I will!” I crowed and snatched it from his bemused hand) . Blackie’s tee-shirt,a weird Japanese number I picked up on one of my fund draining and patience exhausting  kamikaze shopping jags in the gunpowder scented bowels of Chinatown eons ago. It features a a smattering of “Engrish” and a cool picture of John and Yoko. Bearing late Xmas gifts for each other, I squealed with glee at  the Nick Kent book he bestowed on me and he was well chuffed with his Ramones coffee mug being the java aficionado that he is.

And then I am on stage,woefully under-practiced and ill prepared as always but maybe Gram was sending me a little sequin studded, Nudie suited  luck over from the other side.Chris,the kind eyed owner of the store, has constructed a holy place for such rag-tag worshipers as myself who still haven’t and refuse to grow up,who still talk to you based on the tee-shirt that you wear if its a band we like….what else is there to to and give in such times and places other than pray?

I closed my eyes and began.”Amazing grace” always polarizes a room especially when delivered in my broken glass voice.I could not open my eyes and it was amazing.I was crying my black liner tears,lending the occasion a little bit of Alice Copper ambiance and was as unstoppable as a freight train.I had to make light of myself in the end which in a way I kind of regret but it was necessary.It was all a bit heavy.You could have cut the air with a fucking sabre.I closed with a loaded version of my beloved Mr Cash’s “I still miss someone” and when I turned there was a picture of him and Mr Dylan behind me on the wall.You have to smile.

Thank you Elvis and G’night.

I had to bail to work before Blackie was ever half way done,spirited away by my friend Povy in his low slung VW that goes by the charming moniker of “Georgia” .”As in “On my mind?” I asked stuffing my guitar into the serape covered minimal back seat. “Yeah!” he beamed at me as I admired the recently acquired tattoo of a massive  fuck off dagger piercing his neck,collarbone to collarbone as we took off through the  sultry night Chuck Berry saturating the air all around us,sated and cocky with a post show high.

I later heard that a guy fell over and couldn’t get up towards the end of Blackie’s set “Felled by the majesty of your talents” I crowed when we spoke tonight,it being one of the rare occasions that we were both  available to do so. “Nah,I think it was…” I cut him off menacingly brokering no discussion on the matter “Felled by the majesty of your talent” I hissed and he wisely dropped it.

He is off to Tasmania at the end of this week to record and I envy him as I find myself  thinking of doing nothing but.Dave Batty,the non- violent Peter Grant of punk rock has set up some great shows for him in march with some of the slow soaked alumni of the mighty Neurosis which I cannot wait to see.While I was dealing with the dip-shits on the door post- show ,Miss Nina and big brother were letting their hair down at The Cavalera Conspiracy.

“Literally! ” said  Miss Nina as my phone call found her in the back of a car crammed with 6 other like minded pirates making their way back to the cruel and beautiful coast.”I mean,” she continued ” We both took our hair down and…” Here she paused before somberly intoning “Head-banged!” “No !” I gasped “Yes” she replied sounding both happily surprised and a little dazed by the experence “But we didn’t mosh,other peoples sweat and so on,you know.” I chuckled thinking of my brothers Howard Hughes-esqe maneuvers through the germ clad world in which we exist.

My adrenalin kept me bobbing like a high heeled buoy on the alcohol aided tides of yet another Saturday night on Williams street.The club was packed and I was busy.I stopped off in time for my traditional cranberry juice upon knocking off at 4am and then legged it to the station to make my way back to the bunker.

Pay shoved down my boot next to my knife.3 new shirts.A great show.

Heaven enough.

Fallen.

I came back here to die.

Like a dog that gets sick and crawls under the house.(Leave me alone.Don’t look at me.Grrr.)

Quietly and with as little fanfare as possible.

I could lie but whats the point? I mean,what else was there left to do really? My forever had Nagasaki-ed and the fallout was biblical in size. Emotionally and physically unmanageable. No husband,no home,no band,no hope.Exiled from my beloved California and estranged  from all my friends.Ever the pragmatist I knew that the money it would take to get my body back would not be forthcoming so on that last day I knew I was dead and only had to seal the deal.Mission? Get on the plane and deliver corpse.

It was just a question of putting things in order and hopefully being felled by my grief.That way my hands would be kept clean literally and figuratively,you understand?.Sharp things crooned to me at unsociable hours and I danced with the blade making an unholy mess but never delivering the vertical clincher.Just a coward hanging on to see what would happen next… life wouldn’t let me go.Grief is a brute.Physical.I hope never to feel anything so painful again but it will get me  I am sure.It stripped the flesh from my bones and melted my heart clear out of my chest.

And had left scars on my self esteem that will never fade.

Still celibate and alone.Because this is how it is meant to be.How could I ever inflict myself upon another animal in this condition? It would be plain rude and if there is one thing that I just cant abide it is bad manners.Courtesy is big in the south where I originated and thanks to my saint of a mother.

I understand why people do it though,you know,marry a drug and stay faithful to the last.Hurt yourself if you absolutely must but watch the perimeter.Don’t take out the onlookers with your supposed friendly fire.Mind your fallout son.But junkies? Dude,they don’t care,you are nothing but a walk-on part,non-union and below scale and don’t you ever forget it mama.They fake it real pretty until they just cant be bothered no more.I was naive and blinded by the largest love I had ever known to believe otherwise.And I was stupid and did nothing but.

And here I stand on the eve of ten years.Its the markers,the anniversaries that still get me.And I can still remember absolutely everything about that day,from Scotty picking me up that day from the apartment in the shabby converted Victorian mansion that I had hidden myself away in since the demise of The Ranch,to what I was wearing. Getting up on stage with The hard -ons and just destroying a ten minute version of “Suck and Swallow” .And then I met you and I knew.Even though time and circumstance would separate us,I knew. And so did you.

I have decided to flag all festivities.Last year was taxing enough on my ghosts and memories.This year would have cut me off at the knees.I pick my battles.Especially the ones that take place in my undervalued heart and head.2002 and the world was ours.Time runs its course and some days I don’t know how I ended up here,a decade down.I sadly learned the hard way that it is possible to be more alone than you ever imagined while at someones side.When the damaged fall to type and oh-so-predictably damage us we defend them.Shame? Misplaced hope? Embarrassment? Fear? I would say a witches brew of all of the above.It was the poison of derangement and delusion and I drank it down to the bitter last drop.Cast as the savior by my oppressor I was valiant till my smarts stepped in and saved what was left of my tattered life.

Repairing it is akin to being Ray Charles sewing spiderwebs together with a thorn and a thread of baby spit.

And I know that in my absence the cast changes but the  script remains the same.The movie keeps on rolling baby.Knowing this provides scant solace but you take what you can get,mash it into a poultice and apply it to the non-healing wounds that weep sticky rivers of “why?” instead of plasma. This is what you do and you survive.This is what you do as you strap your scarred hands in lead weighted fabric and punch till you are numb to the elbows.This is what you do.You chase sleep like Pamela Des barres hot on the trail of The Beatles on their 1st American tour.You hunt it.You are shameless in your pursuit of the only oblivion available to you.

You shudder as memories assault and batter you.Of what the Hollywood undead deemed normal.They still do and you exist on anger and vengeance on the other side of the planet far from their illegally fueled follies.

Surrounded by friends last night you burned on taurine and laughed ,the post show high not fading in the slightest.This is where you are,where you find yourself for better or worse and it is your duty to shine.

The music mon amour,now and forever………….

It will always be the sounds that bind me and find me when I try to hide.Shared sounds and ones that you dance to alone.The Metro was a sweat-fest of good vibes, conga lines and smiling people with no rhythm,bless them.I saw dear Dave Batty and it lit me up like a roman candle.Blackie texting me from The Rolling Stone awards (“You were robbed!”I furiously write back illuminated by disappointment) ,Lilli by my side swaying on her new vertigo inducing platform boots,Luke rocking his Colonel Sanders facial hair (“I’m too drunk to taste this chicken”) samurai sharp Jen…The cast in my movie such a gift.We hugged and beamed at each other.Many friends and fine greetings and salutations on the way in.I found my way up the stairs to my usual spot,leaning on the wall above the backstage door and proceeded to drown.

El Mariachi Bronx. Songs sent back and forth in secret over oceans. It sounded like all the Quinceaneras and weddings in my old neighborhood.(Crossing the border and sitting in the sun,silver around my brown ankles,turquoise on my fingers,my friends backstroking drunk in icy margaritas the size of swimming pools,dogs mean and cunning,hungry on dusty streets and shadowy churches full of ghosts and saints,sunspots blinding me in the transition from light to dark…. ) You send songs to people for a reason.To say something. Hence mix-tapes.Duh.You want the receiver to read into the lyrics.Music says all the things that you wish you could so one chooses wisely,hopes that they will be interpreted correctly and sends them on their way.

Fallen.Remember?

And as the sweet nylon strings,tamed by talented fingers of the original tobacco blonde dripped honey in my rock abused ears of 1001 and one nights and my feet did their stomping bad-ass thing in brown leather high heeled boots purchased in lieu of a weeks worth of food on the Reeperbahn in Hamburg back when I was a rockstar girl the first time around,I thought of my lost losing themselves over and over again on the most terrible loops as the horns cut through the thick air and fluttered, flirting brassy with my sternum beneath my sweat soaked tee shirt. Magnolias dropping onto the streets of Hollywood,orange capped rigs like sleeping vipers and fat teeners,hustlers long past their used by dates waiting on the corner with haggard faces and missing toes,the yellow walls of the pawn shop melting in slow motion under the relentless summer sun,the hum and drip of the overworked air-conditioner in our window.What I wouldn’t give to go home again,before it all turned to shit, and sit once more whispering all my secrets to Dee-Dee’s granite headstone,my fingers drawing circles in the grass six cold feet above what is left of his earthly remains.Writing in my journal as the sun went down so in love at last……

I have stood on the stage that my eyes are seeing though a make up destroying veil of tears right now.I have played on it and triumphed.I smile thinking about how thrilling it feels when people ask me what I am up to.

“Well” I grin “I am in a new band!”

And I am and it thrills me to my jaded core.A second chance that I never imagined would befall me.I find myself whispering it to my silver shadowed reflection in the train window as we race through the tunnels connecting the airport line to the city.”Dog eat dog” thumps though my headphones and I shiver with gratitude at the unforseen and unexpected miracle of it all.

I came here to die and I didn’t and now I am in a new band,recording my solo project and playing a show with Blackie again this weekend.Lilli reminds me that Sharon and Ozzy love each other and wanted it to work and that is why it did. Same with Johnny and June.I am shit out of arguments. I have failed and lost.I put my feet up on my long dead great grandmothers coffee table and silently bow to defeat.

Elvis,I have to admit and I mean no disrespect,some days I don’t know why you didn’t call me home to heaven but I know that in all of your white jump-suited,blue suede,black leather 68′ singer comeback special glory,that you always have a plan and I trust in that when I am in no shape or form to trust myself.

I just hope it involves and Ampeg endorsement.