Don’t Know How Much Longer I Can Take NYC

So today it was nice out and I decided to take the dog for a walk. 
I was strolling down Avenue A between 6th and 7th, carrying the damn dog because there were so many people on that block, and rambling on my cell happily to my boyfriend Drew. All of a sudden I’m rammed from the side by an overfed NYU type running down the street with a pack of her friends. They’re all giggling and thinking they’re being really cute and so wild and crazy banging into people as they run.

No apology, no shouts of “Sorry!” Just acting like they’re the cleverest things that ever had a drink in the afternoon.

So, my dog, who is a neurotic mess and has these weird gagging seizures whenever he gets stressed out, gets all upset because he just got slammed into, and starts gagging. And I, being myself, immediately react angrily and start screaming, “You fat, fucking NYU skank, you think it’s funny to ram into people, yuppie fucking, fucking bitch!! You fucking BITCH!!”

You get the picture, just cursing and nearly inarticulate and completely insane. I can tell two of the people in front of me are friends of the running girls because they sort of giggle sheepishly to themselves, which just makes me madder and I continue to yell like a crazy person while my dog gags and squirms and Drew is quiet on the other end of the phone waiting for me to calm down. He is used to my outbursts. One time I was talking to him and had to pause to beat the side of a car with the phone. But that’s another story.

So then the whole group of giggling, annoying, yuppie fuckheads swing into Niagara, which is owned by someone I am very close to, and this makes me even madder. If I’d had another person with me I would have handed them the dog and ran in and shoved the bitch across the room, thereby instigating a totally unnecessary afternoon bar brawl.

I know that my reaction was a little nutty, but I FUCKING HATE THESE PEOPLE. They own my neighborhood now, they’ve taken over my building and are the people that populate the streets I walk on and the bars I visit my friends in. They clog up my world with their stupid sense of entitlement and lack of imagination and there’s nothing I can do about it except act like a lunatic on the street periodically.

So I really think I am ready to leave NYC. I am just not sure how to go about it and where to go. LA, maybe, but honestly I don’t know if I can take being around all that plastic. My friend Shelley is always telling me to move there, but he loves hookers and and Pam Anderson wanna-bes A LOT. Me, not so much. But I can’t take New York anymore.

From the time I was a little kid I knew I wanted to live here, and when I got here it was just the greatest place in the world, and it continued to be great for many years. But now it is jam-packed full of the same kind of people I left back home. I didn’t mind living in a tiny little box because when I left the apartment there was a wonderful, creative, fun world outside my door. The East Village was full of people I wanted to get to know, there was a real community of freaks here.

Now I still live in a box, but when I get outside there are only these hideous, horrible people who actually think they’re really hip. And you and I know they are anything but. And there are tons of them! So I am announcing to the Universe that I am ready for a change. Maybe not immediately, but soon, within the next couple of years, I am going to have to find a new way to live. Hopefully a way that includes larger living quarters and a yard of some sort so my retarded dog can stroll unmolested by drunken NYU students. Any suggestions will be gladly considered.

Advertisements

On Beauty One More Time

After writing that first blog on beauty I was overwhelmed by the messages I got and have been meaning to post a follow-up since then…

I was very surprised that pretty much everyone who had something to say feels or has felt essentially the same way. We have all, even the most physically beautiful of the people I heard from, felt less than, humiliated, hurt or just unworthy at certain times because we didn’t feel attractive enough. Isn’t that crazy?? Especially when I think of how many gorgeous people I know.

I was horribly sick recently and it really put things into perspective as well. It was the worst flu I have had in a long time, with a sore throat so bad that swallowing brought tears to my eyes and made my ears ache. I was only able to crawl from the bed to the couch and back again for four days, completely weak and totally uncomfortable. It was misery! So this made me think about how lucky I am to be the healthy person that I usually am.

All of this beauty stuff is completely moot when your health isn’t there and I am going to try to give my body a little more love for being strong and carrying me every day instead of constantly examining it for flaws. I get so focused on the little stupid things at times that I forget to look at the big picture. Millions of people have bodies that are uncomfortable to be in or don’t work properly, or they have lost their families to genocide, or live in abject poverty. I am healthy and relatively affluent compared to much of the world. What right do I have to fester over minor details?

And then I read the most amazing quote by a life coach named Martha Beck: “The longing to be beautiful is fundamentally a longing to be free from shame.” How brilliant is THAT? And the other quote I loved is from James, who says that if you REALLY look at someone, you realize everyone is beautiful.

If you follow that first train of thought, then, what we really need to strive for instead of beauty, is shamelessness. When we’re really young we don’t have the filter to accept or reject what people say to and about us, we just accept it all and suffer the pain of that rejection.

But we are adults now, and have a choice. We can choose to surround ourselves with people who support us and then we can be shameless about who we are, and shameless about admitting our fears and insecurities. I am noticing that it is extremely freeing to just be honest about my own neuroses and sorrows, because the people in my life respond in kind. And then instead of feeling shitty about myself I get to feel happily connected to someone else. And isn’t that the whole point of being in these bodies anyway?

As for the second train of thought, I did a little experiment with myself and spent a day looking for beauty in every person I passed on the street. This is not an easy experiment for a misanthrope like myself, but it was really interesting, and I suggest you try it. I tried to be objective and look at humans the way I do dogs, because to me every dog I see on the street is gorgeous, no matter how ratty or fat or mongrel.

And it worked—I started to see that every single person had something, at least one thing, beautiful about them. Then after a short time of doing that I started feeling very open and happy, instead of the usual hating everyone and wondering if they got dressed in the dark. When you really look at people as individuals you stop comparing each person to the ridiculous standards we have come to accept as real and just see the interesting and lovely in each person’s face.

Those magazine standards just aren’t real and I don’t want to hang onto them anymore. There is a biological breeding imperative which naturally leans towards the symmetrical, but other than that, all that other stuff we take as truth because we see it in the media is just commercial sales. It’s airbrushing and some person that I don’t know or care about deciding that thin and tall or very, very young is the only kind of physicality that deserves love. So then we feel ashamed and unworthy because we don’t fit that mold, and we buy all sorts of products to try to get closer to that ideal.

And I’ll probably always buy the damn products because I know I’m just one moisturizer away from a perfect life, but I really, really want to stop buying the bullshit. It only supports a tiny fraction of the world population, and it definitely doesn’t support me or you in any kind of honest or loving way. It doesn’t even support the girls photographed with the products, really.

So I got a very freeing lesson with that last blog, I came clean about something fairly minor and got interesting information and some deep human connection in return. So I am all about being truthful these days. Truth equals beauty, forgiveness equals beauty, an open heart brings us beauty. And I know this entry is a little corny but I wanted to tell you that, and to tell you how grateful I am for everything you guys had to say on the subject.


In the Don’t Try This at Home Category

Especially after that last blog, you’d think I’d be old enough know better: 
Took a half a xanax at the beginning of the night on Saturday, something I very rarely do. I am generally an alcohol and Advil kind of girl. But what the hell. So Motorhead was great, as usual, except they had to leave the stage for a few minutes midway because of annoying sound problems. Also, the set was short and it was so crowded we stayed in the back and felt a little removed. 

I went backstage for a minute but didn’t see Lemmy and the crew because there was a wait and I didn’t want to be a selfish jerk and make my friends wait outside in the cold.

My favorite part of the evening (what I can remember): Harlequinn saying “Hookers! I see hookers everywhere!” Ain’t it the truth, sister!

But then afterwards, all happy and full of rock and roll, went to Niagara and started drinking shots of tequila, completely forgetting about the xanax. Suffice to say I have absolutely no recollection of the second half of the evening. I do remember someone saying, “You’re drunk!”, which of course I most indignantly denied.

I woke up in full makeup (including eyelashes), jewelry in the sheets, behind the bed, under the pillow, clothing in a trail from the door. My bf came in panicked and said, “Why did I sleep on the couch? Did we have a fight?” Nope, we had a major lapse in judgement and that’s where he passed out, in his clothes.

Somewhere in the mayhem I lost my bank card and driver’s license, so I spent the afternoon in a haze searching for them, then gave up and got a manicure, practically nodding out in the middle. Chinese nail lady: “You so tired!!” Um, yes, working so hard you know…

If you were anywhere near me Saturday night between midnight and 3 am, I do apologize.

But–in the My Boyfriend Rocks category: Last night a gunning female fan tried to pull off one of his rings (he is famed drummer extraordinaire Drew Thomas), and he stopped her, saying, “Don’t. My girlfriend gave that to me.” To which she responded: “Your girlfriend scares me.” And he said, “Yep. She is scary. My girlfriend is BAD ASS.” That’s right, bitch. Get your hands off my man or I might wreck you and not remember it in the morning.

On Beauty

Myspace has me thinking a lot about women and beauty this week.

I am fascinated by the different ways that women present themselves on this site. First, there are the porn types, who all have thousands of friends and most likely some major childhood sexual abuse lurking under the surface. These girls are only interesting for the gross-out factor.

Then there are the pin-up girls. I blame the Pussycat Dolls and Dita Von Teese for this bunch. This is an aesthetic that I really love, but lately it seems that every chick with a half decent ass and a friend with a camera is bending over in front of a jukebox. Many of them, when you look closely, are not really that cute and most of the ladies on this current bandwagon just seem a little desperate for attention.

In the third category are girls like me–and most likely you, if you are my friend and reading this–posting flattering pictures of themselves that may or may not be sexy but are not completely sexualized. We want you to see us as attractive and desireable but we’re not so desperate for your love that we’ve changed our last name to Tequila and shoved our boobs into the camera.

And lastly are the girls that just don’t give a shit and post goofy or ugly photos on purpose. I like those girls and their lack of vanity, or maybe, their vanity in a different direction.

It is interesting to me how we all create a persona on here and then elaborate upon that persona with photos, lists, descriptions, demands and blogs. And the majority of girls/women, myself included, want to paint a physically beautiful persona. I know that what I am presenting to the world through this page is the facet I want you to see. It is me, but it’s not the whole truth of who I am.

When I was a preteen and teen, up until the age of 16, I wore very thick glasses and was so shy I was unable to speak to anyone outside my immediate circle. I was a very goofy looking kid, a total egghead, and all I wanted to do was hide out in the house and read. My dad used to look at me sadly and say, “Don’t you have any parties you want to go to?”

One time I was walking down the hall in school and noticed two boys at their lockers looking intently at me as I walked by. As I got close one of them sneered and said to me: “Dog…” I was crushed by the cruelty of it, and I realized at that moment that there were two different worlds, the world of light for pretty girls and the world of invisibility or scorn for the ugly ones.

For women, beauty is way, way more important than for men. It helps a man in this world, but it doesn’t dictate who he is. A man’s worth is measured by what he achieves, his money, his power, his fame. A woman can achieve these things too but she will always be judged on her looks as well. An ugly man with money and fame can always have a beautiful woman. The opposite is not as true.

I think that’s why there aren’t really male groupies the way there are female, either. Women get a lot of power and status through who they can attract, men who are primarily good looking without their own power or status are not valued in the same way. I know these are generalizations, and they may be changing, but I believe them to be true.

So anyway, I got contact lens for my 16th birthday and grew out a very short haircut and bought some new clothes. Some people in school thought I was new, and one day shortly thereafter I was walking through a parking lot and heard someone whistle. I thought, “Why do people have to be so mean?”

I was so upset at being mocked, but when I went home I sat down in front of the mirror and scrutinized myself. After about 15 minutes of just staring I realized with a shock that I was actually not that bad, and maybe the whistle was for real. It was like the clouds parted, and my life changed from that day on.

My very close friend and ex Jesse used to always say that one of the things that he really liked about me was that I wasn’t constantly trying to prove that I was smart, like the other girls he dated always did. I said it was because I never had to bother proving that I was smart. It was the pretty part that took some work to get to!

So now fast forward through many years of being the hot girl in the room, or at least one of the hot girls in the room. It has become a major portion of my identity, and it is the currency that I deal in. It is not my only currency, but it is a major source of funding and probably my favorite. I am used to being treated a certain way because of the way I look. Any pretty woman who tells you otherwise is lying. But I am reaching an age where I am being forced to really think about what this means, and what it means to me.

I am genetically fortunate and have a good maintenance routine. I look younger than I am, and the gym is my friend. But I am not 20 and I can see that my face is changing. I know that the day will come soon when I will have to step out of the race. I work with a girl of about 22 who is absolutely, drop dead gorgeous and I can see myself become invisible to certain people when we are both standing in the room. It doesn’t bother me because the people that pay attention to her are unimportant to me, but it always reminds me that I am currently morphing into a different species.

And that is absolutely terrifying to me. Who am I if I am not beautiful? I’ve been on the other side and I don’t want to go back there. I have always had moments of panic over this, and during one I tattooed the word “beautiful” on my inner arm. It is to remind me that everything is okay, I am okay, life is beautiful, we are all beautiful, there is nothing to fear in our own imperfections and we are indeed beautiful with those imperfections. Nearly every woman I meet gets it immediately while a lot of men don’t. Which is not to discredit the wonderful men in the world, it’s simply to say that they don’t live with the situation in the same way that we do.

I have great sympathy for those aging plastic surgery nightmares you see in high end boutiques like the one I work in. It just never works–they don’t look young, they’re just old ladies with pulled faces, usually with those trannie lips that no one buys for a second. Some of them have great bodies and they try on completely inappropriate clothing and pose in front of the mirror, pouting and pulling their heads back to get the best angle. They usually flirt with the one straight boy we have in the store and he humors them for the sale.
 

I think these women just weren’t able to make the transition and develop a different character to take the place of the pretty girl they once were. So there they are, desperately trying to remain still while their body continues to change. Maybe they were beautiful from day one and never had any reason to develop any character or skill. Then one day they woke up from the dream and the surgery began.

They are laughable and tragic but lately I am understanding where they are coming from. I am closer to them than I like to readily admit, but not so close that I can’t write about it with a sense of humor. I am starting to believe that growing up an unattractive kid was not such a bad thing after all, because it’s given me enough character and depth to avoid becoming one of those women. And I won’t go down without a fight.

But I don’t want this whole myspace thing to be about presenting a flat surface of who I want people to think I am. Otherwise it’s pointless and there’s too much of that out there already. So I’m putting some realness out there tonight for ya. We’re all beautiful, we’re all ugly. We all get old. In the end we just are who we are, lovely in our imperfection and maybe the better for it.

Auntie Raff’s How to Screw Around with Rock Stars

Ladies, Ladies, LADIES…

I am watching you younger nymphs flail around like gasping fish in the air, and it is simply not pretty. A little dignity, please! I am out of the game and have been for quite some time, but if you will, allow me to bestow the benefit of experience upon you with a few tried and true rules of the playing field. Mama is here to set you pretty things straight:

1. Do not, upon first hooking up with your rock star, keep repeating things like, “Oh my God, I NEVER do things like this!” or “Oh, gosh, I just cannot believe I’m doing this! It’s so unlike me, you know, I’m not a GROUPIE or anything!!” He has heard this a million, trillion times and believed it never, and it makes you look disingenuous.

2. If you have just wrangled yourself a shiny new rock star at a show or afterparty or random bar and the two of you go back to his hotel room, don’t get all comfy after the act and plan on spending the whole night unless he totally begs you. And that means begs for real, not the begging you are imagining in your brain as you lay there pretending he wants you to stay while all signs point otherwise. Is he yawning and channel surfing as you natter on about never having done this before? This means it is time to put your leather pants back on and scram.

Added incentive: picture the morning walk of shame, hair flat and makeup crusty, past gathered band members, management and crew as they collect themselves to move on to the next town. Hear the rhythm of your nighttime heels in the lobby carpet as you run this grueling gauntlet. Those shoes are whispering, “She’s a whore, she’s a whore, she’s a whore…” SO much classier to give him a big smooch on the cheek, say “Laters, Handsome”, and grab a cab in the safety and cover of darkness. If you want, write your number in lipstick on a napkin and toss it on the dresser. He will be much more inclined to use it if you’re not trying to force a 5 am cuddle.

3. If you like one guy in the band, but another member is hitting on you, don’t go for the second one in the secret hope of being able to hang out and get closer to the first. You may actually get a chance to hook up with the one you really like this way, but it will pit the two against each other, and you will lose. They will hate each other for about two minutes, then they will make up, do that slapping guy hug, and turn on you like rabid dogs. The band is always more important than your continued presence, Darling. Their roadies will hate you, their tour manager will definitely hate you because you will have caused him or her the additional stress of feuding bandmates, and you will always be the slut both band members joke about as bonding bros.

Also, keep in mind that all guys on the road talk with other guys on the road. So if you hook up with another completely separate rock star some other time, the first ones may have had the opportunity to fill in number three about what a tramp you were when they were in town. Trust me on this one, it is both painful and humiliating.

4. Don’t get all nutty and get engaged to the nearest rock star on the spur of the moment just to piss off your ex. This one might just be me, though…

5. If you are in an exclusive spot at your rock star’s show, like at the side of the stage or in the sound board area, don’t flail around like an ass trying to make sure everyone sees you. You know those girls, they display their backstage pass as prominently as possible and wave frantically at their friends while hampering the stage techs’ ability to work. Or they squeal too loudly at people they know and hang over the sound booth wall. Or even worse are those girls that keep edging out from the side of the stage to make sure they can be seen from the audience. Nobody likes this girl and no one thinks she’s cool. They came to see the band, not your groupie ass.

6. Don’t assume you are the only one unless he actually tells you so and you have had more time than one drunken night to assess his honesty. Think about all the hot girls that were in the room the first time you met him. Now multiply that amount by the number of cities he is playing on his tour. And then picture yourself in the same position: if you had that many attractive men available to you who weren’t going to run into each other, wouldn’t you enjoy the company of more than one?

7. Tell your close friends and co-workers everything, but keep your trap shut with the rest of the world. It only makes you look like an insecure bimbo if you keep bringing it up in casual party conversation or posting it on message boards to prove to total strangers that you can pull a famous guy. A true rock and roll babe doesn’t need to advertise her connections.

8. Lastly, and most importantly, show some discretion. Just because a guy has a record deal doesn’t mean he is automatically worthy of your gorgeous naked body. Think Anita Pallenberg as opposed to Sweet, Sweet Connie. I can’t emphasize this one enough, ladies! Class, not crass!! Okay! Heads up, boobs out, stomachs in—now get out there and have some fun… Oh, and if you like metal guys and want to see how other girls rate them (or if you just find things like this entertaining), check out Donna Anderson’s Penis Chart on Metal Sludge: http://www.metalsludge.tv/main/index.php?module=subjects&func=viewpage&pageid=381

10 Signs That We re in the Decline of Western Civilization

Please feel free to add your own as these are off the top of my head…

1. George Bush: You know I have to head the list with him.

2. Gina Gershon: 5 words—Prey For Rock & Roll. Um, eeuw.

3. Ashleigh Simpson: Just how much TV time does she need to download our souls?

4. Jamie Kennedy in Son of the Mask.

5. Jennifer Lopez: Luckily that weasely looking rebound husband of hers is keeping her down.

6. Hip hop and all its bloated and overpaid denizens: There, I’ve said it, someone had to and you know it’s true. Seemed like a good idea when Run DMC and Aerosmith were rubbing noses, plus Missy Elliott is amazing and I love when Busta Rhymes shoves his face in the camera and shouts “Woo Ha!” But overall it’s just ruined both black and white culture completely. Take a look at Wattstax next time it’s on IFC and tell me that black culture wasn’t a million times cooler pre hip hop.

7. Victoria Gotti and her monkeyboy offspring: Low IQ’s anyone? Their hairlines are in the middle of their foreheads for God’s sake. Which leads me to…

8. Reality shows: Although I will admit that I watch America’s Next Top Model, because it’s fun to watch wannabe models torture each other and Tyra Banks is such a raging egomaniac that I can’t wait to hear what stupid thing is going to come out of her mouth next. I sometimes wonder if she might be the seventh sign (the Guf!).

9. Good Charlotte. Okay, maybe I’m just padding out the list with this one, but they do annoy the hell out of me.

10. Our overall obsession and glorification of all things plastic: everyone has to be pretty to have value now, and our deities are celebrities. We worship at the altar of surface and our culture suffers mightily for it. Would Janis Joplin have any kind of real success if she was starting out today? Think about it.

Okay now you give me yours…

We are Motorhead and We’re Gonna KICK YOUR ASS

OMG, March is going to RAWK!! Motley Crue is playing, then Motorhead, then Queens of the Stone Age!! I may have to bust out some stretch vinyl for the first show, and the second two will just feature a lot of hopping up and down with glee.

Okay, now I don’t want all these blogs to be tired old walks down memory lane, because I actually do have a life now. But since I put up the tattoo blog a few people have been sending messages asking what it was like to tour with Motorhead, and since they’re playing NYC soon, I thought I’d do up a little report for ya…

HOW I SPENT MY MOTORHEAD TOUR
Europe 1991

We sucked majorly at Hammersmith in London on the first night, petrified girls hiding behind mikes in front of the not very enthused few people who showed up early (possibly accidentally) and various people we were hoping to impress, including one fairly famous in London ex-boyfriend who I had screwed up with so badly a year prior that I know he was secretly pleased to see such a deserved and humiliating crash and burn. But Lemmy came backstage immediately afterwards to give us some pointers on how not to suck (“Walk to the front of the stage once in a while, ladies…”).

Spent every single night of the tour standing at the side of the stage waving a beer and shouting to other band members: “Oh my God!! We’re on tour with MOTORHEAD!!”

A case of Boilermakers in a can ended up on our bus—beer with a shot of whiskey already added. In a can! So convenient! This concoction was considered too foul even by Motorhead’s crew and so they very kindly donated the case to us. Spent days weaving down the aisle of the bus with these cans in my hand, swearing “Theesh arn s’bad, rilly!” Not surprisingly, we all developed a great tolerance for strong European beer, plus a penchant for vodka and Red Bull, which was not yet available in the States and enabled one to continue drinking well into the night.

One of the many dubious results of our newly developed alcoholism was that our makeup got thicker and more ornate as time went on, until by the end of the tour we were drawing great eyeliner lines up towards our eyebrows like Divine.

Motorhead chipped in and got us hotel rooms when we couldn’t afford them. How often does a headlining band do that for their openers?

A week into the tour and in a completely Spinal Tap moment, we received the first copies of our CD, which turned out to have a photo of a naked male ass on the cover. Yes, a naked male ass. To which Venus could only shriek, over and over: “Oh my God! There’s an ass on our record cover! There’s an ASS on our record cover!! THERE’S AN ASS ON OUR RECORD COVER!!!”

Fell head first and stark naked out of the top bunk of the tour bus (in front of everyone—band and crew) and cut my head open, thus garnering the title of Official Bunk Diving Champion. Alcohol was rumored to have played a part in the fall.

Every time we got near a phone we would prank call my sister over and over again. To which she responded, “Are you guys so uncool that the only thing you have to do is spend all your money prank calling me all the way from Europe??” Well, um, yes, actually.

Before entering the Nordic countries we wrote out a list of appropriate phrases and their translations to carry with us, such as, “Do you think I’m hot?”, “How old are you?”, “Get rid of your girlfriend”, and “My room number is…”

Honey 1 Percenter (She Wolf on myspace!) got some fabulously dirty notes from Philthy, who had very ingeniously affixed a small fan to a hanger and often wore it around his head for cooling purposes. We surmised that it assisted him in the creative writing process as well.

Had gentle and loving caterers who fed us with great care and talent. As a result of this and the previously mentioned alcohol consumption, we put on a few pounds, to which Lemmy was often heard to comment, “Girls, lay off the catering table already, will ya?”

Members of Motorhead often took an overnight bag and rode on our bus for the long trips, which was great fun. They always outlasted the girls in party mode and often complained that we weren’t putting out the way Girlschool did. On these nights Lemmy was particularly fond of singing his lyrics into my ear, which was handy for discovering which songs I’d been singing the wrong words to all those years.

Got sick one night and vomited in front of the bus headlights as famed guitar tech extraordinaire Depford John was walking by. He shoved his hand in the vomit and waved it in my face and shouted “Rooowwrrrr!” This prompted me to vomit again but was very impressive nonetheless.

Motorhead was filmed at a show in Munich for a documentary which was released a few years later. Munich hated us and pelted us with hard candy (got it in the forehead, thanks a lot, fucking Munich!), to which members of Motorhead responded most gallantly by wearing as much CSFH gear as possible when they got on stage. The film’s director was a sexist and demented creep, so when he filmed a bit where the girls came onstage and pretended to play sax during the MH set he edited it to only show our boobs and butts. But every shot of MH features another piece of Slut swag.

Got a really crappy spur of the moment tattoo at Hanky Panky in Amsterdam. The guy who did it dug so hard the whole thing scarred up. Later that night Motorhead cancelled the show because the Paradiso didn’t put a stage extension on as previously requested. Fans mini-rioted, burning t-shirts and shouting very nasty things and we had to sneak out of the club with our heads covered. Since this was the last night of the tour our wonderful caterers made a celebratory hash cake, which we (of course) promptly consumed while waiting to see if the show was going to happen. As a result I fuzzily stalled out mid-escape to stand in the middle of the melee and watch dreamily, until a Dutch friend dragged me out of the fray before I was spotted. Spent the rest of the night in the hotel bar unable to form sentences.

Philthy was given some trouble when we came from France back into the UK for some videos he had purchased in a dubious Dutch entertainment establishment. The police brought drug dogs on our bus and the dogs sniffed the bus kitchen table quite a bit, because even though we’d wiped it in a panic, let’s face it we were wasted slobs at that point and there was residue left behind from two months of rampant drug abuse. But they finally left and we breathed a sigh of relief, able to live to ruin our bodies with chemicals and alcohol for another day.

And then sadly, sadly we bid the boys adieu and teetered onto the plane home, back to NY to dry out and get dropped by our label before the record ever got released in the states. C’est la vie… But lastly, I am happy and proud to report that I am mentioned as a crush in Lemmy’s autobiography (page 232!), not by name, but at least I know it’s me, goddamnit. And now you do, too. Love on ya, rock and rollers!