apartmentstories's Polyvore

HEY GUYS. I'm so sorry for disappearing unexpectedly, I'd like to say it was because I was busy being the meat in a Levi Johnston/Adam Brody sandwich but unfortunately it was only because my computer decided to exercise its right to explode.
 
BUT ANYWAY. I'm currently in New York and have very sporadic internet. You should all totally be my Facebook friends [the link is on my profile] because I can get that on my iPod and everyone I know is deleting theirs so it's really boring.
 
I'm about to go to a party after spending all day trying to replace my ghetto-ass black ballet flats in which I've managed to wear holes in just over a month, with no luck. I wish I was one of my RP characters - Amanda Hillman would never have this problem. So I have this amazing new outfit until you look down and see crappy black flats. Fail. But when I get home or tomorrow, I'll read my messages and catch up [as far as possible] on all your sets! I can't wait to see them!
 
Oh, and if you like, tell me what's been going on in the roleplays I'm in!
 
<3 <3 <3

If you know the song that the title came from, I think I love you. AND I'm really really really tired, so I'll respond to messages/fave sets tomorrow night! Sorry! <3
 
Story:
 
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I slam down another Miller Lite and look at the band on stage, wondering exactly what the hell makes them so special that 350 kids will cram in here on a Tuesday night and bang their shaggy, spiked or mohawked heads to every song like they’re witnessing the second coming of Jesus. Fu.ck homework, right?
 
So do they have a gorgeous lead singer like The Stranglers or Regina and the Reddies? No, they have a six-foot-six beanpole who looks like Mr Potato Head in drag. Do they have a cool stage show like GWAR? Nah, they rarely even face the audience. Are they innovative like the Talking Heads? Yeah, right. They write three-minute, three-chord blasts of noise about school and cars.
 
But in spite of [or perhaps because of] all that, we love them. The crowd goes apeshit as Johnny Ramone bangs out the last chord in “I Wanna Be Sedated” and Mr Potato Head clears his throat.
 
“So guys?” The crowd cheers. See, this kid only has to say “so guys?” and it’s like he’s promised to buy them all a new car. “You may be aware that Tommy’s not with us tonight. He had something, um, come up.”
 
“Yeah, that something probably just came up Rita Skyy’s poop chute,” says Regina, draining her beer. “Like we don’t all know why he’s not here. Seriously, that guy’s such a manwho.re.”
 
It’s true. And God only knows how he manages it - while he might be a step or 10 up from Joey in the looks department, he still has a fair way to go before he catches up to, say, Paul Simonon. Hell, Paul SIMON’s got a better chance at doing the Blitzkrieg Bop in my lady parts than Tommy. But clearly he – and the dozens of girls he scores – feel differently.
 
“So, uh, we got a replacement, just for tonight. I’d like you guys to meet… Elvis Ramone!” He gestures toward the drumkit and a guy with shorter hair than the rest and wearing black shades steps forward.
 
“Hey guys, how ya doin’ tonight?” We give the new guy a loud welcome. “Wow, thanks, that’s really cool of you. So this is gonna be our last song, we hope you’ve enjoyed the show!”
 
He takes his shades off and wipes his forehead.
 
Oh my God.
 
“Sh.it!” I grab Sammie and Regina’s arms and point. “That’s him!”
 
“Who?” asks Sammie, more concerned with the progress Sid’s hand is making up her skirt.
 
“That Burke guy! He’s drumming for the Ramones.”
 
“What the fu.ck? Man, I wish I hadn’t said no when they asked me,” says Jim Reddie. “Look at all the love he’s getting.”
 
“Well, jackass, maybe that’ll teach you to have shot-drinking contests with Bators and Chrome,” replies his brother. “Those guys fu.cking BREATHE alcohol.” He walks behind Sid and flaps Sid’s arms. “IIIIII am the porcelain goooooddd!” he howls. “Repent before meeee!”
 
Jim looks like he’s about to repent all over his clothes. He runs to the bathroom, just as the last song ends.
 
“Hey, guys? I’m gonna go backstage and see if I can find out more about this Burke kid. See you round.”
 
I walk backstage, where the Ramones [and the one sham-one] are packing up their stuff. I did some speed before the show, so I’m feeling pretty confident. I walk up to Burke and squeeze his buttocks.
 
“Hey kid, you feel like being my hunk o’ burning love?”
 
I have to point out that when I’m not, um, under the influence, the likelihood of me ever a) going up behind a guy I’ve never met and groping him, and b) using a line like that is similar to the likelihood of me getting off with Jim Morrison. And he’s been dead for eight years. But right now I’m flying high.
 
He turns around and smiles. “Hey, you’re that chick who sang with the Reddies last week, right? I remember you.”
 
Wow. Cool. He actually remembers me. “Yeah, that was me. Was I so bad it left a lasting imprint on your memory?”
 
He smirks. “Yeah, you were terrible. Actually, I have no idea what you sounded like, ‘cause I was too busy being distracted by those blue hotpants. Our singer’s got the same ones, but I gotta tell you, I think you look better in ‘em. But don’t tell her that, she’d kill me.”
 
That’s right, he’s in that blonde girl’s band. “I’ll try not to. Although right now I don’t know who she is, so you have nothing to worry about.”
 
“Oh. I’m in Queenie and the Kings. I’m a King.”
 
Yes, you sure are. And I’ll polish your sceptre any time. “Hey, I went to school with that chick. But she wasn’t called that then. Her name was Deborah – guess that wasn’t very rock ‘n’ roll.”
 
He laughs. “You’re not wrong. But my name’s a thousand times worse. I’m Clement. Or Clem.”
 
“Hey, that’s a cool name. I don’t know anyone else called that. And I’m Kristal, but most people call me Kris.”
 
“Oh, I know. I remember Regina introducing you, I’d been hanging out to find out your name all night.”
 
I can feel myself blushing.
 
“So anyway,” he says, “Me and the guys have gotta jet. But can I call you sometime?”
 
Wow. It’s been quite the few days for guys asking me that – first David Robinson from the Cars, then David Johansen [he was high, but still], now Burke. I’ve got a date with one David tomorrow night and I’m hanging out with the other one the next day, but after that my week’s pretty much free. And this guy is attractive.
 
“Sure.” I write down my number on the back of a matchbook and hand it to him. “Are you coming to the Talking Heads show on Friday night?” [After which I had originally planned to add another David – Byrne – to my collection, but maybe that’ll have to wait].
 
“Yeah. Actually, we’re supporting them. So I guess I’ll see you there? Come backstage whenever you want.”
 
He smiles and walks off. Oh baby, you better believe I’ll come backstage. And I’ll talk so much to *your* head [the smaller one] that “come” might be the operative word.
 
Now, where did I put my emergency supply of plaster…

I made this really really quickly while procrastinating on going out and buying bleach. I've never bleached my own hair before and I'm quite nervous. This may not end well.
 
[ps - I know I still have two stories to do for my RPs, I'm having another dry spell when it comes to creativity. It sucks. But I will do them!]

I don't know what to call this. But you should go to the soundtrack and skip to "I Dig You" because it's awesome.

Story [finally]:
 
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"Hey Stuffy Steffie? You'll never guess who I'm gonna fu.ck tonight!" Annemarie Michaels aka A&M, easily the most, um, permissive of the Sunset Strip crew, shouts down the phone.
 
I really hate that nickname. She gave it to me when she realised my "list" consisted of exactly three musicians, one high school boyfriend and my former fiance Myron [when he could fit me into his schedule in between fitting his di.ck into his secretary]. I sigh.
 
"Let me guess, Axl's finally letting you grease his wheels." Axl's the one guy she wants, and the one guy she can't have because he's currently head over shi.tty Reeboks for my friend Carly. He also happens to figure in my list [it was a long time ago] which is why A&M's feelings toward me are comparable to, say, Slash's feelings toward barbers or Anthony Kiedis' toward shirts.
 
"Hah, I wish. I haven't seen those guys in forever. Last I heard they were in the studio laying down some song they wrote with Gnarly Carly. Think more... international."
 
Hmm. "I don't know... Europe? Def Leppard?
 
"Nah." She puts on a heavy accent, obviously meant to be European. "Ze Germans are coming!"
 
Yeah, probably all over your face. Seriously, this girl will do ANYTHING. I mean, I like her because she’s friends with Jayanne, and all Jayanne’s friends are cool, but I have no illusions about her... purity. "Scorpions!"
 
"Damn straight, babe. And I'm gonna let them rock me like a hurricane all night long! Are you and Gene coming? 8.30 at the Troubador.”
 
"Sure. I guess." It's now 6.30, which means it's time to get our asses into gear if we want a decent position. I wake up Gene, who's sleeping on the couch after some magazine photographer decided the best way to showcase the new Calvin Klein collection was on a beach at sunrise. "Hey! You want to hit up Scorpions at the Troob?”
 
"Sure. Just let me wake up enough so I don't feel like killing someone, and I'll get ready. Who're you gonna bring?"
 
Sh.it. I’m still so used to my (one-sided) monogamy with St Myron the Droopy that I haven’t thought about finding a date.
 
As if on cue, the phone rings. Gene picks up. “Yeah?” she mumbles.
 
“STILL WAITIN’ FOR MY BLUE GENE BABY QUEEN, PRETTIEST GIRL I’VE EVER SEEN!” bellows Dave Navarro. Gene holds the phone away from her head in horror.
 
“And that, my friend, is why you’re a guitar player.” She looks at me. “Yeah, she’s here. And if you want to speak to her, I’m sure you can just yell. Seriously, I bet they heard your David Essex impression IN goddamn Essex.”
 
“HEY STEFANI! I WAS JUST WONDERING. DO YOU WANT TO GO SEE THE SCORPIONS TONIGHT? I’LL COME BY AND PICK YOU UP AT EIGHT.”
 
Well, I wouldn’t want to spoil his game by taking the phone and talking like a normal human being. “YEAH!” I shout. “SEE YOU AT EIGHT. AND YOU OWE MY ROOMMATE MONEY FOR A HEARING AID.”
 
Gene puts the phone down and rolls her eyes. As promised, Navarro comes by at eight and we roll up to the Troubador in his black El Camino. We meet up with Carly and Axl, who’s trying to hide behind her to escape the death stares Annemarie keeps shooting at him from side of stage. At least she’s *at* side of stage, which I guess means her plans to be a Scorpion’s tail are making progress.
 
Halfway through “Bad Boys Running Wild”, I hear glass shattering behind me and turn around to find three guys fighting like champion pitbulls. Really, really drunk pitbulls.
 
“HEY! She’s my date, ass.hole, so why don’t you fu.ck off back to New Hampshire and make some goddamn hot sauce!” yells a guy with curly blond hair who could be Annemarie’s twin. He swings a punch at a very tan dark-haired guy in leather pants, misses, and ends up hitting the third guy, who’s wearing a white wifebeater and swearing at him in an English accent.
 
“Hey, fu.ck you, you girly-haired poofter!” shouts wifebeater guy. “She’s my bloody date. Go back to kissing Axl’s arse, that’s all the action you’re gonna get tonight.”
 
Standing against the wall, looking freaked-out but also a bit excited at being fought over by Steven Adler, Joe Perry and David Coverdale, is Dayzee Lynn. Eventually she steps in between them and whispers something that appears to satisfy everyone, because the three guys who are crazy about Dayzee suddenly stop fighting and instead start headbanging together to the solo.
 
After the show, Dave and I make our way backstage, where Jayanne and Tracii Guns are frantically making out against a speaker stack. Suddenly, a guy whose long brown curls give way to a bald spot at the top steps out from behind the speakers and makes a suggestive growling noise. Ugh.
 
“So, who do we have here?” he asks in a heavy German accent.
 
Dave narrows his eyes. “I’m Dave, and this is Stefani. My date.”
 
“Hey Stefani, you stiffen me! I’m Klaus. You want to come into our dressing room?”
 
I laugh. “Um, thanks anyway, but I really have to go now. I’ve got work in the morning.” Which is a total lie, but if A&M feels like showing her T&A to five of the ugliest men in rock, she’s welcome to them.
 
“Yeah, man. We’ve really gotta jet,” says Dave.
 
Klaus obviously misunderstands. “You’ve got a jet?” He leers at me. “This ridiculous boy can’t have a jet. I saw you arrive in his car. It’s a shitheap. Now *I* have a proper jet, and it’s got a hot tub and a kitchen full of whipped cream just waiting for a girl like you.”
 
I shudder. If it was Dave or Anthony or Mike Patton making that offer, rather than a balding German with a vastly inflated sense of his own attractiveness, I’d be so there. But then Dave whispers an alternative way of spending the night to me and I feel myself blushing bright pink. He pulls me out the door, leaving Klaus looking bewildered.
 
And then? Well, we get into his car, which may not be a jet but has all the room we need, and rock IT like a hurricane.

Really really long story:
 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 
"Oh, the car? My boyfriend bought it for me.” “Honey, your mom and I were wondering if you and your boyfriend wanted to come for pot roast tonight?” “Oh gee Robert Plant, I’d *love* to come over and band-fu.ck Zeppelin into the middle of next week but my boyfriend and I are looking for apartments in New York today.”
 
Wow. That sounds so weird. I, Amanda Kate Hillman, have a boyfriend. For the first time since I was in high school. And I love it.
 
This is not to say I’m not still up for a little fun with other guys. Paul understands that [and, come on, he’s got a pretty sweet deal because this means I naturally don’t object to him checking out other girls. You should have seen him layin’ his moves down on Bennie and Janine when we were partying at Max’s the other night]. But yeah, we’re pretty much exclusive and it’s been amazing.
 
This exclusivity started when he bought me a car. Yes, a car. It’s a 1959 Mercedes, silver with a mint-green leather interior, and the most breathtaking automobile I’ve ever seen. Even prettier than Roger Daltrey’s Bentley [although I can’t comment on *its* interior – care to enlighten me, Christine?] and almost too precious to risk on the roads of Los Angeles and Manhattan. Last time I actually had a car of my own it was a junked-out Pontiac Gram gave me when the Flying Burrito Brothers got signed and he elected to spend his portion of the advance on a spanking new Jensen-Healey. Which he promptly crashed, meaning the Pontiac went back to him and I went back to taking the bus.
 
Unfortunately, I wasn’t around when he delivered my new baby because I was in my apartment with Steven Tyler. That’s right. Apparently Velvet had told him where I lived in exchange for some $$$ [well, we girls have to get our priorities straight] since Jimmy Page cut her off after complaining she’d been spending too much time with Tyler and Mick. I have no idea what prompted this – it can’t have been the realisation after over a year that she is, in fact, a Band Aid, and therefore a muse to many other men aside from vertically-challenged guitarists with obvious self-esteem issues. Silly man. I bet he’ll come crawling back in no time – girls like her are very rare indeed, and definitely don’t waste their time on guys who call them “who.res”. Ugh.
 
So, Tyler showed up at my apartment, carrying a box. Now, I won’t deny that a few nights ago I gave him a drunken lap dance and pretty much invited him into my box, so I was definitely intrigued at his appearance. And as long as Velvet’s cool with it, that’s the most important thing. I ain’t no Nancy Spungen or Tina the Tart – my friends’ men are strictly off-limits.
 
“Hey, babe. What’s doin’?” He strutted in [he’s Steven Tyler. He doesn’t walk. He struts] and gave me a hug. And then kissed me, with lots of tongue. Well, well.
 
“Oh, hey, I got you this. Just ‘cause as soon as I saw it, I knew it belonged on the most beautiful blonde I’ve ever seen.”
 
I raised my eyebrows and took the box. “*The* most beautiful? Aren’t you forgetting someone?”
 
“Oh, sh.it. Yeah. But I always kind think of her as a brunette, no matter how many changes her hair goes through. And you know what’s weird? I always imagine that if we ever have a kid, she’ll be kinda pale, like Velvet, but with some of the darkest hair you ever saw. I don’t know where the he.ll that came from, but yeah.”
 
Whoa. Steven’s imagining having kids with Velvet? I guess the Aerosmith domesticity bug must be catching.
 
I opened the box and gasped. “Oh my God. Seriously, you shouldn’t have. That’s beautiful.”
 
It was a long-sleeved silk dress, the same shade of pale green as my car’s leather, screen-printed with flowers in pink and yellow. I have to say, it went perfectly with my colouring. And with the new jacket Glenn Frey had sent me from Paris after seeing me lust after it in Vogue, but that’s another story.
 
“So, why don’t you try it on? Model it? I wanna see if it looks as gorgeous as I think it will.”
 
“You mean, why don’t I take my clothes off in front of you? Are you sure Velvet’s ok with that?”
 
He sighed. “Yeah, totally sure. And, you know, what I feel for her is just… words can’t describe it. It’s intense. But I told her I just wanted to experience you one more time. She was the one who gave me your address.”
 
I was torn. I know he said she was cool, and SHE said she was cool, but I knew where this little “modelling” game was likely to lead and I didn’t want to stir things up. But he did buy me that lovely dress, and it would be a shame not to let him see me in it… or be the first one to take it off. I made my decision.
 
After we’d finished, we lay on my bed, the dress thrown over the rail at the end. We’d been so eager to get down to business that we’d even left the bedroom light on – something that’s usually a major no-no for me. I don’t mind it myself, but for some reason guys seem to think it’s a drag, so I usually make sure to turn it off.
 
Clearly Steven was starting to wish I had. “Hey, babe? I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but would you be ok if we turned off the light? It’s just that I had kind of a late one last night-” when DOESN’T he have a ‘late one’- “and this headache’s bumming me out. Maybe if we turn the light off it’ll help stop this goddamn throbbing and… SHIT. What the fu.ck?”
 
The room was suddenly plunged into darkness. Great, another blackout. This is, like, the third one this building’s had in a month.
 
And you know what was even better? I was actually meant to be staying at a hotel 20 minutes away. I know I have my own place, but I kind of feel uncomfortable bringing Paul here and having him see stuff other guys have given me. I’ve never felt this protective about anyone else; I get the feeling I might be about to break Groupie Rule #1. And you all know what that is.
 
I pulled my robe on and got up. “I’m meant to be staying at the Grand Mercure! I’d better see if anyone else has a phone I can call them from. Paul’s going to be there any minute.”
 
Tyler jumped off the bed. “It’s ok, babe, you stay here. I’ll do it.”
 
He ran out and knocked on the door of the next apartment. I could hear him asking the guy if he had any power.
 
“Oh my fu.cking God. Hey Artie! Come here! Fu.cking Steve Tyler’s fu.cking standing here asking if we got any fu.cking power. Holy sh.it!”
 
I could hear the guy’s roommate rushing to the door. “Whoa, man. This is, like, a trip. Are you like, you know, real?”
 
“Yeah, dude, I’m real. And I’d really like to know if you guys have a phone we can use.”
 
“Nah man, whole building’s out. I think it might be the whole street, in fact. Traffic lights aren’t looking good.”
 
“Sh.it. OK, thanks anyway, man.”
 
“Any time, Steve Tyler. Whooooaaa.”
 
I heard the door close and Steven came back in. “Looks like the whole area’s gone out. Have a look out the window, you see any traffic lights? Or any 18-car pileups?”
 
I looked out the window and, surely enough, the traffic lights had gone out. I could hear sirens in the distance, screaming toward us and bringing cops to direct the traffic. I turned to Tyler.
 
“Um, I really don’t mean to be an imposition, but is there any chance you could come down and help me hail a cab? I really have to get to the hotel, and I think those guys next door have a point. If a cab sees *you* hailing it there’s no way it won’t stop.”
 
Tyler smiled. “Anything for you, California girl.”
 
We went downstairs and waited.
 
I eventually got to the hotel at half-past eight, after battling the post-apocalyptic nightmare that is LA without traffic lights for a whole hour. When I arrived, I saw the most gorgeous car I’d ever seen parked outside, with a wad of notes as thick as my purse stuck under the windscreen.
 
Naturally, I had to take a look at this glorious machine. I wandered over and nearly fainted.
 
On top of the notes was a pale-blue envelope addressed to Miss A. Hillman. The note inside asked me if I would do Paul the honour of officially becoming his girl.
 
I ran manically into the lobby and screamed at the desk clerk for the phone. The next day I’d find out that Sid had overdosed and some anonymous ass.hole had made a sex tape with Christine, and everything wouldn’t be so perfect. But for now, all I wanted to do was call CBGB, where the Sex Pistols were playing a show and where I’d be headed as soon as I hung up the phone.
 
“CBGB, what can I do ya for?” asked Hilly Kristal.
 
“Hey, it’s Amanda Hillman. I need to speak to Paul Cook. Now! Please?”
 
After what seemed like ages, I heard the familiar London accent. “Amanda? Did you…”
 
I shouted so loudly that the other guests turned around. “YES! YES, I got it, and yes, I love it, and I love you, and yes! Yes yes yes yes YES!!!”
 
<3

Dear 50 item limit,
I hate you.
Love, apartmentstories.
 
I am obsessed with this song. I also want the dress except I know from experience that those dresses are mad unflattering.

[I just edited this and changed the top and pants to a dress because I wasn't happy with how the top and pants were just chilling there with no real context. I loved the colours on the top though!]
 
Story:
 
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Weird pickup line #12897988693: “The last time I saw you you were 15 and I got you a bucket to throw up in after you drank all my vodka.”
 
Awesome, Anthony Kiedis. Way to embarrass me in front of my friends.
 
We’re standing backstage at the RHCP show and I’m pretty sure he’s hitting on me. I have no idea why he would, because he dated my older sister for three months, but who knows. Maybe he wants to get back at her for dumping him for Perry Farrell.
 
As if on cue, he takes a gulp of his Grey Goose, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and asks, “So what’s Lane up to these days, anyway? Still knockin’ boots with that yoga-loving whale-saving vegan circus freak?”
 
Crimson, Lib and Briana snort with laughter. “Hey, my dad went to high school with Perry!” yelps Bri in mock indignation.
 
Anthony grimaces at me. “See, babe? Your sister’s dating a guy who sat in eighth-grade science with your friend’s dad. That’s kinda sketchy, isn’t it?”
 
Mic whips out her phone – a new one, mercifully untouched by Kings of Leon cooties – and Googles them both. “Hey, Mr 1962, watch it. You’re only three years younger than him.”
 
“And,” Libby giggles, “her BOYFRIEND is six years younger than you!”
 
“Duuuude.” He raises his eyebrows. “You’re dating a 40-year-old? You’re kiddin’ me, right?”
 
“He’s 39. And you probably know him.”
 
Anthony refills our glasses and stands there with one hand under his chin, his lower lip sticking out even more than normal. I guess this is the Anthony Kiedis Is Concentrating face. As opposed to, say, the Anthony Kiedis Is Undressing You With His Eyes face, the Anthony Kiedis Is Straining To Take A Dump face or the Anthony Kiedis Is Contemplating Suicide face, because the guy only seems to *have* one facial expression.
 
“OK, OK. Let me think… Mike Patton, Evan Dando, Mark Lanegan? I don’t know. As long as it’s not that fat-ass motherfu.cker from Limp Bizkit, those ass.holes may as well just call themselves the Red Hot Cholo Peppers and be done with it. Bas.tards should be paying us royalties. We fu.cking invented rap metal.”
 
“No, none of the above. Think… more related to Bob Dylan.” And eww, how could he ever think I’d want to engage in “the nookie” with Fred Durst. Not for all the three-dollar bills in the world, y’all$. But Mike Patton’s a different story altogether; if the chance ever came up, you’d better believe I’d hit that like the first of an angry god.
 
“Holy fu.ck. You’re doing the nasty with Jakob?”
 
“Yeah,” says Crimson. “And she’s flying to Paris with him later tonight.”
 
Anthony whistles. “Wow, babe, I gotta say that’s a decent effort. So… is your other sister available?”
 
I make a face at him. “You’re disgusting. And no, she’s not. She flew to Atlanta on Sunday to stalk Kings of Leon and I haven’t heard from her since.” And I hope to hell she’s refrained from getting their signatures tattooed on her ass. “And don’t even think about trying your luck with my dad’s girlfriend. Just ‘cause she’s named herself after one of your songs doesn’t mean you want to mess with my dad.”
 
“Hey, I know.” Anthony nods. “That story about him and Vince Neil’s shotgun is the stuff of legend.”
 
“Say what? Vince Neil?” asks Flea, the bassist.
 
“Oh yeah. Some guy filmed himself doing the deed with Brett here and put it on YouTube, and Dan wasn’t happy. He chose to express his unhappiness by preventing the kid from pursuing any career path requiring two complete kneecaps.”
 
“Whoa. That’s some heavy sh.it,” says Flea.
 
John Frusciante comes up, drink in hand. “Hey, man, why’re you hogging all the babes?” He looks admiringly at Mic. “Wow, anyone ever told you you should model?”
 
“No! Never. No one’s ever told me that before.”
 
The Chili Peppers’ drummer, Chad Smith, snickers. “Dude. She’s a Victoria’s Secret angel. Michaela McKay?” He looks at John and mimes turning the pages of a magazine, then makes a fist and jiggles it up and down in the region of his private parts. Real classy. I guess it’s true what they say about drummers and their lack of ability to express themselves like normal people.
 
“Oh. OHHHH.” John bows his head and puts both hands up, as if in the presence of a goddess. Which most guys think they are when they’re around her. “So, you wanna flap your wings to my place afterward?”
 
She laughs. “No thanks. But nice try.”
 
John looks dejected. “Hey,” he asks me. “You’re a model too, right? Weren’t you on the cover of Seventeen once?”
 
“Yeah. But I only did it ‘cause my mom’s a model and she wanted me to be one too. But my attachment to junk food won out.”
 
I look at my watch. Man, I have to haul ass to the airport if I’m going to catch that plane. Cher’s skipped the concert and flown on an earlier flight to meet up with Chris. Since then, my texts to her about such trivial matters as what hotel we were staying in, or for that matter what flight to catch, have gone unanswered. I wonder what she could possibly be doing.
 
“Hey, guys? I have to split.”
 
“Ooh, time to go climb Jake’s Eiffel Tower?” asks Alek, Crimson’s boyfriend. She slaps him playfully.
 
“You know it, son. Hey guys?” I look at the band. “It was really good seeing you again. The show was great.”
 
“Aww, aren’t you sweet,” says Anthony. Then he pinches my bottom. Some things never change.
 
I bail from the club and get into a taxi. Finally Cher’s taken a break from Chris’s sex pistol to answer my texts, and I now know exactly where I’m going to be charming Jake’s snake for the next couple of days. “JFK,” I say to the driver. I’ve sent all my luggage to Paris beforehand so, barring another incident like the one when I went to Venice Beach and my luggage ended up in Venice, Italy, it should all be there.
 
Next stop? The city of love.

My first CBGB set! I just lost three hours' worth of work because my other computer threw a fit, and I have been dealing with this by writing the very long story below and eating strawberry-flavoured cereal with chocolate sauce. Fffffuuuuuuu
 
Story:
 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 
“Oh yeah, put it right in. That’s it. Wow, Ian, I never knew you were so… big.”
 
“I may be a short bugger, but I’m all man where it counts, love.” Ian Dury winks at me.
 
“Well, I have to say, I’m impressed.” I wipe my hand on my black vinyl apron, leaving a sticky white mark. “You know, if three hours standing in my apartment in the middle of winter with your di.ck out hasn’t put you off, I might like to test that theory after we’ve finished.”
 
...What? You thought we were already… oh no. No, no, no. What we’re doing now is perfectly innocent – I’m making a plaster cast out of his, well, rhythm stick. Which is not to say I’m not open to the idea of being hit with it later [both slowly AND quick, I hear he’s very versatile], but right now my relationship with it extends solely to providing a pile of dirty magazines to assist its owner in becoming suitably… excited about the task at hand [no pun intended].
 
Usually, this isn’t the case. Generally my thing is to, um, immortalise guys’ private parts *after* they’ve become acquainted with my own. I’ve had Stiv Bators’ sonic reducer, Paul Cook’s sex pistol, Dee Dee Ramone’s rocket to Russia, Sting’s sting and many more. But apparently Ian had heard of my… unusual hobby when he arrived in New York and decided he just couldn’t wait that long. He’s got a show at CBGB tonight and he only came over at 3, which unfortunately hasn’t left much time for pursuits involving any white fluid other than plaster. But we’ll see how we go later tonight.
 
“Oi, Krissy? Phone’s ringing, love.”
 
“Sh.it!” Looks like I got a bit too absorbed in thoughts of shedding my New Boots & Panties with Mr Dury. I race over to the phone and pick up.
 
“Hey, bi.tch. Have you forgotten you’re supposed to be coming to sing backing vocals for the Reddies tonight? I mean, as much as I love these guys, *you* try getting them to learn lyrics that contain more than two different wor…AAAAHHH! Put me down! I didn’t mean it! Hey Kris, ya there?”
 
Regina Roxx, lead singer of Regina and the Reddies and one of my best friends, has obviously had two realisations at once. One, that I certainly had forgotten, and two, that drummers do not appreciate negative comments regarding their ability to memorise lyrics and are likely to respond by picking up the offender and dangling her out of the window of their apartment.
 
“Yeah, I’m there. OK, I’ll be done with Ian in about half an hour and I’ll come over.” I hang up.
 
“’Done with Ian’? That sounded very final. You sure I couldn’t tempt you into a bit of fun afterward? I’ll let you pretend to be a bucket of plaster if you want…” he utters the last sentence with the air of a parent trying to entice a stubborn three-year-old to eat their vegetables.
 
I snort with laughter. “Sure. No pretending needed. No way I’d let that-” I look at Little Ian – “go without sampling it first. But you know that band that’s opening for you tonight? Well, that was their singer and apparently I’m supposed to be singing backup. So we’d better get our asses into gear, ‘cause you’ve probably heard how much you don’t want to fu.ck with Gina.”
 
Ian winces. “I have indeed. If I’d gotten on her wrong side my whole body would be in the same position as my co.ck,” he says, looking at the plaster and shuddering slightly.
 
“Yeah, and your co.ck would be at the bottom of the Hudson River. So we should probably get going.”
 
Ian extracts his member from the mold and wipes it on his trousers. Classy. I swap my old jeans for a pair of blue sequined hotpants and some neon pink tights, and we walk up to the club in the freezing cold air.
 
“Hey! So kind of you to take time out of your busy schedule to honour a promise you made to your best friend three weeks ago.” Regina and her bandmates, Jack and Jim, come up to greet me and Gina and I do a complicated handshake.
 
“Hullo, young lady. I’ve heard you’re my support,” says Ian.
 
“Yeah? And I’ve heard you’ll need life support if you keep on talking like that.”
 
Ian roars with laughter. “Ha! Got me there, it looks like I will. I bet you can drink me under the table, too.”
 
Regina laughs. “You know, I probably can. But I’ll be here after your set if you want to find out.”
 
“Oi! Who’s this bird? And who’s the old bloke?” Sid Vicious pushes his way through the crowd and high-fives Dury.
 
“Hi, Simon. Does your mother know you’re out?” I ask.
 
“Nah. But *your* mother definitely knew where I was last night.”
 
I hug him and his girlfriend, Sammie Slick. She’s another of my best friends and, like Regina, is a fu.cking awesome singer. She’s dated Sid for ages; sometimes I wish I had a guy who could give me as stable a relationship as theirs.
 
But then I look at the guy who’s just come up behind Sammie and realise that maybe my current lifestyle’s not so bad. “Hey, Samantha. Who’re your friends?”
 
“Sh.it, David! You scared me.” Sammie turns around and hugs him. “OK, this is Regina, Jim, Jack, Sid you already know, Ian and Kristal.”
 
“Nice to meet you all. I’m David.”
 
“Yeah, he’s in this really amazing band called the Cars I performed with them last week,” says Sammie. “They’ve got some killer songs.”
 
He looks intently at me. “So, Kristal, what do you, you know, do?”
 
“Well, you know how Sammie’s talent is singing, and Regina’s a really great guitarist? Well, I’m pretty good at making paster casts out of guys’ di.cks. after I fu.ck them.” Well, I’m only being honest.
 
“I’m impressed.” So am I. I’ve seen so many leather jackets and pairs of ripped jeans that it’s kind of a novelty to come across a guy wearing a tux and sporting a brushed-forward 50s hairdo.
 
“Hey Dave! We gotta go tune up!”
 
“Sh.it, we’re playing across town and I have to split. But maybe I’ll see you soon?” He scribbles his phone number on a piece of paper, hands it to me and leaves. Which is kind of a relief – while I wouldn’t mind driving this Car any time, tonight’s schedule’s already kind of packed. Not only am I planning to engage in some sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll with Ian Dury, there’s also the possibility that my roommate Syl from the New York Dolls will have been dumped by his latest accessory [seriously, this guy goes through girls like the Ramones go through leather jackets] and looking for some comfort. Which, despite the fact that we’re more like brother and sister, I definitely don’t object to giving.
 
“Earth to Kris! We’re on!” Oops. I run backstage with Regina and the boys and get ready to make my stage debut. I don’t mind admitting that I’m shi.tting myself. The band launches into its first song, a scuzzed-out version of “Be My Baby.”
 
I look at the crowd and spot a guy in a black jacket and skinny tie sitting at the bar. When the song finishes I hear one of his friends addressing him as “Burke”. Burke… now where have I heard that name before?
 
I catch his eye and smile nervously, and he mouths “you’re doing great”.
 
Wow. We start the next song and this Burke kid smiles encouragingly. I look toward the side of the stage and see Ian having a last-minute nip of brandy before his show. He winks at me. I’m kind of looking forward to taking him back to my house later and seeing if Ian Jr fits as nicely into my lady parts as he did into the plaster.
 
But if anyone knows the Burke guy? Tell him I’m here a lot, and I’ll be his baby any time…