I'm writing to you from a small apartment in what some refer to as "Little
Poland" in Brooklyn, N.Y. I moved here recently, leaving my beautiful
whore palace behind in search of solace and the occasional hot dumb Pollock
to play with. Next to my keyboard is a half-empty, or rather half-full, bottle of
Jack Daniel's. I like to think of Jack as my diuretic for pain, helping me pee
out painful memories as well as happy and important ones too (car keys, the
cat's name, where you left your panties). You see kids, I'm about to tell you
where I've been for these many months and I must numb in order to relive
the worst experience of my many groupie whore gone Diva journalist days.
It was an ordinary evening. I put on my face, curled my bangs, changed my
jeans and found my way to the East Village to meet my friend Ritchie for a
few brews. Me and Ritchie like to get together, do blow, get drunk and make
fun of the bands that play around the Village. Bands with names like
Lancelot or Spider Blood take a beating when we're in a crowd.
Sometimes we even spit on them. And they like it.
Anyway, as soon as I'm there Ritchie calls on the cell to say he's not showing
because he's got jury duty, or rather "his duty to show up in front of the jury for his
possession charge." I agreed and decided to check out a band called
INSOUSIANCE, but I walked in on the end of SATANACIDE packing it up.
Like a good groupie I followed the Iggyesque boys in black downstairs to
where the bands hang out and introduced myself. And that's all I remember.
The next morning I woke up to the sound of a lawnmower and some
chirping birds. Obviously frightened, I jumped up to find I was chained to the
floor of a van, unscathed except for a raging headache and need for water. I
assumed I had been captured by one of those "man in a van" abductors or
possibly passed out during one of my sexcapades. But, to my horror, the Bud
Ice bottle, cheap band equipment and the hippie stench of patchouli only
meant one thing. I was being held prisoner by a really bad Jersey band.
My mind was racing. What did they want me for besides my obvious sexual
gifts and abilities? Did someone want my kidneys? My LIVER? Of course
not! Were they ACTUALLY Satanists in search of some young virgin to
sacrifice to the Lord of Darkness? OK, maybe not. Next to my head hung a
hamster water bottle that distracted me from my frenzied and fuzzy thoughts.
Lapping at the tiny drops of moisture made me sullenly think of Ritchie doing
the same thing with an empty bottle of vodka just the other night. Would I
ever see vodka or Ritchie again?
Perhaps I would be mutilated beyond cover girl repair and never be allowed
to wax again revealing that I wasn't a real blonde and becoming a bohemian
beast! Or drugged on an hourly basis and enslaved as a suburban housewife
to a fat hairy guy named Tony, the No. 1 store manager of Home Depot in the
tri-state area. I couldn't breath. I was going numb from the waist down and
desperately needed my vibrator. And how DO you get out of Jersey anyway?
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