21 June 2003 Brooklyn and
22 June 2003 Bethlehem, PA

I was told to watch my back at the Brooklyn show. Apparently the people I pissed off the previous weekend were those Bindlestiff retardos and they'd been making threats to really tear me up all week. But it was superfun, the promoters and people who lived in the space were incredibly nice, and those in attendance actually watched and smiled! Woo hoo! It's about time people got it. Maybe it was the lame sax playing….

The show was promo for Lisa Carver's new book, the Lisa Diaries, a compilation of her nerve.com entries plus photos and a little extra info. I can't recommend it highly enough, and not just 'cause I'm in it a few times (under my real name; there's also a photo of my butt encased in tight glitter pants)--her sexual and emotional freedom and honesty inspired much of my life, and I'm proud to admit it. (Some of what she says about me is slightly embellished/fabricated, but that's fine with me.) For the show I performed a skit based on her life with a hot (but prude, unfortunately) Italian businesswoman. I was Lisa and the other lady was supposed to be Dakota, a beautiful, clean-shaven dominatrix who gave Lisa her first woman-induced orgasm in the bathroom of a bar. The lady had to drink a lot and then giggled and cowered almost the whole time. I had my skirt around my waist and *she's* the one feeling self-conscious? What the heck'd she volunteer for? That made me mad. Entertainist Neal Medlin played Lisa's boyfriend Jerry, and when it got to the part were Lisa said, "We did it every which way," Neal and I looked at each other for a split second, like, "let's do this," and then I jumped on him and we dry humped all over the stage. Yay! That's the spirit! We didn't even rehearse! The awesome thing was that Neal's girlfriend, Ada, thought it was hilarious and she wasn't mad or jealous at all because she knew it was just for show, that we weren't really all into it. Now that's a good relationship.

By the time Aaron from Wolf Eyes was onstage the place was dripping with sweat. He was great but I was hot, so I went outside. And who did I see? Oh, only the cute boy who'd been eyeing me all night. I whispered in his ear, "Do you want to smooch me?" We went around the corner and leaned against a door, and the door fell open so we went inside the dusty foyer of the apartment and really went at it. He said to me, "You have so many teeth!" and tried counting them all with his tongue while I bit him. When we walked away from each other I saw he had a glitter beard from me rubbing my face all over his. Oops. I'm not into make-out tell-tale signs (for instance, road rash from 2 AM stubble or smeared lipstick) because it seems so possessive. I scribbled down my phone number on a receipt for pop rocks and shoved it in the guy's hand, and went home with my friend.

The next day I played in Bethlehem, PA, at a place called Our Beer Bellys (their spelling), and this lady with cheap ex-boyfriend jewelry (like 10-karat gold rings with chemically made emeralds and diamonds in a heart shape) in tight Guess jeans and a total mom shirt was like, "I'm down with all sorts of freaky lesbian stuff." So of course Lisa made her do the Dakota skit with me and onstage the weirdo had her hand in my ass while talking like she was having the most dramatic orgasm ever. It takes a *lot* to fully weird me out and that lady managed to do it. When I pulled her pants down onstage, that was my way of getting her under control, saying, "Oh yeah? You want it? Well I'm gonna show you you don't really want what you want." And it was true. She shut up and ran away for a little while afterward. It was like five in the evening on a Sunday in a town where you can seriously look in any direction and count six churches, and there were children present. Oh, the lady also interrupted a band to make a public service announcement and accused the people in the bar of being pedophiles and stealing photos of her two sons. During my performance she got all huffy and stormed out like something really offensive was going on. But the only thing that *really* upset me about her was that she has kids.

I also ate at a place called Confetti Cafe with Neal, Ada, and Justin from Texas Governor (he was wearing black pleated dress slacks, black tasseled loafers with no socks, and a T-shirt with a green-and-white yin-yang--instead of dots inside there were pot leaves; he said "Solid" a lot). We walked in and our sleepy eyes widened in amazement. The walls were icy pistachio and petal pink, shiny confetti decorated the table, and the main attraction was a giant art deco mantle with white columns and a giant photo of a French horn stuffed full with ice cream. In a secluded corner someone had painted a cutsie fluffy dog with a gigantor tongue licking a plate of ice cream. They had a quiche and crepe of the day, and a skinny dude with a silky brown ponytail serenaded us with jazz guitar! I pointed to an item on the menu and said to the waitress, "I'll have the veggie sandwich."

"Oh, you mean the veggie wedgie?" she said, and everyone at the table snorted with laughter. The fucking veggie wedgie?! God, why'd she have to say it? I saw it was written like that, but how totally gross is *that*?

Overall, glitter in my eye, glitter in my beer, glitter in my pussy! I made out with two boys (the aforementioned carnal episode with Glitterbeard and some hot, sweet morning innocence that made my heart race with a friend who I care for very much and won't name 'cause he might get mad) and I came home with seven baby cacti. Hooray!

14 June 2003 Manhattan

The stupid Rubulad party me and the Novice played sucked in a major way. There were two huge motherfucking floors in a fancy building in Chelsea full of carnival lovers and puppet people. Bad New Orleans vibe shit. Like 1,500 people were there, and I was one of the top ten best-looking people in attendance, which I think is a really bad sign. Terrible art sample one: a shopping cart full of empty Doritos bags with a scrap of Santa Claus wrapping paper taped to the wall. Terrible art sample two: an American flag nailed to the wall, kiddie pool underneath surrounded by seashells. My friend Liv and I were so disgusted we started crushing all the shells with our pretty high-heeled sandals. I took a staple gun and secretly attacked a few ugly paintings on the wall, too.

A war started when I called the sound guy's girlfriend a "complete cunt" to her face. (Well, she was! I just wanted to go through a door and she told me I couldn't in a really snotty way, then said, "Um, I'm the sound guy's girlfriend," [way to wrap up your identity there, lady] "and I'm playing in the band after you." Hey, guess what? I don't care who you are and I don't get into that band rivalry crap.) One of the main promoters came up in my face and screeched at me for calling her that name, and I coolly ignored her. Later the sound couple sicked their dog on me (made him jump on my back on purpose), then ruined the Misty & Novice set. The sound guy added fucked up delay/echo to everything, screwed with the levels, cut me off in the middle of song two, then resumed. He turned off the monitors and walked away from the board, then came back and put in someone else's CD in the middle of song four. I was so mad I started throwing beer bottles (I'd purposely made myself have to pee before I got onstage so I could let 'er rip if something went wrong--which I knew it would--but in the heat of the moment I couldn't deliver so I decided to throw the bottles instead), and I got attacked by one of the promoters. The sound guy then grabbed my cow skull and smashed it and jumped on the pieces. The Novice freaked out and jumped off the stage and straight onto the sound guy. He tackled him to the floor and the guy was all whining, "I'm sorry I'm sorry!" The Novice hesitated for a second, but punched him a few times for good measure anyway. The guy was dragged away with a bloody face and the Novice got kicked out. He was like, "My only regret is that I only used a quarter of my strength on that pussy." All those people in attendance at $10 a head and we didn't even get paid! (Well, Kate and Patrick of Flaming Fire--check out their new record; it's really, really good--so graciously paid us out of their pockets but that doesn't really count.)

I don't think fighting's cool, and ruining people's art is one of the worst things you can do karmically, but I'm so glad that asshole got beat up and I caused a ruckus, mostly because it gave the Novice and I something to bond over. We'd been bickering the whole night in the way only jealous exes who can't get over each other do, and I spent several hours fretting and crying like a wimp over what he was doing and how he was feeling. He said some awful things to me, and I just wanted all the fucked-upedness to end. Thank goodness that sound guy was such a jerk; otherwise, I don't think we would've patched up the night with green tea, peanut butter toast, and totally inappropriate but awesome furtive sex.

23 May 2003 Chicago

This was the worst show of my life. The International Mr. Leather Conference was in town (their 25th year holding the convention in Chicago) and the official hotel was the ritzy Palmer. Through a weird connection I got hooked up with the Mr. Florida party--I was supposed to be the entertainment. The gory details make me feel sick to my stomach (not 'cause of the scene but because I was such a wet fart), let's just say the sound system sucked and that they were NOT into my new fancy neon dress or my gigantor banner I took out of retirement that says I'M CONSTANTLY HIGH ON COCAINE *or* the funny hamster toy that runs around in a plastic bubble. No siree, they hated me. I cleared the room in 15 seconds, no kidding. I only played three songs, but they still paid me in full. I went home and cried.

10/11/2002

What do you get when you mix a 1,600-mile road trip with a well-intentioned but antagonistic (ex?-) boyfriend, a bunch of sinister asshole fashion victims, a few people with true hearts, a ton of booze, and a small scuzzy club in Manhattan? My life last weekend. But I'll just talk about the show, which was actually a party for the Teen Rebel issue of K48--a magazine I can't rate highly enough, even if it is a little painfully hipstery.

First time onstage with The Novice, aka the aforementioned ex (?), and it was totally No Doubt minus two members, good production values, and an adoring audience. The new songs involved his guitar chops and my bad obscure poetry about how much I've been hurting and want to get back together for good/ how much I want to tell him my life is better anyway. Alright. Stage. We went on first, and I know audiences never like the opening band when they haven't heard of them before. But still! I put the wig on once again, plus the fukkin' awesome tattered princess dress Camilla made for me. Song one: yawns and annoyed looks from the audience, who, by the way, were mostly all dressed like an even stupider 80s version of something they saw in Nylon. Song two: I started cutting off my oppressive hair. Lots of people went away, probably because they were pissed that I didn't sound like Berlin or Neneh Cherry. I smiled at and then flicked off a stupid girl who was glaring at me, then threatened to cut her boyfriend's perfect hair. I was so bored I sat on the couch and didn't sing. The Novice wasn't up yet, but he was booing me from the crowd and getting really mad. Well, so was I! This was supposed to be a teen rebel homecoming! I thought that meant celebrating misfits and things that don't fit in. Besides, don't you know you give what you get and you get what you give?

Then it was time for The Novice to come up and play solo guitar to a track he wrote that sounds like it was meant for a car chase scene in VIP. I left and people cheered. Costume change in the "ghetto chic" bathroom: bride of Frankenstein meets burnout, only actually not that cool. Real hair and Converse sneakers. They liked me a little better this way, but then they went back to hating me during the five-minute-long guitar ballad that my junior high boyfriend wrote for me. I slow danced onstage with this cute boy who was kinda shaking cuz he was nervous. I was so so so glad he came up and one of my friends didn't have to do a pity dance with me. My few friends slow danced too, but the rest of the audience was like, "What the fuck is she doing?" The good news is that for the last few songs (The Novice was back) people started shuffling their feet a little and smiling. But it's not good enough news. Either it's a crying shame they were so "cool" or it's time for me to wake up and do something else. I don't like feeling like a loser, but I especially don't like it when I'm mostly surrounded by people dressed in what boils down to period costumes rehashing times of their lives that never happened or weren't really that enjoyable in the first place. Having a high school dance theme party was an evil idea: it gave people who were mean teens an excuse to be that way all over again, and it validated the behavior of people who never got over being like that, cliques, and odd-man-out mentality.

13 March 2002 London

I'm having a Pretty Woman moment. Wait. Before I go into it I have to comment on the lighting in this fancy room. I'm sitting directly in front of a thick mirror that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and boy are my eyes sparkly!

I already spent all my money for this whole trip! I accidentally made reservations for some shithole in Southall, and the cab driver had a doozy of a time trying to find it. The place was totally lights-out. I rang the bell several times and a cranky old lady with porcupine hair and yellow snaggleteeth told me I had to call the manager's cell phone to get in. Sketchy. Glad the cabbie stayed--I used his phone and discovered there was no record of my reservation. I ditched the place, headed back to the airport, and tried to get a room at a few hotels but there were no vacancies. Finally I tried le Meridien and now here I am. Two plush beds with thick down comforters, giant marble bathroom, writing desk, and really bad adult contemporary radio. Just for the hell of it I ordered room service. I mean, it's the most (in)appropriate thing to do, and I'm always looking for an excuse for my ridiculously indulgent behavior. And anyway, I have the option of viewing my bill through the TV--and this room is showing that someone with the last name of Ramos is currently footing the bill. My plan is to do the express checkout thing through the TV and hope I don't get charged a cent.

Woah! My room service pizza just arrived on a silver platter, and it's huge *and* delicious! This'll cover all my meals while I'm in the hotel. It's fun planning tomorrow: sleep, long bubble bath, find some place to print out my flight confirmation for the next day, put art together with CDs. The end. I just wish someone were here to share this with me, to fuck me in the ass to Peter Cetera, to toast all this bullshit with a warm $7 bottle of Beck's.

16 March 2002 on the TGV from Bordeaux to Paris

Why am I such a have to learn a lesson the hard way kind of gal? I can barely pull off a show at home alone--what on earth made me think I could go thousands of miles away and do it there? The hard part is almost over...

Last night was *scary*! Fascist dudes in ski masks gnashing their teeth and pumping their fists, trying to position their heads to look up my crotch. One guy tried to eat my pom pons; several chewed up the stickers I passed out. They loved me though (in their own special way)--one even proclaimed he was the king of me (fucking pig)--but there were probably three women who even remotely liked me, and I already knew two of 'em. I felt trapped for all of last night except the 18 minutes I spent onstage. Couldn't go on the dance floor 'cause some weird pseudo neo-Nazi (no joke) would try to grab me. Couldn't go back stage because some asshole guy who thought he was "in" just because he was hanging out behind the scenes would tell me I'm beautiful or wonderful in some sort of insulting manner. I said "shut up" and "leave me alone" too many times to count.

One gentleman had the nerve to disdainfully inform me that my performance "disrespects women." But he liked it, so what's that supposed to mean? Just because what I feel like doing turns some men into animals doesn't mean I'm disrespecting my gender--not that I'd care if I were, though. I'm so torn between making statements and just digging a giant hole and filling it with everyone's raw nerves.

16 March 2002 Paris (after the show)

I thought it wasn't going to get any more surreal than last night but boy was I wrong. The line-up couldn't have been more random: Agoria, a super energetic techno DJ who was actually really nice and good; me; and the James Hardway Quartet, a super chill, pot-smokin' reggae, bongo-beatin', sorta techno bunch. The two singers were nice people, open, but maybe too eager to read way too far into things. For example, the stage lighting situation. They kept talking about needing to feel the soul, and sorry dude but the strobe just wasn't conducive to their goal. Every once in a while they'd bust out the rasta lingo, even speak in ya mon tongues, and call each other brother and sister. They called me "Little Soldier" for going on tour all by myself. Oh yeah, important detail: the man who's 49 and has gold teeth is named Squidley but goes by Ghetto Priest.

These things amuse me, sure, but I can honestly say that these were the first people I've met who talked about feelin' vibes and shit and actually seemed intelligent, creative, and open-minded. I've heard when you get to a certain age all you want to do is feel good. I do now, but I think that sometimes means feeling challenged. I don't think these people liked the challenge.

Flashback to the scene of the crime.

The club is a barge docked on the Seine. It's been remodeled to look all shabby chic, with porthole toilets and cozy little nooks and really fancy drinks and a boomin' sound system. Every once it a while the whole place would tilt a little, and I started feeling queasy. The Quartet, who were supposed to headline, decided to perform before I did. They got the audience undulating in waves of hippie ecstasy, had several people proclaiming, "I feel it!" I was in the little back room, door locked, strapped into my costume when suddenly I realized I had to pee. Bad. I couldn't go use the club restroom because that would've meant walking through the crowd in my costume. And I couldn't take it off because I'd have no one to help me put it back on again. Fuckit, I decided, and I grabbed a plastic cup and pissed right through my outfit. Hey, it's basically just a glorified bathing suit anyway. I couldn't decide if it'd be funny to go onstage with a wet crotch, so I sorta half-fanned myself toward the window. When it was time to get onstage it was still pretty obvious, and I'm glad because those people deserved a little pants-wetter doll. The crowd was wolf whistling until I started dancing around and singing: pony humping, cheerleading, playing dress up (princess, bride, pioneer: in that order). then everyone stood stock still, mouths gaping. It was like I dumped a bucket of cold water on everyone. Seriously, NO ONE moved a muscle. At one point I started to fake cry and bummed everyone out, and then I started laughing maniacally and said, "Yeah, like I really fucking care if you don't like me! Fuck you!" In between songs they cheered wildly, but during = nuthin. The response egged me on. I laid back on a table and spread my legs real wide....

Afterward, I went back to the little band area--which by then reeked of the piss I threw in the trash--and the Quartet were like, "woah." Finally Ghetto Priest lifted his heavy stoned head and looked at me with glassy bloodshot eyes. "Are you aware of what you're doing?" he asked. I said yes. "No, are you AWARE of what you're doing?" Then he, sister J.B., the percussionist, and I got into a heavy discussion about sexual predators. According to them, my act condones and encourages pedophilia. OK then.

20 March 2002 London

Thank goodness I'm out of France. It wasn't as depressing as it was the first time I went there alone, but it sure was bleak. At first Paris seems wonderfully civilized: people have clear skin and rosy cheeks, work hours are manageable, the Metro is relatively clean and runs frequently enough to not be completely frustrating.... But then there's a harshness, like they don't want to share with or explain their city to anyone else, and that's extremely uncivilized.

Anyway, I'm gone from there and things are so much better in London. For starters, I'm at a nice, stylish residence inhabited by a nice, stylish, smart, successful, beautiful lady. Her flat is all wood, white walls, and stone, decorated with maybe six timeless, warm pieces of furniture. Candles and incense burn in the fireplaces, mattress and TV just sit on the bare floor. It's the tasteful, bohemian chic style, where there's no such thing as cleaning up after yourself because you don't really make a mess; any clutter is considered decorative. There's no food in the kitchen cupboards, and only stuff like peeled garlic cloves and farm-made butter and tapenade in the fridge. The bathroom is stocked with fancy products. And Catherine (who's a friend of Topher's), the woman who made this place the way it is, is so generous and interesting. I lucked out.

20 March 2002 London (after the show)

What a riot! Me and Gold Chains played the Dazed & Confused party, and wow, were some people making a big deal out of the fact it was guest list only. Buncha retards acting glamorous, it was awesome! In the bathroom, some chick with a lipstick ring around her mouth (tell-tale sign that she'd just given head) was all drunk and stumblin' around, teary eyed and yelling to her friend, "We're GORGEOUS, fabulous!" Then she grabbed some guy outside and made him come in and tell her how pretty she and her nasty sleazy ho friends were. He was like, "Uh, yeah... can I go now?"

Good news: the audience actually *liked* me! Except one stupid little fag (well, he was) who told me I'm the next Madonna (PUH-LEAZE) stole my pony and wouldn't give it back. There was almost a fist fight about it! And since Iceberg sponsored the party, they supplied giveaway gift bags for the night. Inside was a T-shirt that says DAZED & CONFUSED PRIVATE PARTY LONDON. How totally lame/awesome is that? I can't wait to wear it when I get home.

Oh yeah, the Sugababes. They're this pretty big UK teen girlpop group. They only have I think two songs, and one of 'em's a Gary Numan cover. They opened for us and they were such little bitches to me in the dressing room! They wouldn't move to make room for me until a couple people got nasty with them, and even then there wasn't much space because all their hair and make-up people and management were in there. So when they were ordered to scootch, they started talking in pig latin, making fun of me... excellent! Later I walked in with a glass of booze and one of the girls (the new one) looked longingly at it and said, "Oh, is that a cosmopolitan?" I said yes, then asked if she'd like me to get her one. Then she got real sad, and looked down at the hair extensions piling up at her feet. "No, I'm not allowed to 'cause of my voice..." I won't deny that their song (ha! "their" song--it was written for them) "R Freak Electric" is super hot. Obviously they think it's hot enough to warrant using their makeup to tag their tames all over the table cloth and wall in the dressing room.

The other support act was this guy playing harmonica and little drum or something. I thought it was pretty stupid but I don't think it's cool to think that. He used to be in Crash Test Dummies! It was a total "don't let this happen to you" moment.

Topher and I went back to Catherine's (she stayed at her boyfriend's) and tried to get some incense burning. I mean, how hard can it be to light incense? Well, this was one fancy lady. Toph was like, "Stand back. I used to be an alter boy," and took control of the situation. I went to brush my teeth and the next thing I know the security alarm is going off. I was scared someone was trying to break in, and after a few minutes it became apparent that the security system was hooked up to the smoke alarm. Topher had pretty much started a bonfire with the incense! I started cracking up like an idiot. We tried punching in a mystery code for the alarm, and then suddenly it shut off. And then there was a very stern knock at the door. It was Chris Cornell from Soundgarden! No, not really, but it sure looked like him. He asked if we were burning incense. Again, Toph took charge. "Uh, just a little. Have a good night."

7/2/01

I stayed up until 10 in the morning on Saturday, brainstorming for the Misty performance for the Lumpen party that evening. At 7 AM, after laying down new cracked-up disco beats to "Sex Girls" I went to a home garden center in a suburb just to buy sod. I was told it goes fast, so I had to get there before they were all out. Bought five rolls for $11, plus a whole bunch of fresh-cut flowers. Then I drove to the props warehouse to pick up my bubble machine, and on the way there I realized the sod in my back seat was moving--there were worms and bugs everywhere...totally gross.

Anyway, I got the machine and went home, but I couldn't get inside because a huge St. Bernard dog was blocking my apartment door. Just lying there, a shaggy mound of sweat and drool and teeth, panting. I just stared at it until it got up and walked next door, right into the grocery store! People were *freaking out.* Weasel wouldn't wake up and help me move the dirty worm-filled sod so I loaded up on the thick black clothes and gloves (in like 90 degree heat) and quickly lugged it on to the sidewalk, and taped a note up that said "Do not take this please." And since the dog kept coming and going, my time out in the sun was prolonged and people kept coming by and asking how much I was selling sod for.

I got three hours of sleep, then got to work again. But let's skip to the show 'cause my stage setup made me so happy. It was a really fancy party (10 yrs for Lumpen, believe it or not) with a HUUUGE rented sound and light system, Xtreme fog machine, smartass lights, bass that vocodes your voice when you talk. Weasel and Jonathan were my help and I made them wear tight T-shirts that said "I [heart] Misty" while setting up my stage and checking the mic.

So they unrolled the sod, put up a giant mirror, set the grade-school stage-prop style hand painted cardboard pony complete with mane and tail hair directly from Misty's own head, and spread out flowers all over the place. Bubbles were pumping, music started, I came out in a huge huge white flowing whip cream petticoat skirt, then took it off in a split second right at the first voice note--revealing my lil sailor 80s anime booty jumpsuit. Whatever, squealed around, pet the pony, got my knees dirty in the sod.

People were standing way back, half smiling, half furrowed brows. I said, "Hey, why so far away? You can't catch gonnorrhea through the eyeballs!" and they all came forward. I whipped flowers in their faces.

Weasel and Jonathan came on stage, one put a rhinestone bracelet on my wrist, the other handed me a tube of hot pink lipstick. I primped in the mirror, then wrote "I [heart] me" on the mirror in lipstick. Danced, pranced, twirled a baton, drank coca-cola from a can with a foam cozy reading "It's All About ME." Ended with a bangup "Sex Girls," and while singing the helper boys came up and put a Miss America-type sash on me that read "SEX GIRL" instead of "MISS ILLINOIS" then crowned me with a tiara and handed me a fancy bouquet of flowers. I waved like a princess and sang "Are you ready for the pony girls?" Some dude would nod his head and I'd say, "Sorry, NO ONE'S ready for the sex girls!" And at the end I threw the bouquet into the audience like a bride ready to get fucked for her honeymoon and ran off the stage.