The zombie-faced janitor that chain-smoked in the john, was proud of me. I'd brought a Penthouse 'pet' up to my 12 X 12 residency room for 5 minutes. He figured I'd pulled a 'Muddy Waters', but I just wanted to showcase the squalor of the 'Foulmont' hotel in San Francisco. In my harried state, her entreaty of "now what do we do?" fell on deaf ears. (Afterall, I'd chastely stayed in her loft). There, she'd summarized a video about a Danish apartment complex, where "everybody watched everybody fucking everybody else, and there was a fire, and they bulldozed it, to reveal more fucking".
In a trendy 'lower Haight' bar (with hardware glued on the walls), she put out a contract on her 'connected' quasi-royal dad (whom she was blackmailing). I turned the offer down.
I wrote about her in 'Devil Brat', the lone 'rocker' from 'Shades of Dorian Gray' (released today on Anti records).
As a child, she drowned her own guinea pig, and was haunted by the ghost. She flayed her brother's face to see the results, then put pins in his bed. As an adolescent, she had a 'suicide pact' with a girlfriend, but backed out after the friend went through with it.
She'd stood me up at a Euro-trash souiree. Pink-haired vixens in G-strings and fishnet, nibbled on marinated chicken wings. Glitter-flecked tits fell out of torn T-shirts. A cute American prosecutor of murderers, tried to get me into a Marin hottub with her animal husbandry husband.
I returned to the 'Foulmont' frustrated. I'd be lulled to sleep by anguished moans and the tinkling cascade of urine spattering the atrium from the 4th floor landing. One of the SSI loons would keep vigil outside my room. Another (in bird watching regalia), would patrol the boarded up passage for fires. Roaches crawled over the tote where my grainola filled socks were hidden. HIV medical supplies were left on the closet shelf. Paisley intaglios eminated from the carpet vomit stain in the yellowed streetlight. It was the happiest time of my life.