I  G O T  M O R E  C R I C K E T S  T H A N  F R I E N D S

Today is Saturday. It's just me and the cat, hangin' out. My girlfriend left me about a month and a half ago to take up with some other semi-famous rock dude; if I told you his name, you'd know him. Oh well. I wish I could feel more emotional about it, however, it seems I have a deficient gene on my DNA chain that prevents me from giving a shit. I always knew that my ex was a groupie-in-waiting, otherwise why would she be with me? And it's not like I never thought she's leave. Girls ALWAYS leave me, that's a given. But the way that she literally leap-frogged from my cock to his surprised me. It was like groupie ballet. Now don't any of you start feeling sorry for me. I have been and always will be a loner by nature. And of course when you're in a band you're NEVER alone. We all know that credo. I'll miss her the same way I'll miss it when Seinfeld goes off the air. I hope the two of them are
very happy together. I really do . . .

Anyway, she left me with the cat for the weekend while she goes "a-cock-sucking."  I like the cat. Maggie, named after the baby on the Simpsons. She's in heat so every now and then I've got to diddle her with my pen. I hope it doesn't spoil the narrative for you. As I told you before, my apartment has bugs. Big old cockroaches that will  actually stand their ground instead of running. Well, my cat is a voracious hunter and likes nothing better than stalking and eating crickets, flies, snails, and the afore-mentioned roach. Unfortunately, she is also nocturnal. Every night when I go to sleep, she does lion country safari. My bedroom has become the killing floor. She will pull the legs off cockroaches so she can play with them easier, you see. Then she'll remove head from thorax, thorax from abdomen -- you get the picture. So every morning, I have to get toilet paper and pick up bits of cockroach, all parts still moving, mind you, and dispose of them. She used to eat the cockroach parts, but that made her puke. I won't even go into how fucked that duty was. Then there's the litter box ritual. When she's pissed off she'll shovel all the litter from the box onto the floor. Then I have to patiently sift the clotted chunks from the still-usable litter and replace it. At least she's not a finicky eater. It's one thing to get free room and board, but quite another to get shitty about it. 

Cats have great lives. All they do is eat, shit, watch TV, occasionally fuck -- wait, this sounds like MY life. Well, cats can't wear a Les Paul hung real low and pose about the bedroom like Jimmy Page, can they? That's what separates us from the animals; we can pose, they can't. AND cats can't get record deals, lets not forget. They can't tour on a bus, they can't shoot heroin, they can't lose all their money in Vegas, they can't bring their wives on tour with them to annoy the rest of the cats, they can't give anyone herpes, oh, and they can't say the wrong thing to a club owner and get 86'ed. So in retrospect, my life is much different than a cats. Oh, and one last thing: cats can't have a kit-kat clock on the wall that was the only thing that was theirs when their fucking girlfriend tool all their shit and bailed. Hmmmm I guess that sounded bitter. Wait a minute . . . maybe she moved out 'cause I wouldn't eat her box. Chicks like that, I'm told. I've never been an avid box eater. Something about burying your face in something that looks like the dude in Predator is not happening. Of course, I like my dick sucked. In fact, I would say it's a goddamn necessity. But with a dick, you can always see what you're getting. A chick could get a magnifying glass and scrutinize every nook and cranny. She could highlight every suspicious ridge or raised area. She could carefully note every pimple, every blister, every rash. In short, she could see what she's getting into. But with cunt you don't know what you're getting. They can look all nice and manicured but smell like a grease pit inside. Or you might have to hack through a forest of pubic hair with a machete just to find her cunt. Well, speaking for myself, I prefer a small Groucho down there. Just enough to let me know that she's old enough to GROW hair. Yeah, I'll bet my ex was pissed off 'cause I wouldn't eat her box. Many's the night she would pace our room back and forth, "Eat my box, eat my box," she would say. It's not like it was a BAD box. I just didn't like that ammonia smell and the . . . things in there. You know, little bits of . . . I don't know . . . call it not cunt. Plus, you're only an inch away from the asshole and who knows what the fucks in there? Corn on the cob, chili con carne, artichoke, whatever. If I drink REAL hard and don a lobster bib, I can do it. But sober, just having it starin' at you with those big rubbery lips. Forget it. I realize there's a double standard. I won't eat you, but I expect, nay, demand that you blow me. I admit this isn't a fair world we live in. Rock 'n roll will always be a chauvinistic and male-dominated society where a woman's role is sometimes relegated to the back of the bus. (I exclude my manager from this. She's a great person and would no doubt roast me for my opinions.) I didn't make up the rules; they just are. Like bringing your wife on the road, for example. Anyone knows that the only people who can get away with this are the very rich. They hire their own limos, drive their own buses, just so they can keep their wives out of everyone's face. This is true. Nobody wants to see your wife on the road, nobody wants her opinion. Every now and then it occurs to me that what I do is a business and that I wouldn't go to my girlfriend's work (if I had a girlfriend) and sit next to her computer console all day because it wouldn't be APPROPRIATE. Certain people don't understand this and then it becomes personal. They have to side with the wife and against the band and so on -- a no-win situation. So, lose the wife, keep the band, I say.  

Here are some more do's and don't: 

--Don't get too fucked-up to play so that you make the band sound like shit. 
--Don't be a fucking leech. Buy your own drugs once in a while. 
--Don't talk shit about you band dudes. You know, cliques within cliques. Secretive  whispering. Campaigns. Secret handshakes. Conspiracy theories. Who killed  JFK? Fuck if I know. 
--Don't get too possessive about the songwriting. Let the best song win. Not every  band writes songs like Van Halen. It's a good thing too, 'cause they suck. 
--When you're on the road, don't be a slob. Don't leave your used condom in your  best friend's bunk. A little gift from the sperm fairy. 
--Don't be late all the fucking time. There's nothing worse than some dildo who keeps the band waiting all the time. 
--If you have drugs, don't hoard them. I hate people with their little mini-pipes and single-hit portions hiding in the corner like Reefer Madness. Stinginess is for fags. Share. 
--And numero uno of them all -- don't fuck your band mate's girlfriend. Don't do it.  Letting a chick break up a band sucks. There's always going to be another chick to  fuck. 

SO that's the rules. Follow them carefully and you'll probably still never make it. You do everything right and you still get fucked, that's the wonderful business we're in. Music by geeks for geeks. Years of misery and poverty punctuated by occasional glory. The best thing I've achieved in my career is that I STILL don't have a day job.  I can still act like a kid, get up when I want, piss on my neighbor's lawn, let him piss on mine, dress funny and get my dick pierced with a rusty needle, get hangovers  regularly, fuck chicks, hang out with twenty-year-old rock dudes that DON'T think I suck and don't dole out advice like Socrates and then contradict themselves in the same sentence. My advice is, if you wanna stay young, don't grow up. If you start to lose your hair, shave your head. If you start getting a bit too fat, hang yourself.