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.

Cadaver.

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

“I so would have dated Joey Ramone.”

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

She has a point.

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

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

“Or Lester….”

“Anyone alive?” said the redhead

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

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

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

(“No capes!”)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bet on it.

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

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

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

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

Sigh.Life is sweet.

Flaw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loathsome.

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

Get to it then.

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

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

Fuck them all.

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

I only just make it to the bathroom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am a novitiate to noise.Sister Michele.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was all ho-hum after that until…..

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

( Bloody Pavlov…..)

He was physical reminder.

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

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

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

And now you are gone.

And I remain flawed in the absence of your company.

Verb.

I have shit to do.

Michele is a verb.A doing word.

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

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

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

Barf.

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

Shit.

Hence the absolute abortion of an attempt at making a list

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

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

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

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

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

So much for laundry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is that.

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

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

Oh quel moody!

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

Viva la solo album Miss M….

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

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

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

So there.

Anyway…..

Who needs a list when you have a gun?

Shimmer.

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

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

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

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

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

My life,the social experiment.Behold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmmmmmm?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Melancoliques pelerins,-

Jusqu’,a cette heure dont la fuite

Tournoie au son des tambourins.) *

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

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

See.

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

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

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

Just low and blue.And exhausted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So…..

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

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

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

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

Nice.

I meander to my in-box and…….

Oh? You remembered who I am?

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

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

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

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

Well.

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

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

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

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

Oh well……

Elle a du chien.

Avec  moi.

Heartbreaker.

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

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

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

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

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

I am cactus.

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

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

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

Kill me now.It is for my own good.

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

I am going to join a fucking convent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Observe.

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

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

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

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

Typical.

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

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

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

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

Naturally.

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

Sigh.

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

You are your own forever.Deal with it.

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

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

That was then and this is now.

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

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

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

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

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

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