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Susie Leaves the Nurses to their Doody, and Tells More
Mama said don't ever marry a man who plays guitar. Her daddy picked, so she knew. Stompin in Delacroix, pyramid of cans tumbling in the kitchen, Hank. For most of my life I was loyal to mama's credo and only fucked them. Then I became the person mother warned me about. That's when the fun really began. No one could have told me when I was holed up in a Vancouver suite with the Doors snorting and giving blowjobs - well, no one could have told me anything. I had a pressing engagement. But if any ole man had bent over the current rocker's ass and whispered in my shell-pink ear that performing up front topped even this; wailing in front of some folks screaming my name in ecstasy, plenty others staring expectantly, held still by indifference, and especially, oh them, the courteous who spit solo - acapella, so to speak, but, In a band of brothers, IS THAT CLEAR! - before rising pissed, to spit in tones of Mephistopheles... I would have paused just long enough to tell him: Yeh, piss off. I'm busy. Returning to work, I'd offer, Better things, baby. Let me tell you, or don't: I am charged by run-on days of excess and sensory immersion. Most of all, I relish the sensual trickle as details meld, images scatter, and streets of cities open wide. Cities I forget, as I lose numbers and names, miss planes, and let go everything but the feeling. Back
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