Scorpio.

My Bass is looking at me funny.

And not like “Oh Fu-nny haha!” either.

If she had an eyebrow it would be arched. She would tell me ,had she a mouth, that she is not angry with me ,oh no, merely disappointed….

So dignified is she at the end of my bed silently chiding me for lack of application. Ever since the Scorpio  full moon of last week I have felt like King Kong has been using me as a fuck toy.

But my internal compass is true and Elvis has been guiding my intentions and instinct with a steady gold dipped hand.

I / the royal “We” meaning Los Hombres Del Diablo  have a show next week and I/ we are trying valiantly to get all the hermanos  into one spot so that we can get right before we do it all over in public (“Oh-er missus! ) again. I am writing granted, but without the sounds? I need the electricity or I can’t feel it.

Kind of like when I forget to plug my vibrator in…..

Getting back to my bass? She has the vapors because that means that Saint Cecilia is on hold for another week. Marcus will be back up soon as Looking Glass are supporting  John Gracia’s Unida. Looks like me and the desert will always be running side by side somehow….sigh.

Who am I kidding? It’s not just that. I really miss the pleasure of their company.Love being with my band. And flashing my ass at Nathan while he tries and fails not to crack up.

(  “I always know when you have dropped your pants ” said Mal laconically. “Oh yeah how?” I said  “’cause Nathan is grinning like a half wit when I turn around”. “Fair enough. Now who wants a beer?” replies she-who-knows-when-she-is beat “…..)

The magic that sound brings. It’s such an ephemeral thing like most of the sweetest things tend to be. And I am a glutton. And a total putz for not having my shit together. What in  the hell happened to this week anyway?  Feels like I hardly knew ya at all ol’ buddy ,ol’pal…..(*hick!*)

I spoke to Mal tonight for all of a very fraught two minutes as he was wrangling his hyperactive fuck trophies ,of whom I am inordinately and wildly fond, through Rebel Sports in search of soccer paraphernalia. ” I said I will see you tomorrow!” I barked as I heard something large falling over in the background and the connection was abruptly severed . I cannot for the life of me remember any of our songs.

And I wrote the fucking things.

Keep in mind that at the last show when I ran out of lyrics I announced that I was going for a slash mid set, did so and still found time to yell at the sound guy and get my date a bottle of suds on my way back to the stage.

( He told me that he had a half brother. I laughed. Whats so funny? he asked. That I thought of Johhny Eck when you said half I replied. He smiled and I swooned….)

This is why I want to be a little more up to speed this round.

Remind me to go and pick up my boots tomorrow if you would be so kind. I imagine someone asking me what my day consists of and saying “Why ! Going to the cobbler and falconry naturally .” is definitely in my top ten lists of fucking rad answers. Saint Tina tells me that when going shopping with me in my’ hood that she feels like she is with The Godfather….

( Falconry??#4@@$??)

Last I heard that wanton woman was in Boston spending my fast dwindling inheritance. The minx. She skyped me. I don’t even have fucking Skype! I mean honestly?!! She comes over to show me pictures of her beloved grandson and therefore my nephew JT on her I-pad tablet thing. Meanwhile I am still trying to get the bonfire in the backyard started so that I can signal the closer dwelling members of my band my available practice times.

( “Awww…you still used Cd’s! ” he smiled upon spotting the stacks of silver discs littering my Persian rug clad floor. Gah!)

The casualty rate in life when it comes to one’s feelings is heinous .Loyalty is never at a premium. Like duh?  Shocked? No. No I can’t say that I really am. It’s my usual chestnut I guess, going back to having no expectations and therefore never being disappointed. All that they love you for in the beginning they will dispose of you for in the end. Civilians marauding as contenders have always resented my ability to parlay my scant and at times obscure skills to exist and get compensated for being naught but my leggy and fat pouted self. But the loss of such faithfully served folly?

Severance of course.

I guess I have to look at it like Titanic packed with shit remixes sailing into the distance. Pene ante bullshit. Beware of the omega bitches of both genders and know that high school never ends.

Not that I am any kind of expert on the high school experience as we all know.

It was a gas and now I must aim for the green light at the end of the dock once again. Onto bigger and better things. My enemy’s will fail. Not that I will notice as I will be too busy observing myself succeed. Miss Harlem and I call each other “Budgie” when ever we pass a reflective surface. Us big haired babes just can’t waste a free peek.

I can taste the violence before it erupts you know….Smell it. I try and temper mine and succeed more than I fail. ( Somewhere my psychiatrist just got a boner and doesn’t know why…)

The furies are female. War is a girl. Death looks like a pornstar. She sits like a queen on the wind and she wants my allegiance proven once again.

It’s that and my weight that I must battle forever.

(Soundtrack this evening? Only Neil Young can get away with those Kermit the frog notes. Amphibian in Flannel…..)

Thinking about throwing some more Johnny Cash and Mr Young into my set for mine and Blackie’s triumphant return to the tiny front window at the Mars Hill cafe in Parramatta. I think big brother has a solo show on Sunday. I will be in the studio thrashing about with Los Diablos as we have that show next Thursday that I was banging on about a few paragraphs back.

Speaking of shows….I will be picking up my payment for a show that I did at The Standard a week ago tomorrow. Let me tell you a fable…..

Somewhere in the dusty vaults of the inter-webs there is a fantastic picture of your humble scribe *cough* looking like a back lit version of The Predator. All dreadlocks,Nailbomb tee-shirt and lashings of fuck off. It was taken at my most beloved Annandale Hotel many moon’s ago by a young Turk by the name of Nick Bezzina.  As I did what may be the world’s longest and most indulgent sound check in a lofty space high above Oxford St in a building that was once a ritzy funeral home ( Muchos gracias  to Hugh the sound-guy.) Nick informed me as he uncurled a giant transparency and lovingly taped it to a huge light box, that that long ago night was the first show he had ever shot.

Bless.

I finally downed my guitar and offered to help as the doors were due to open shortly.

I hastily blue tacked snapshots to a fake brick wall next to the women’s crapper and maybe slid a few of the doubles into my bag. Who can really say? Oh ok! So I did! What are you gonna do? Call the fucking fun police? Lighten up!

After all…it’s only rock’n’roll but we like it, like,it yes we do……

Three perfect high resolution black and white shots of darling Iggy looking like a leather handbag with a heartbeat. In fact , I am raiding the two dollar shop tomorrow for frames so I can mount *ahem* said pilfered pictures above my bed and offer prayers and promises to them nightly before the pills kick in and the light goes out

He possesses the most amazing eye and work. I lamented that we had never really been in the same place long enough to set up a shoot and that this was his last bacchanal  before leaving for shitty old London.

“Ew! Why London?” asked Queen Snot perched on a silver stool languidly tuning her bodacious blond git-fiddle.

“Two year working visa ” intoned the sage shutter bug.

Fair enough.

Kind enough to let me open the event with my very,shall we say special brand of acoustic butchery, he said that he would pay me with a print.

I pointed to a giant photocopy of Sir Iggy gracing the far wall and said that he could compensate me with that all the while thinking of how fetching it would look plastered to the wall in the kitchen here at Discraceland.

So seven thirty hits,I take to the stage thinking of dear Chrissy Amphlett gone from us far too soon.I ask her to guide me though “I’m on your side “ in homage and tribute to her titan tressed talent and the first words out of my ever high-strung pie-hole are “Lighting man ? please be kind….”

The show felt really good. I just went to that place and did that thing .Not as easy or frequent as people think or I make it look either ,trust me on that…So happily I lucked out and hit the sweet spot. And  after an utterly aching version of Neil Young’s immortal “Helpless” ( One of the top moments on Martin Scorsese’s “The Last Waltz” in my ever bolshy opinion ) I was done and a dopey mere mortal once again. Bugger.

I swear that I could hear Rick Danko and Levon Helm by my shaky side in sweet harmony….

Nick came up to the stage as I was collecting all my crap and was very enthusiastic about my effort. “So” he said “You can take that” and pointed at the kitchen mural ” Or that” he grinned and pointed at the foreboding matt black speaker stack.  “But doesn’t that belong to the venue? ” I replied confused but always up for a new PA. “No!” he laughed “That” and my eyes followed his finger to the 1 x 1 1/2 meter light-box leaning louche against said speaker stack with the same photo of the Stooges as the photocopy but in lurid full eye-fucking color.

“No!” gasped our trucker cap wearing ,Turbonegro patched vet sporting, fox tailed swinging heroine with her tattooed right hand now clutching at one of her erect nippled and rapidly heaving cans.

“Yes.” he ardently replied. “Michele, that was amazing…..”

Hear that! Amazing me!

So me and Guitar Matt will be picking up that little beauty apres jam on Sunday. No hangovers, Sticky purple dusted weed and stellar sex in  abundance for all my indulgent mates with great vans and kind hearts. I think I am going to chuck my bed out and sleep on it. The light box that is…dream on top of the almighty Stooges.

Which ,if you really stop to think about it, I have basically been doing my whole life…….

Bugger this weather sideways .Winter….great….just fucking great…. Sadness falls. No more school uniforms let alone hot pants for tan deficient miserable months. So what is a poor girl to do? (“‘Cept to sing for a rock’n’roll band.” Merci beaucoup mon amours Jagger and Richards xoxoxox .) Tights and mini skirts that’s what!

“How will she survive in the feral face of the evil elements” gasp the peanut gallery…Ah! Rest your minds and ease the strain on the thought taut reins my delinquent darlings .I will be fine due to the knee length cream suede and fur coat that begged, that pleaded for  me to buy in from the cruel shop window that held it captive. I am like Amnesty international for cool clothes ,me. A Saint for the nattily dressed. So then I had to live on chai tea and noodles for a fortnight. Big whoop. It’s not as if I didn’t need to drop more pounds anyway so it was a win-win in my eyes.

I happen to be wrapped in it and not much else as I type actually…..

Hmmmm…what else? Skintight jeans that I am taking in by the week due to more weight falling from my once fecund frame. Boots ,boots and more boots…amen.

I call upon the goddesses. Stevie Nicks,Christine Mac Vie, Penny Lane, Anita Pallenburg.….Hear my plea for heart hitching hotness and cast your spell over my schvartze soul.

( “Did she make you cry? Make you break down? Shatter your illusion of love?”)

Oh yes! You just know that is what I am talking about….

And because everyone loves a segue-way that makes fuck all sense ,it goes over like the gangbusters and trust me on this if you have ever seen Blackie play live….here you are….

….. if one more fucking hipster informs me gravely that they are learning the banjo I am going to insert my treasured vinyl 7″ of “The Rainbow Connection “ square up their ironic schooner sipping- Newtonian- trust fund draining -dour faced asses to be followed by the headstock of the aforementioned instrument.

Which is a waste of a perfectly good instrument,granted, but when a girl has to make a point a girl has to make a point.

I just wish that one of these uptight button down floral shirt sporting- boat shoe bedecked- iron deficient- hacky-sack playing-badly bearded- fire twirling shit stains would tell me that they were learning the tuba…..

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