Award.

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

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

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

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

Can I get an amen?.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The threads and the tune.

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

Sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About fucking time says I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Feeling good is good enough.”

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

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

I am a happy camper.