Wed. August 24th, 1994, Phoenix, AZ.
It’s 120 degrees here and the sky is huge. In spite of the heat they seem to be big on poetry in Phoenix. I read 4 poems then almost passed out from the heat. My t shirt was soaked with sweat and some weird fan boy started following me around trying to buy my t shirt. Finally I was saved by Torment the Drag Queen who is now the official poetry tent MC. Torment came and stood between me and my loopy fan boy and told the fan: “Get down on your knees and lick my shoes then we’ll see about Maggie’s t shirt.”
The guy scratched his head for a second then turned and walked away. I kissed Torment’s powdered cheek and lay down on the dirty grass and tried to recover from borderline heat exhaustion.
Thursday August 25th San Diego
I performed a bunch of times but nothing all that exciting happened.
I was lying on a couch in the Breeder’s dressing room when Evan (the guy who’s job it is to make juice for The Beastie Boys) saw me and said I looked sick so he brought me into the Beasties’ dressing room and made me a huge carrot juice.
The Beastie Boy I Have a Crush On was hanging out and we talked for a while. He told me he thought he’d seen me in an airport 3 days earlier. I said it wasn’t me but I was secretely pleased that he was hallucinating visions of me in strange airports.
Liz the Poet and I ate together. The catering tent was set up inside an indoor parking structure and all the food smelled like gasoline.
Liz was wearing a t shirt with a picture of a kitten on it. Above the kitten Liz had written “LIZ: Poet ,Cunt, Whore.” Liz is not one to mince words. She has a poem called “All Women are Whores.” And one called “My Country My Cunt” which she and Torment the Drag Queen do as a duet. Liz says “My Country” and Torment says “My Cunt.”
Liz is having an affair with a guy named Joe. Joe’s official job title is Snowman Roadie. He’s in charge of the 8-foot papier mache Snowman that L7 have on stage with them. He and Liz are crazy in love.
Now it’s about 9pm and I’m riding with The Breeders on their tour bus and we’re heading for LA. Me and Levi, the Breeders Road Manager, are having a love affair but we’re trying to keep it a secret so I’m not going to write about it.
Saturday August 27th, San Francisco
Performed 4 times today and it went pretty well. I taped a copy of me and my band’s CD to my ass every time I went onstage. Then I’d turn my back to the audience, point at my ass and say: “This is my promotional device and this is my CD, please buy it.”
I went to do a set on the 2nd Stage. Sterolab were going on right after me and right in the middle of my piece, their guitar player started checking his guitar tone really loudly so I couldn’t hear myself. I turned around and gestured for him to please hold it for a minute but he just made a snotty face and hit a power chord. I finished my piece, threw the microphone at him, and stormed away. I hate Stereolab.
I marched into the catering tent to tank up on coffee and bumped into Billy Corgan, the Smashing Pumpkins Guy. He was in an expansive mood. He gave me this big hug, sat me down and asked what was the matter.
I told him all my problems and he gave me career advice then said he’d come play guitar for me during one of my sets. Then my fellow poets Wammo and Shappy appeared, sat down with me and quizzed me in depth about Kim and Kelly Deal whom they worship. So I told them about how Kim doesn’t ever change her pants but is really a sweetheart. That was the clincher for Shappy. He doesn’t change his pants either. Now he’s got this big fantasy about him and Kim breeding and frolicking and never changing their pants.
Friday September 2nd, Los Angeles, Day Off
Last night me and Levi and the Breeders caught a plane from Seattle to L.A. The tour bus dropped us at the airport in Seattle and Kim Deal didn’t want to get off the bus. She was holed up in the back lounge,burning candles and figuring out Hank Williams songs on guitar. All the rest of us piled off the bus. Finally, Levi had to practically pull Kim off the bus.
The whole sorry bunch of us traipsed through the airport.
Everybody stared at us. By this point Kim hadn’t changed her pants in probably 2 months. And I don’t really think she’d bathed either. I don’t know why. She still seems to sing and play guitar just fine though.
We got to The Roosevelt Hotel around 2AM. Me and Levi have this big suite with a view of Hollywood Boulevard and a throbbing neon sign that says “Roosevelt.”
Sunday Sept 4th, LA
I hate LA. I can’t go anywhere because I don’t know how to drive and Levi is busy doing important road manager business.
Last night I got really stir crazy so I went down to the pool and furiously swam laps. Back and forth and back and forth and then all the sudden I see this hand in the water. I totally freak out, swallow huge gulps of water then come up gasping for air. Then I see that it’s only Wammo the Poet sticking his hand in the water, trying to get my attention.
“Wammo, what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to rescue you. Liz told me you were stranded here so here I am.”
So I went up to the room and put clothes on then went off with Wammo and Shappy and a few guys from the Lollapalooza coffee booth. They were driving around in this huge Ryder truck that the coffee people store all their coffee-making supplies in and also live in.
We tooled down Hollywood Blvd in the coffee truck. We went over to Liz’s house and from there walked to Liz’s friend Joan’s house. Liz’s friend Joan really liked me even though I was in a surly mood.
She gave me three cups of coffee and some bananas and quizzed me about my brief acquaintance with Courtney Love whom she worked with a few years back.
Wammo got drunk. Liz and Joe the Snowman Roadie were kissing in a corner. The coffee boys got drunk. Me and Joan talked. The sun started to come up, the sky turned pale blue over the palm trees. I felt better. Joan’s friend gave me a ride back to the Roosevelt. Levi was sound alseep.
Monday September 5th, LA, The Last Show
I have a horrible cold and performed only once. Billy from the Pumpkins played guitar for me. He was wearing a big straw hat that obscured his face and I introduced him merely as “My love slave Bob” but the audience wasn’t completely fooled and spent the whole time trying to figure out if that was indeed Billy Corgan and they didn’t pay attention to the fine subtleties of my new poem called “Your Poetry Sucks.”
I watched the Beastie Boys for the last time and for the last time watched the way The Beastie Boy I have a crush on’s pants sagged loosely over his very small butt. And maybe this is what I got out of Lollapalooza, a bunch of crazy new poet friends, and a possible sequel to the Stupid Jerk I’m Obsessed With: “The Beastie Boy I Have A Crush On Who Wears Ill Fitting Pants That Sag Loosely Over His Small Perfect Ass And Basically Doesn’t Give Me The Time Of Day But I Don’t Really Give A Shit Because Frankly I’ve Evolved Beyond My Obsessive Phase And Besides, I Got Bigger Fish To Fry.”
Yeah, that’s it. That’s what I got from Lollapalooza. What more could a girl want?