I seem to....lack focus and my usual determination. I am going through one of those phases wherein I have to remind myself that writing is fucking rad. That being a writer is a goddamn gorgeous, important thing. That, to borrow slang from my mother's religion, it's a calling. Or can be.
And lately, lately I have been a lazy ass. Or a frustrated ass. Or a tired ass. Or a whatever kind of ass. That lets myself doom spiral or chore spiral or random spiral into whatever will keep me away from my writing. Which is stupid.
But it is hard, eh?
Here's a piece of shit realization.
I am no longer of infinite energy.
Yep. I said it.
It appears that, at 30, I finally have to admit to myself that I cannot do all things. I can do helltons, but I cannot do all. Not all like when I was 22 and could sleep two hours, work two jobs and still have energy to write till the stars shifted to sunrise. Which is fucking bullshit. But oh well. All we can do is our best, and my best can no longer be a 16-20 work day. PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF.
I do not like limitations.
Ok. This wasn't supposed to be all BLAH BLAH BLAH LIFE IS SO HARD BLAH OH THE ARTIST PLIGHT BLAH BLAH I FEEL OLD SOMETIMES BLAH FUCKING BLAH LIFE IS SO SHORT AND I AM SEEMINGLY DOING FUCK ALL WITH IT BLAH.
I actually started the day like this, but then purposefully started seeking out inspiration to knock my ass out of it. Which I did. Mostly.
Here, have some hope:
"You can want to be a writer, and get away with it."
-Hunter S. Thompson paraphrasing Hemingway.
"Resist much, obey less."
-Lawrence Ferlinghetti to young poets.
Follow the link. Read the whole thing. It will make you feel good. It will make you feel important. It will make your art feel important.
Lawrence Ferlinghetti. That man. He is beautiful. He is important. He makes me think I can be beautiful and important.
I will go forth and use this day productively.
ON WITH 2013!
This year's theme song:
What is gonna go down this year? I will tell you what is m-effin gonna go down, I am going to kick the shit out of this year. This year's gonna get beat so hard, it's gonna call me mistress and toss me two hundred bucks by the end.
I am going to
1. Finish the almost finished manuscript of my first novel starring Sarah Winchester.
No. Seriously. This shit is getting done. Like now. It's...eh...97% done. In fact, I woulda finished that bitch by the end of 2012 if I hadn't caught the plague. Expect the mega HOLY FUCK, I'M DONE WITH MY NOVEL announcement soon. Like really soon. Like ye gods I can fucking taste the blood of the victory gods on my waggling, cocksure tongue.
2. Finish a second novel starring these awesome bitches, Jo and Fenn.
Yeah. I mean it. I KNOW! I know! Yer like, "But Patty, didn't it take you seven fucking years to finish your first novel? How are you going to finish your second one in a year or less?" And I'm all like BECAUSE WHY THE HELL NOT? In fact, for once, I am not working seven thousand jobs and I am on decent mental ground and I got hella supportive folk around me. So why the hell not should I finish a second, much less complicated novel. (RE: FUCKING EH! Why the hell did I make four-person-character arch Victorian novel my first? That shit's hard. That's a hard popped cherry. I am sore. My brain is fucking sore.) It's gonna happen, this new novel. Quick. Contemporary. Lewd as all get out. Hopefully hilarious. The novel. Not the process.
3. Write a story (or is it a screenplay?) that revolves around The Exorcist.
This one is far away so I'm not gonna wade into the details swamp. I ain't got my thigh high rubber boots on. OR maybe I do? What's it to you? Let's go with I do. I do and it's none of your damn business why, on New Year's Day, as I sit on the couch I have thigh high rubber boots on. Back to The Exorcist... I am going to write what amounts to The Last Picture Show meets the night The Exorcist came out, from the perspective, I think of a townie priest who has to deal with shit tons of people who think they are possessed because they saw the movie, and some of them may be... HEH! and SQUEAL! It is gonna be a grindhouse, nast-o-tronic, fuck yes fun writing year.
Hey look, here's another song for this year:
And because I am on a roll:
I'm also going to write at least one letter a month to a friend.
And work out.
No. I mean it. I am getting back on that stretching my shit out. I ain't going all old lady on this year. This 30 year old bitch WILL REMAIN FLEXY BENDY and get her gd energy back up.
And I'm getting a new tattoo. In a coupla months. Yep. I am. And it's PROBABLY GONNA BE ON MY HAND! Whoa. I know. Holy effin whoa. A HAND TATTOO? Yep. A hand tattoo. Details forthcoming.
And I'm gonna make time for friends.
Here's to a year of GETTING SHIT DONE!
P.S. - This:
I am highly overdressed. A sparklepony, as it were. I gots me a deep v-necked green dress that is covered in gold sequins.
This is two days in a row of sequins. Last night I wore my red sequins when I went out dancing. Yeah, I decided I needed to get my ass out of the house somewhere around midnight-thirty last night. I was feeling a tad lonely after I got done with my writing. I was cruising through facebook. Seeing everyone's crazy family shit, I was either gonna bawl my eyes out - being as my family's in Arizona - or I was gonna get the hell out of the house to get my mind off it. I went out dancing. Sequins, stomping boots, glitter. It worked. I danced with several lovely drag queens, one of which was a in white prom dress and 80s big hair, and the other was dressed like the Devil. Good times.
Today, today has been spent writing. Tomorrow will be spent writing. I am getting this goddamn novel done, I'm telling you.
Happy holidays, folks.
Additionally, when it says to submit a work between 5,000 - 40,000 words - THAT IS AN EXCERPT! I am a silly and confused human and emailed to ask them. For some reason I convinced myself they didn't want a novel over 40,000 words WHICH IS NOT THE CASE! They don't want any excerpts over 40,000 words.
DECEMBER 15th, LADIES! Do it up.
HEY HEY HEY
I'ma sitting in a Denny's because I couldn't be at home anymore. I've been home ALL DAY. The Stir, it goddamn crazes. Now, the season fries, they go in my mouth, as does the coffee, and the Goddamn Gallows. Ok, the Gallows is in mine ears, but let us not be particular about our orfices. Especially with these fellas.
I have had a helluva weekend, that started somewhat early.
1. World Inferno Friendship Society and O'Death at Reggie's on Thursday
O'Death sounds like the lunatic quintent you'd find playing ballads and bonkers in an ill-advisedly placed carnival in a broken down holler church gravel lot. They are fucking nuts. They are goddamn sincere. They are shit I want to hear. They make me stomp. They are like Man Man meets Calexico, add in unexpected breakdowns, metal tendencies, bleak tales, murder ballads, unexpected poignant moments of mortality and the weight of 2oo years of American hill music...and that's O'Death. Seriously, smalls. They take their name from the traditional dirge "Oh Death," as made famous by Ralph Stanley. That's some balls. That song is the most important song to originate from Southern Appalachia. Balls.
The last time I saw them, it was at Muddy Roots in Tennessee, under a tent, at night, with a wild pit. Reggie's was a bit more subdued...but that seems to be because Chicago doesn't know how to fucking dance. I don't normally advocate boozing the goddamn hell up, but shit, I wish Chicago would tip back enough to loosen its feet. At least there was a mini pit going on behind me. Yes, behind me. Of course I was dancing at the front railing. Where the hell else would I be? I had me a Jenny and a Moosher to keep company with and somewhere in the back of the world, there was Frank and Nora and Mario having themselves a good time, too.
Here. Have some good times:
And goddamn, this is a pretty one:
Start with their newest album, 2011's Outside.
And World Inferno...World Inferno I have spoken with you about in previous glowings. Have you seen them yet? I love the beautiful freak anarchist lot of them. I started the show dancing on some risers to the right of the stage with my friend Jenny, but hell, me and Ms. Jenny had to get down with much more...swaying, crazy and skanking....and you can't go nutso dancing high up on cement step constructions. So it was a hop down and go to town with Frankenmonster and floored company.
Then it was time for the pit. I dove into that shit and people, I will tell you this, I did something I have NEVER done before. I made a bee line for a beautiful man and I kissed him until I was breathless and my ears went red as people bashed around us and, hysterically, several men narrated the situation with:
"Holy shit. Did you see that?"
"That girl doesn't even know that dude."
"Does that girl know that guy?"
"I bet she doesn't even know that dude."
And I did know that dude. It was Moosher. He of the guitar playing and strong jaw. Friends, holy goddamn hell, it was a good kiss and he smiled beautifully at me after. Good. Times.
I swear to Eris, World Inferno pits are the friendliest pits ever. They...make me do friendly things.
It was a late night. The show didn't end till 1 in the morning.
And here is where the down and out happens. I am somewhat manic.
...I am having awful moments lately. One of these happened after World Inferno. These awful moments include me feeling like shit for being happy. It's been 4 months since Tim and I broke up. Four. My heart still aches when I think about him. So I try and wall up and not think about him. And it is hard because, inevitably, there is something that reminds me of him. I still find it hard to arrange my brain without him. After you've spent 13 years with someone, they become a part of your thought process. And sometimes, when I am smiling, when I am finding myself making good memories, I feel like shit because I am not making good memories with him. I want him happy. I want him well. I hope he is both of these things. I don't think he can be these things with me. It hurts. It confuses me. I am finally starting to sort through baggage rather than shove it aside with work.
2. But I did not by any means feel like shit the whole weekend. In fact, I had a badass time at Reverend Peyton's Big Damn Band at Bottom Lounge on Saturday night.
It was a hella late show. Started at midnight. I was supposed to meet up Frank, Nora and company again, but the only person who showed was...Moosher. And yes, the show was more fucking awesome with him there. It ain't fun to dance alone, folks.
That's a lie. I am used to dancing alone, but it's always more fun when you have at least one other person around you that knows yer not a maniac. Or doesn't mind that yer a maniac.
...we debated the merits of stealing Peyton's guitars, because he had a rack of beautiful instruments.
Reverend Peyton's Big Damn Band is a Southern Indiana country and blues band. Rev. Peyton on guitar, harmonica and vox, Breezy - his badass wife - on washboard and and Aaron Persinger on drums (one of which was a 5-gallon bucket). Breezy proves that the washboard is not only an important instrument, but a fucking sexy one. She lit that shit on fire. No. Really. I mean that. I ain't joking. She lit her fucking washboard on fire and played the flames out. WTF? I know. BADASS. And Peyton, goddamn, he's got everything from slide guitar to cigar box guitars going for him.
The last time I saw these folks was also at Muddy Roots. It was somewhat of a letdown to go from a tent full of folks being fucking nutasses throwing hailbails in the craziest hillbilly pit you'd ever witness, to seeing a good sized Chicago crowd kinda bobbing along to some wiggle-worthy tunes. I was once again reminded of missing my Shawna Banana. She of the living in Richmond. She of the dancedancerevolution. BUT! You gots to make your own magic in this world, eh? So I sang along in my (I kid you not) shitty, off-key voice and stomped in contentedness. And I wasn't alone. The Mooshman was there, along with some co-workers from Bottom after their shifts were over.
Get you some:
3. And then I wrote.
Yes. I am writing again. I am on a frikkin writing tear, in fact.
9 pages today. Novel stuff.
That shit is getting done. It's gotta. I got other stories to tell.
Oh yeah, here are those Fried Potatoes.
- Current Location:Dennys
Seven-thousand-and-three days ago, that's an estimate folks - don't fork me over it, I went to a music festival called Muddy Roots. It was held in Cookeville, TN.
I danced for three days.
Seriously, smalls. I fucking danced for three days straight. Nietzsche said, "And we should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once." And none of them days was lost. I slept maybe 3 hours a night. Maybe. Me and my swells - Nora, Frank, Amanda, Joe, and Shawna Banana - danced to oddball country and dark American roots music all weekend.
I have several soul mates. Or friend mates. Or would be life partners. Whatever they are, they are my lovelies, my dearest, my PRECIOUS.
C.S.E. Cooney is my writing friend.
Nida is my best friend from sixth grade.
and Shawna Banana...she is my bat shit crazy, dancing, will do anything friend.
Anything. Parking lot dancing at 1 in the morning? Check. Fence climbing up on to roof tops? Check. Head shaving? Check. Lap dances? Check.
Yes, Shawna Banana. Love of my dancing life. She who was the only human not slamming stomach-spilling levels of moonshine, willing to stomp around to everything from the super-curled rockabilly of Pearls Mahone to the sometimes somber, always poetic Joseph Huber as he played an outdoor stage when Moses rain sheeted the hills.
This was a weekend of EPIC everything. And I needed it. It was days after I moved into my own place after Tim and I broke up.
Shawna and I walloped the red dirt into submission with our endless rug cutting. These are some, but not all of the bands that our hips sassed to:
The Dirt Daubers
Th' Legendary Shack Shakers
Jayke Orvis and the Broken Band
Dad Horse Experience
Joe Buck Yourself
Slim Cessna's Auto Club
Reverend Horton Heat
Pine Hill Haints
The Devil's Cut
Viva le Vox
It goes on. That's only what I can think of three months after the sweat fest.
And really, I can't help but put a few songs up that are so GOOD. Here. Have some music.
"Fell off the Wagon" - Joseph Huber
"Down at the Laundromat" - Viva le Vox
"Dreadful Sinner" - Jayke Orvis
I bring all of this up because Shawna and I met some Michiganers. Long story short, Banana and I go looking for Frank and Nora, end up climbing a hill (goddamn my calves were amazetits after that fest) to a tent full of people who were waving to us. We thought it was F&N, and really it was Michiganers being friendly. This contingent was mainly made up of folks from the band The Devil's Cut. They who showed us the "Michigan Stomp" (if you were at WFC this year, you would've seen Shawna Banana and I doing this at Charles de Lint's lobby concert). We ravaged Muddy Roots together. Turns out, people from Michigan are awesome.
Part 1: Wherein I get to the Fucking Point
Two of the Michiganers were Joe and Max. They're long, tall, tattooed men. You know those musicians yer momma warned you to guard yer heart about? They're probably them, but they'd never wreck yer heart on purpose, they'd make you laugh a hell ton before it happened, and then they'd write songs honoring you after. They are half of The Devil's Cut from Lansing, MI. Hey look, here they are:
Joe and Max were in Chicago this weekend, so they stayed at my house.
SEE! I did it. Long story long. Point almost gotten to. BOO and YAH!
I picked up Max and Joe, along with their guitars, at Union Station on Friday night. While waiting for their bus to come in I was propositioned by an old man. When that didn't pan out, he wanted to sell me acid. When that didn't fly, he wanted my gum. Not just one stick. Two. He had a good smile. I gave him two sticks.
Max and Joe and I danced at Neo till two in the morning and then they played guitar in my living room till 5.
I'm tellling ya, if you haven't been serenaded by drunk men from Michigan at five in the morning, you haven't lived.
Part 2: No Seriously, Here's the Real Point, the Whole Title of This Post Thing
Max and Joe knew about this crazy little thing called:
The First Annual Cigar Box Guitar Festival.
It was being held in a bowling alley in a town an hour north from Chicago that I'd never heard of. Aww hell yes, we went. Where the hell is Green Oaks, IL? I've been there and I still don't understand where I was or how I got there. It has a diner and a motel and a road. And a bowling alley. And that's it. That's Green Oaks.
I know nothing about cigar box guitars. I like learning. I like music. We went to the bowling alley. I beat Max's ass at air hockey. HUZZAH. Max, Joe and I were joined by my friend, Professor M. (Otherwise, interchangeably known as Moosher). We saw about five hours of one to two man bands, all featuring cigar box guitars.
Who I really wanted to see was Purgatory Hill. Why? Because there's a broad in it that actually makes the tambourine an important instrument and not just some ridiculous add on. Plus, she's sexy as hell when she's playing it. She looks like she could kick your fucking ass with her maracas and her tambourine.
But we left at abt 7 pm...so we could stop at my house and the fly off to Berwyn. Yes. Yes we did drive a hella large amount north and south of Chicago on Saturday. Why would one want to go to Berwyn?
Because the RED ELVISES were playing.
If you don't know the Red Elvises and are interested in samurais, kitsch and the end of the world, buy the movie Six String Samurai. They did the entire soundtrack. Great movie. Great soundtrack.
All I'm saying...is if you like conga lines, tiger stripes and rockabilly, then you MUST GO SEE THEM.
Hella dancing was had betwixt the Maxomonster, JoeFace, Professor M. and I.
...the Michiganers left my house on Monday. It is quieter. There are less empty bottles about. I miss listening to them play guitar.
Shit man. It's 11. I'm tired. Twas a long night at the library. I want cinnamon toast. And a pillow.
I'mna get these things.
You, you though. You should put the Red Elvises on and strut up your living room.
Where are we? Was that lightning? Is that a Twilight Zone spiral shellacked on the sky like a messo Evil Dead II Monster Squad cray cray? WHOBOY and YEHAW!
Boners and ghoulinas, we just took a ride in the WAYBACK MACHINE!
September 10, 2012: The Dad Horse Experience at Reggie's Music Joint
Once upon a Septembering, far gone from decent remembering, my friend, Professor M., and I went to Reggie's Music Joint - that beloved punk-country watering hole of despair, derangement and dicey life choices - to see The Dad Horse Experience play.
* raises hands skywards *
I have seen the power. (amen)
* gives the gods jazz hands *
I said I have seen the power, brothers and critters, the power and the glory. (amen)
I have heard perditions and proclamations, exclamations and interrogations upon the seen and unseen world...All through the yodeling-songster-banjo-kazoo-is-he-seri
Yep. I said foot organ. Barefoot, even.
Seriously, praise be to one man bands that will travel from mothereffing Germany to play to eleven people in a shithole on the southside of Chicago. Dad Horse Experience plays Keller-Gospel. Keller being the word for basement in German. That's right folks, because the light needs to shine in the darkness and you don't get much darker than basement shows, dive bars and degenerate rock and rollers.
Dad Horse plays folk music...but that makes it seem like he sits there with Bob Dylan hair and a Joni Mitchell fluttery shirt. I could bend and say he plays country...but that isn't rightly true either, aside from classic covers of Hank Williams and the Carter Family. And can it still be called gospel music if there are cursewords in your best known God songs? For example:
"Lord must fix my soul, turn the shit into gold, Lord please fix my soul."
"Oh my mama she went to heaven & the last word that she said
Son you won't never follow me because you're so mean & bad
Oh but I want to go to heaven, I want to see my mama there
But when I stand before the gates of heaven w/ a bucket full of sins
Lord I'm a bad ass motherfucker but won't you please let me in."
(Because why shouldn't your friends throw gasoline on a fire and shoot at the flames while you sing gospel on a moonless night?)
Dad Horse Experience is a soul-scrubbing, bar-choiring, unusually uplifting one-man-band who can banter like almost none other I've heard. Get his album, Live in Melbourne, if you want the full experience of his confessional style roots music, where you are as likely to hear an existential rant likening the human existence to a sparkler falling into a pile of dogshit on a Portuguese roundabout as cautionary tales against the use of illicit substances.
I. Love. This. Man.
I frikkin hate LJ. I think I might be moving over to Wordpress. I'm not sure. I have to figure out how to migrate a whole blog and if Wordpress has any stupid restrictions like LJ does. RE: storage space for pictures being limited, if there are paid accounts, how much, etc, so on and so forth. I have a visual brain. I like posting pictures in conjunction to words. Lots of pictures. But I write enough that I don't want just a tumblr. I'm not opposed to paying a platform...I just don't think LJ is necessarily good enough to give money to.
Holy cheese, that was frikkin old balls boring.
But I guess old balls aren't all that boring. They got lines, right? And if people can read palms, I'm sure they can read balls. I'm sure old balls have stories to tell.
Whoa. Weird. Tired. Sick.
Yes, I'm getting sick. I'm hacking coughs every other direction. The. Fun. Times.
* sniffs *
* again *
* sips water *
Here are things I want to tell you about:
My new apartment (been there a month and a half now...)
Muddy Roots (yes...still)
Dad Horse Experience (yep..still haven't wrote about that either)
I saw the Slackers.
I saw Joe Buck Yourself and Viva le Vox.
Saw William Elliott Whitemore.
Christ, a lot has been going on. BUT I WANT TO WRITE ABOUT ALL THOSE THINGS WITH PICTURES. And LJ wants me to pay to have more picture space and I'm a cheap harlot who doesn't want to be tossing mine greenbacks at them 'cause I'm too busy wasting it on nose rings that I'll probably take out anyways.
Yes. I need to tell you about that, too. I got my septum pierced. It's ok. Not fab. Not awful. Being as I think I have the plague, I will probably take it out. I think I'm more a tattoo person than a piercing person... I haven't decided yet.
* pauses to cough into arm *
Also, my hair is green and blue and purple. I KNOW! Fucking hot. That's what it is.
I got nothin' else. My brain is dead. I think if I don't sleep soon, fever will be on me. Must. Sleep. Definitely not going in to work tomorrow.
Wait. Life ain't all that crazy I can't share two pretties with you pretties.
From Chris Anthony's Seas Without Shore photo series:
OH WAIT! I can't add the picture BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE ANY GD PICTURE ROOM LEFT. I click "add" and the image, it no adds. Stupid effin LJ.
Go here for pretty 1.
(Go here to get to Chris Anthony's kickstarter to produce that photo series into a book)
From Mary Oliver's "Starlings in Winter":
to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.
The end. I sleep. Soon. Ef you hacking cough-mc-sickness.
And then here are some of the nerdrock items I kept from the show:
SHIT. Are you serious, LJ? ARE YOU EFFIN SERIOUS?
I can't apparently upload another photo to this entry. PFFFFFFFFF. I hate to say it, but I am about two seconds and five dollars away from getting a different blog and leaving this platform. It pisses me off too frequently.
What I was gonna post was a photo of a drumstick I wrestled away from two large men when it got tossed to the crowd after the show. I used a tactic of yelling "OH NO YOU DON'T" and hand grappling that netted me a win. One of my BigShouldersMcGrabbyHands opponents even high fived me for my deft vocalizing startle technique.
Well here, if I can't give my own pictures, maybe LJ will let me give you some music. Fishbone. Funk ska rockers. Love.
LADIES AND GERMS!
BOILS AND GHOULS!
Whoever the hell you are, ye that are up at 3 in the morning on a Sunday night.
I TOUCHED IGGY POP!
How, Nice Lady, does one touch Iggy Pop?
in a crowd of a thousands at Riot Fest in Humboldt Park. See look, you buy one of these:
And then you find at least one friend (YO! REDBEARD! HOTT KARL! THAT'S YOU!)...ahem...uh. Hmm. Perhaps named Redbeard? A ticket and a friend named Redbeard and then you and Redbeard tangle your way through the crowd (because you didn't line up early for Iggy because yer sure as apples rot and Walken's hot, ain't gonna miss Gogol Bordello right before him). You get as far as you can weasel your way without being a total baggadicks...and that's pretty fucking close, BUT NOT CLOSE ENOUGH...and you bide your time.
I'm tellin' ya, sailors, BIDE YOUR TIME! Because the music is gonna come on and than POW! POW! POW! RUN!
Run like the fucking wind. Catch people off guard. HOTSTEP IT! Here is where you don't say sorry as you pass people. Here is where can act like a cocksmack. Make sure your RedBeard has ahold of your shirt and that he's following close BUT NINJ THE FUCK OUT OF THE CROWD...and if yer good...if yer magic.. YOU WILL BE FRONT ROW FUCKING CENTER and then when Iggy Pop eventually stage dives, he'll be right next to you, but when he dances all up in front of the barriers, he'll be DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF YOU.
And here, dear friends, is where my left hand (NOW BRONZED!) reached out and WHAPAPAPOW! touched a god. A fucking living goddamn legend. The dude is 65 years old. SIXTY FIVE and he KICKED THE SHIT out of that stage. And yes, my life is more complete having seen him.
I don't even...
I can't even...
I'm just saying when he crawled on all fours and writhed about and took off his belt and whipped the stage to "I Wanna Be Your Dog". Um. Palpitations. My heart dropped below my belt and the floodgates opened.
And he played "Passenger" and every other fucking song you could think of and want and then a few more.
My head...it's gone. I got nothing left.
Because after that. AFTER THAT! Me and Redbeard went to Cobra Lounge for an after party. What? YES! What could make me go to an after party on a work night?
Goddamn revolutionaries, that's who. Fishbone in a venue barely bigger than my coach house? YES. YES. AND YES.
I gotta be careful here. I was supposed to be coming down. I need to sleep. I need to sleep before work at least a little bit and writing this out was supposed to help, but it's just reving me up again.
Front. Center. Yes.
I'm gonna say it. I am. BEST DANCE PARTY EVER. Ok. No. No. I can't say that. Especially after my Muddy Roots adventures with Shawna Banana and The Michiganers. BUT! It was a breathtaking sweatfest of FUCK YES. I know it is ridiculous...but up until now...wait for it... I had never seen them live. But hell, what a cherry poppin' because DAMN. That joint was jumpin.
OK! So I was gonna add a few badass pictures and videos to this...but my interwebs is dying. I, also, am going to fall over. Faceplant, straight into my bed.
Tomorrow I will edit this shit so that it is complete.
I LOVE YOU ALL!
Especially the you all that is Iggy Pop and the Stooges and Fishbone.
Check it, I got this cool shirt:
Oh wait. You can't see it. BECAUSE MY INTERNET SUCKS or LJ SUCKS, whatever sucks it's not letting me upload pictures.
Tomorrow, my beauties, tomorrow.