if i could have it my way, i'd never step foot in another one of those fany upper-echlons of high class and short skirted, techno beated, silky straitened hair, french-tip manicured hussied hip house hollywood dance clubs packed with the corporate tie sausage basket, just as i could never sit in blonde-bimbo playboy mansion villed, except that we're all suckers for a pretty face, who is the one you love? he's gyrating on the floor overdosing on pills. it was in the news. that's not my scene either.
the club scene is where i was born where black lipstick met fishnet met red pumps and sex pistols, but the club scene changed overnight and all the country farm fed girls got a taste of the city when they came to hollywood to become a star or famous by association or money, not where i grew up at all. not at all. and now it's circa 2007. they own the shit. all we have left are a few measly dive bars in this city, the alcohol drenched dive bars with the tatted bartendress, that's all that is left.
remember the lipstick lesbians who danced with the drag queens next to the long haired tattooed rocker boys circa 1988, that's where i would go. that's where i will go. late at night despite my mother's fright. and take designer drugs by moonlight. high forever. high all night.
who do we have to fuck to get a bed by the window?
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