'I, Axl'

2011-06-15T03:30:00.000-07:00

178. The End.

2009-02-26T03:07:00.000-08:00

For now...

177. The Plug Is Pulled

2009-02-26T03:03:00.000-08:00

“Having exceeded all budgeted

and approved recording costs

by millions of dollars it is

Mr Rose’s obligation to fund

and complete the album, not Geffen’s.”

- extract of letter sent from Geffen to Guns N Roses’ Management, February 2004.

176. Slash Makes A Valid Point

2009-02-25T03:15:00.000-08:00

Back in the day Axl was obsessed with

the image of Christ on the Cross. No, wait

obsessed is the wrong word for it. He was jealous.

That’s it. Jealous of the attention.

He couldn’t see why, after touring his

ass off and seventeen gazillion albums sold

more people still knew who Jesus was.

He genuinely saw Christ as a competitor!

I was, like, dude, Motley Crue, sure.

Nirvana and Pearl Jam, yeah,

but some guy who died two thousand

years ago? Don’t sweat it, brother.

And, anyways, Jesus isn’t all that.

Yeah, he has a strong brand image

a fine line in merch and a loyal cross-territorial

fanbase, but he doesn’t have the chops we do.

What did he say to that? I don’t recall.

I don’t think he said anything.

But the next day on tour he had his PA

make arrangements to have a crucifix built.

Polished mahogany, red velvet foot-rest,

tour gold-leaf six inch nails - the works.

That’s pretty extreme dude, I said.

What are you going to use it for?

What do you think I’m gonna use it for?

I’m going to have myself crucified on stage.

I mean, if Jesus survived it, so can I. Now

shut up and go play your guitar somewhere.

And for a while I think he seriously thought about

having his feet and hands hammered to that cross.

Axl being Axl though, he soon moved on to the next

thing: Kaballah, Scientology, anal bleaching and so forth.

He forgot about his crucifix, left it in Cleveland or Cologne

or somewhere, but he didn’t forget about Christ.

In fact, Christ really bothered him, being so adored and all

and today I believe he still continues to walk in Christ’s shadow.

What do I mean by that? Well, it’s obvious. The guy so

desperately wants to be holy that it has crippled him creatively.

He’s martyr himself for a cause he’s lone since forgotten.

The only miracle he’ll perform will be getting that damn album done.

And we all know that the second coming of that gnarly

dude in the robes is far more likely, wouldn’t you say?

175. Past Life Regression

2009-02-24T02:04:00.000-08:00

Sandalwood candles

burn, the sound of the

ocean, my breathing

deep and measured,

bare footed on the

rug, eyes closed, hands

splayed on the arm rest.

The present day slipping

away like layers of skin

or photos from a leather

bound family album;

a human onion unpeeled

by the hands of a loving soul

my mentor my spiritual beacon.

Months and months of daily

exercises bring us to this

stage of understanding,

acceptance and what she calls

“emotional maturity” as she

draws me deeper down into

these murky waters of the self.

A total calmness pervades -

a calmness like I’ve never felt

and I am totally at ease, completely

trusting of this beautiful person

whose only goal is to save my soul

and unlock the box I’ve buried

deep life a coffin of bitter memories.

Back we go, far back, through

the early LA years, the late Indiana

years, reversing the coming of age

of adolescence, of childhood, of

everything, back beyond the beginning

breaking through walls I’ve never

been able to get around – or over

accelerating now, the sound of the ocean,

the feel of the rug still there but now

my mind is flying, stripped of ego.

I am free; skin, bones, hair and teeth

disengage as I become fluid and I am

the rain, I am a thousand drops of rain

seeking a black tarn on a remote mountain.

I am a homesteader squinting from his

porch across the barren planes of Idaho

I am a Elizabethan courtier in a dual

with a rival in love, I am a Captain

of a ship without a map chasing horizons

I am a Sultan of the Ottoman empire

lavishly clothes in silk route fineries.

I am a catholic priest in the Avingon Papacy

I am a lowly horse-tender for the heroes

of the Byzantine Crusades, I am the first

king of Hungary, the second king of Denmark

I am Thorfin Ragnasson and I am coming

for your wives, your lives, your children

I am destructor of Chang’an, capital of the

Tang Dynasty, the man that you fear.

I am bearded author of a book they call

Beowulf, I am Islam’s most feared enforcer

I am smallpox carrier, I am Barbarian warrior

I am flood victim at the Temple of Luxor

my soul swept away on the tides of the Nile

and I am especially Roman leader with curled

hair, strong nose, fierce reputation – Emperor Rose.

174. In The Studio

2009-02-23T01:32:00.000-08:00

“You know if they dropped

the fucking bomb on the planet

and just levelled the place

and you were, like, the only survivor

and you’d be walking along

and at first you’d just see basic destruction,

like collapsed houses and sparking electrical cables

and shit, but as you keep on walking

you’d see, like bodies, scattered here and there,

and maybe they don’t look superficially damaged

but they’re dead alright, and you keep walking

and you see smoking shoes lying in the street,

and bodies, all bald and burnt and shit,

like charred down one side or something,

and everything would be

quiet except for the low whistle of a warm

nuclear wind blowing in from the east,

and then you start seeing more bodies,

piles of them, flesh ripped from their bones,

their eyeballs incinerated in their sockets,

their hands twisted and distorted, skulls

grimacing, rictus, the strangely sweet smell

of burning flesh everywhere, the sky dashed

with red hues, everything dead and useless,

gone and hollow, and you just stand there,

grabbing at our face, screaming, screaming

screaming into a void of nothingness.

OK? Well, that’s exactly how I want your

drum fill to sound, bro.”

173. Axl And His Hairdresser

2009-02-19T09:32:00.001-08:00

So.

I’ve been working on a new look.

I figure people need to see a new me.

A new ‘Axl.’

I’ve been working on some sketches.

Some ideas. Research.

I figure black people are kinda cool these days.

I figure that’s what the kids are into.

You know, like, the whole urban vibe?

The whole natty freedom fighter black power Bob Marley thing?

Right. So I’ve based my look on that.

And since you’ve been doing my since like forever,

I figure you’re the person for the job.

So are you ready to be blown away?

Are you ready for a whole new Axl idiom?

Are you ready to meet the future?

And are you ready to be a part of it?

OK. Cool. Here we go:

Cornrows.

I want motherfucking cornrows.

And you’re going to do them.

And they’re going to be awesome.

And you know in six months every suburban

white kid’s going to be rocking this shit.

You dig?

Dig. So

let’s do it.

172. Slash’s Lightbulb Moment

2009-02-18T02:17:00.000-08:00

Fuck it.

I’ll just form Guns N’ Roses without that douchebag,

the drummer or that Keith Richards guitar guy.

Yeah, Izzy. Whatever.

I don’t need those guys.

Duff will be in, I know he will.

He’s been bored out of his skull since his pancreas exploded.

Duff’s cool, always was. A good guy to be around. A punk, you know?

I just need to find another douchebag singer.

Maybe someone from a grunge band who ain’t dead yet.

Maybe that dick from Stone Temple Pilots.

Yeah, and we’ll have a name that’s hard and soft, just like the Gunners.

Something like

Concrete Mittens or

Switchblades & Cotton Candy

or maybe Velvet Revolver.

Some shit like that.

We’ll do a record.

Tour the world.

Make a million.

Get the party started again, yo.

171. The One With The Hat

2009-02-17T02:23:00.000-08:00

Oh, you're that guy.
The bassist? Yeah. Guitarist.

That's what I meant.

The one with the hat, right?
Sure. I remember you.

170. Slash's Last Ditch Attempt

2009-02-16T05:00:00.000-08:00

Come on man.
I mean, just think about it.
The Chinese Democracy ain’t happening.
and the Gunners are a laughing stock
But it’s not too late to pull it back, Bill.
I think, the world’s waited long enough
don’t you?
Forget those guys and lets go back to the beginning:
the kick-ass days
the good old
bad old days.
Duff’s in. Izzy’s itching to play, I know he is.
And Adler’s in no fucking position to say no.
We’ll write the real sequel to Appetite.
We’ll eat those pussy-ass bands like
Green Day
My Chemical Romance
and The Strokes
for breakfast
Smacked out or clean
as a whistle -
we’ll do it any which you
want buddy,
it’s no sweat off my balls
I just want to rock.
So what do you say, buddy?

Um.
Who did you say you were again?

169. 5.03am, Slash And Axl Reunited At Last. Briefly.

2009-02-15T07:17:00.000-08:00

- Wake up, dude it’s me….I’m here to get the band back together.
- What. What’s happening?
- Sorry to wake you good buddy, It’s me, Slash.
- How…I mean, did Rico let you in? I’ll fire his ass back to whatever fucking island dictatorship he came from. Who are you anyway? I don’t have any money. I never handle it…
- It’s me man, Slash.
- Do I know you?
- Of course you do. We formed the Gunners, man. We ruled the world in ’89!
- Are you the guy with the hat?
- Yes, the guy with the hat.
- And the snakes?
- Yes, the snakes. Dude, quit fooling around. It’s me, your old bro.
- And the cigarette dangling from his mouth?
- Yes! Look, it’s still there, see? Marlboro Red. And the hat. And look, I’ve even bought a bottle of Jack for us to share, just like old times, like when we lived in that shit-pit on the Strip, remember?
- I’m afraid this space is drink and drugs free. I’m going to have to call my security.
- There’s no need to do that, dude. I just want to talk about putting the band back together.
- The band is still together, dude. Haven’t you heard? Chinese Democracy is in the bag, bro. And it’s the greatest fucking rock ‘n’ roll album ever made.
- What, better than Toys In the Attic? Or Exile? How about Zep IV?
- Yup. Way fucking better. This motherfucker shits on old those dinosaurs from a great height.
- Better than Hanoi Rocks?
- Don’t even insult me by mentioning those mincing Fins in the same sentence as my band.
- Don’t forget it was my band too…
- Whatever.
- Whatever, indeed.
- That’s what I said.
- I love you, man.
- Well, I don’t love you.
- That’s because you’re incapable of love.
- I love myself.
- And therein lies the problem. Anyway, dude, what the fuck? Are you wearing a hairnet?

168. Dreams Of A Better, More Fulfilling Existenc

2009-02-13T02:13:00.000-08:00

Axl is in the midst of a strange sexual fantasy.

He is dreaming about a girl with huge thighs.

She is naked except for a pair of hiking boots.

She is a big, strong, healthy-looking girl.

Her ass is big too; like a white medicine ball.

She’s not the type of girl he’d normally go for

yet he is completely turned on. He is in love.

He wants to climb a mountain with this girl.

He wants to bury his face in her big white ass.

He wants to lick her until his tongue is swollen,

distended and just hanging there like a dog’s.

He wants to feel her thighs around his head

He wants to be made deaf to the world by them.

He wants to sit down eat a packed lunch with her.

Maybe on a precipice overlooking a remote canyon.

He is experiencing new feelings and new emotions.

These waves of love and desire are alien to him.

He awakes, sweating and erect. He guiltily jerks off.

He has no idea what any of it means. Yet the girl with

the big ass and thighs stay with him all day, as does

the image of a nice quiet luncheon somewhere remote.

167. Books (Axl In Exile)

2009-02-11T02:18:00.000-08:00

All the lights are out

save for a halogen lamp;

I sit in its cast circle

a halo searching for

an angel, cross-legged and

straight-backed I read Napoleon

Machiavelli, Sun Tzu

and a Bette Davies biog.

Devoid of drugs, love,

chaos or a schedule

I find solace in books

for the first time in my life.

Here for the first time is

a semblance of routine

a welcome discipline and

a wealth of knowledge

an insight into great minds to

remind I’m not alone

in my militant thinking, my

desire to lead from the front

written confirmation that my

strength is my weakness and my

weakness is my greatest asset

for it is that which makes us human.

Here, in the pages, I search for

answers but forget the questions

I keep a dictionary by my side

and learn a new word every day.

I trace the words with my finger

and I know my lips are moving

but there is no-one here

to see them, no-one to

break the silence that

for a few moments at least

seems finite, only for the

sun to then rise again

whereupon I will close my books

conclude my studies, my meditations

and step out from the circle

of light to stretch like a cat

then slowly pad my way to the boudoir

clicking the lamp off on the way.

166. Slash (Remember Him?) Speaks

2009-02-10T02:04:00.000-08:00

Axl who?
Oh yeah.
That guy.
The redhead right?
That asshole owes me money
Do I miss him?
Are you fucking crazy?
I miss him like a hole
in the cock.

But…I guess we did have
some good times together
back there.

And, yeah. I guess I do
kinda miss those high times
we had.

And I guess it would be
cool to charter our own
jet again.

165. The Malibu Years Pts XXII – XXIX

2009-02-09T02:15:00.000-08:00

XXII.

I’m thinking about entering this year’s Malibu Chili Cookoff

I’ve been working on my secret seasonings.

I’m thinking of entering it undercover.

I need to think of a false name.

Like maybe Steve or Andy.

XXIII.

Surfing is big here.

Bigger than in Indiana.

XXIV.

Golf is the last refuge of the living;

that bridge between life and death.

XXV.

Often when I’m sleeping I dream of the California State Highway.

I dream about how flat and smooth and silent it is.

I imagine its tarmac and asphalt top layer cracking open.

In my dream I pull over and get out of my car.

I step over to the crack and I peer into it.

It is deep, but not that deep.

Inside I see all my family and friends.

Ex-girlfriends too.

Everyone I’ve ever known is there.

They’re all smiling and having fun.

They wave and say “Come and join us, Bill. It’s great here in this crack in the highway!”

But I never do.

I always step back from the crack and turn towards my car.

Towards the open road.

Then I wake up feeling funny.

Out of sorts.

XXVI.

I don’t ‘do’ sun.

It turns my skin

pink and

tightens it

like a snare drum.

XXVII.

I heard they were going to offer me the keys

to the city but I guess they changed their minds.

XXVIII.

I can watch porn for up to ten

maybe twelve hours at a stretch

I have one of the biggest porno

collections in California.

And that’s not me showing off.

- that’s a fucking fact.

XXIX.

Like Steve or Andy,

I need to think of a false name.

I’m thinking of entering it undercover.

I’ve been working on my secret seasonings.

I’m thinking about entering this year’s Malibu Chili Cookoff.

164. Axl's Shit List

2009-02-06T03:54:00.000-08:00

David Geffen
Bret Michaels
Nikki Sixx
Vince Neil (for killin’ Razzle)
CC Deville
that guy from Kerrang!
that guy from Hit Parader
Andy McCoy
Bin Laden
Kurt Cobain
Kurt Cobain’s bitch
Don Dokken
Johnny Thunders (for dyin’)
Craig Stenzer
fucking security guards at shows (for pushing kids around)
Erin Everley
Stephanie Seymour
Eddie Vedder
Tommy Hilfiger
Rodney Bingenheimer
Scott Asshole from Velvet Revolver
the rest of those Velvet Revolver guys
Pigeons Of Shit Metal
Puffy
Snoop
Jovi
50
fags, cops, feminists, lawyers, haters etc
Kip Winger
Kim Fowley
Lars Ulrich
the PC police/pigs
Reagan / Bush / Clinton / Bush / whatever
my band
God.

163. Driving, A Doppelganger

2009-02-04T06:33:00.000-08:00

Driving -
just driving;
my first fresh air
in weeks.

A side-street somewhere
off La Cienega or
maybe Sepulveda,
late -

a vision
of a dude in
leathers, flame haired,
antsy.

Stricken
I swerve, do a
double-take,
adrenalised:

an apparition
of me in
Ray-Bans
by the road-side

his car
is broke and steaming
the hood up,
smoking.

He’s leaning
and I’m staring
bullets boring:
jaw tight

the night
thick with static,
ears humming,
temple flexing,

glancing up
I see his face
in the light:
it’s not me

just some
kid who looks
like me -
but damn

he looks
so similar my blood
runs cold;
I’m frozen

both looking away
in unison,
coughing nervously
popping a Xanax,

reaching for my
breath, waxy
in my throat,
driving on

taking the ramp
onto La Cienega or
maybe Sepulveda,
heart pounding

traffic monotone
and rhythmic
I keep it steady,
smoking,

damn though
it was like
looking back in
time

seeing myself:
young beautiful
hungry and
unbroken,

seeing that
fearless hustler kid
I used
to know

seeing something
I miss, realising
the past is a
foreign country;

accelerating impulsively
lurching recklessly
into the LA
night -

an anonymous
cavalcade passing
in quiet
succession

heading
in
both
directions.

162. Unpublished Interview

2009-02-03T02:10:00.000-08:00

Unpublished transcript by Craig Stenzer for short-lived official website www.imaxlroseandyourenotaxlrose.com, circa 2003.

CS: Hello Axl.
AR: Word up. Do you want a drink? Hey, Rico – get this kid a drink!

CS: Thanks man. I wanted to start by asking how you’re doing?
AR: I’m tickety-boo, thanks for asking. Wait…didn’t you use to be in my band?

CS: Your band?
AR: Yeah, man. I’m sure you sat in on bass in some Gunners sessions in ‘94. Your name is Robbie right?

CS: No, it’s Craig.
AR: Awesome. I’m with you 100% hundred on that.

CS: So, Axl, who are your Top 5 influences?
AR: Mr Jim Beam. Mr. Jack Daniels. Myself. Charles Manson. Manhatma (sic) Ghandhi. In that order.

CS: What song would you like played at your funeral?
AR: No music, just one minute’s silence. Maybe longer. Like….one hour’s silence? And I want a solitary black rose thrown in my coffin and my ashes scattered over John Lennon’s grave. He was definitely my favourite Rolling Stone.

CS: You want to be buried and cremated?
AR: We’ll work something out. Geffen can foot the bill.

CS: How’s Slash doing these days?
AR: Who?

CS: But you’re still friends with Izzy, aren’t you?
AR: Whatever. He helps around the house sometimes.

CS: What would you say to people who accuse you of being a megalomaniac?
AR: I’ve never stolen anything in my life. Except maybe a few hearts, right?

CS: How did you react to the recent events of 9/11?
AR: I had a full-body massage. Played a little golf. I’m thinking of maybe incorporating the imagery into the live set. Some people might say that’s crass, but I’m not so sure…

CS: Some people might deem it a little insensitive?
AR: Awesome. I’m with you 100% on that.

CS: What about Osama bin Laden?
AR: Word is he’s a big Guns N’ Roses fan.

CS: Really?
AR: Yeah, I’d say so. Most people are so…you do the math. And if he’s not then Saddam is, so either way I figure we’ve got a couple of dictators in our fan-club. It’s funny.

CS: Funny how?
AR: Huh?

CS: People have suggested you’re a control freak though – just because of the way the band has turned out.
AR: How do you mean?

CS: Like, how you sacked all the members and then bought the sole ownership of the name Guns N’ Roses, then kinda disappeared?
AR: I did? Right on. That rules. I think if I wasn’t me I think that I’d think me was cool for doing that, you know? I mean, you’ve got to have balls to survive in this business and all I can say about them other cats is, they were all sac and no scrotum. And it’s not even how big they are anyway, but how they hang that’s important.

CS: And how…how do your balls hang?
AR: I know we’re in West Hollywood, but don’t be a faggot, man.

CS: Do you believe in God?
AR: I believe in a universal spirit force that possesses each of us individually and selects some of us to be a genius and some of us to be less fortunate. Like cripples and stuff. I
think this God wears black and rides a Harley. But the twist is - get this - he’s a chick. Yeah, a black chick. Like Oprah!

CS: You think God looks like Oprah Winfrey?
AR: What are you talking about? Are you drunk?

CS: So do you believe in the afterlife?
AR: Maybe, but I believe in rock ‘n’ roll more.

CS: What’s your favourite joke?
AR: President Clinton. That guy’s a fucking joke.

CS: Well, I mean…he’s not actually president right now.
AR: Sure, but they’re all assholes right? Him and Nixon.

CS: What are your goals for the future?
AR: World peace. The way I see it, there’s only me and Bono capable of achieving that goal, and the little Irish fella ain’t fronting. I mean, has anyone actually heard of U2 these days anyway?

CS: Why is the new album [Chinese Democracy] taking so long to record?
AR: I’m done.

(kicks over chair, leaves).

161. The Malibu Years Pts I - IX

2009-02-02T01:48:00.000-08:00

I.
I got Spears
to the left of me
Hanks to the right
here I am.

II.
I bought a pineapple tree from a man called Paco but when I got it home I discovered it was some crappy ornamental thing made from plastic.
I wanted to go back down there and carve Paco up but decided against it and watched a DVD instead.

IIII.
Malibu in three words:
wildfires
mudslides
titty.

IV.
There’s no sunset like a Malibu sunset;
Maybe one day I’ll get up early enough to see it.

V.
Running on the beach one Sunday I trip over a Chihuahua that is snapping at my heels.
It takes everything within my power not to punt it like a football into the sea.
Apart from a handful of groupies, I guess I’ve just never been a dog lover.

VI.
I got a new license plate. It reads WAX7 R0SE
Then underneath, it says Malibu: A Way Of Life
I wanted to get one that says W.AXL ROSE
but apparently some guy in Fresno beat me to it.

VII.
Why don’t homeless
people just get a job?

VIII.
My new juicer is rad. It looks like a tank.
It is smooth and silent and it collects the fruit pits in a little tray.
I collect them and now and again I plant them in my sea-side garden.
Maybe one day I’ll squeeze the juice of oranges that I’ve grown myself.
Maybe one day I’ll branch out into the lucrative fresh fruit juice market.

IX.
Malibu is 91.91% white but
that’s not why I moved here.

160. The Empire Is Melting Like Ice Cream

2009-01-30T02:22:00.000-08:00

Dreaming -
I awake
screaming

at images
of bodies
burning

of God-size
buildings
crumpling

of my
people
flying

or maybe
they’re
falling

yes,
they’re
falling

and flailing
and
bouncing

helpless
weightless
screaming

dust
clouds
spiralling

street map
city lines
looming

brown
sky line
darkening;

sweating
heart
pounding

reaching for
the Xanax
sipping

some water
slowly, then
gulping

tight
temples
throbbing

I turn
on the
TV

and see
my
country

bleeding
broken
already mourning

the loss
of an
irretrievable past

lamenting
grieving
wondering

how
and
why

and all
of a
sudden

the creation
of a
masterpiece

doesn’t
seem
that important.

The pressure
lifts,
the tension

in my
temples
like

an
ice-cream
headache

abates and
I can think
clearly

for the
first time
in years.

I treat
myself
to a

long
early morning
walk

and for
the first time
in a decade

America
looks beautiful
in turmoil;

So
clearly
vulnerable,

(its many
transgressions
laid bare)

I fall
in love
with LA

all
over
again.

159. Sculpture Of A Star

2009-01-29T01:55:00.000-08:00

The rock star cast in marble
torso taut and biceps pumped
abdominals rippling, arms intact,
limbs not yet decapitated by time.

Genitalia ambiguously rounded
and unthreatening atop sturdy thighs;
hip confidently cocked like
Michelangelo’s boy David;

bare feet planted to a plinth
that announces nothing but
the presence of an Olympiad
demi-God of the modern arena.

(He himself prefers The Winged Victory that
he saw in the Louvre, Nike of Samothrace
headless, her back arched to the heavens,
wings poised dramatically, anticipating flight).

Byzantine in stature, his silence
speaks unwritten volumes -
an iconoclastic warning to
challengers, his form fills the room

and inspires gasps of awe, wonder
devotion and puzzlement, transcending
myth and concept to become a reality
in ways the real rock star never could.

158. People Who’ve Been In This Fucking Band

2009-01-28T02:00:00.000-08:00

Well now.
Lemme see
there was…

Izzy Stradlin
Duff MacKagen
Slash and
Steven Adler

That bit is easy.
Then details get
kinda fuzzy…

Tracii Guns
Gilby Clarke
Dizzy Reed
Matt Sorum
Robin Finck
Tommy Stinson
(he was in The Replacements,
who pretty much ruled)
Ole Beich
Rob Gardner
Brian ‘Brain’ Mantia

Um...

Chris Pitman
Ron Thal
Richard Fortus
Josh Freese
that dude Buckethead
Ron ‘Bumblefoot’ Thal
Sebastian Bach, kinda
Paul Tobias
Frank Ferrer
Teddy ‘Zig Zag’ Andreadis
and some other guys

Oh and me, Axl
- it’s my fucking band.

I bought the rights.

157. Exit Buckethead

2009-01-27T01:41:00.000-08:00

All this goes on without Axl.
I mean, the guy’s just not around.
He only shows up when he knows
he doesn’t have to deal with musicians
which is weird because he’s in a band
but whatever, I can be pretty wacky
myself, so, you know, people are people.

But then he shows up all pissed about
the “vibe” that my porn is having on
the album and he even tries to get
into the chicken coop. The dude crossed
a line, basically. Everyone in the camp
knew no-one goes in Bucket’s coop
so that was when things broke down.

Plus there was these puppies running
around the studio and one of them
took a dump in my coop and I was like
Ooh, I love the smell of dog poop, and
refused to let anyone come in the coop
to clean it up. It was my little world
and they – he - needed to respect that.

So Axl took me outside where it didn’t
smell of dog poop and had a word with
me, and I had had a few words back with
him, some of which may have included
“get” and “fucked” and not long after that
I packed up my straw and my porn and I
was, like, OK, thanks, my work here is done.

156. A Guitarist Called Buckethead

2009-01-22T01:07:00.001-08:00

My mom’s a hen
my dad’s a rooster
I was raised in a
chicken coop;
consequently it’s
the only place
I feel comfortable.

So naturally when
you’re dealing with
the creative process
you gotta be at ease
you gotta be in your
comfort zone for
optimum creativity.

So I tell all this to
Tom Zutaut, who
they brought back
in to put the squeeze
on Axl and do
whatever it takes
to get the album done.

Zoot doesn’t laugh
he just makes some
notes, makes some
calls and two days
later I’m shredding in
a chicken coop happy
as a pig in a pig shed.

To his credit he did
a neat job of it: chicken
wire, chicken parts,
rubber chickens hanging
from the ceiling and a
DVD player for my porn.
Awesome. Just awesome.

155. 1998...1999....2000...2001

2009-01-22T01:05:00.000-08:00

Not much
happens.

154. The Reclusive Years

2009-01-20T03:10:00.000-08:00

Daylight becomes the enemy
the room becomes a womb

silence is the reward for a
decade’s toil in combat.

Koons and Rothko on the wall
magnums of Dom on immortal ice

the lighting tempered just so
the weft of the carpet just right.

Yet riches and trinkets mean nothing
to the man who wanted everything;

that silence craved is only found
between the hours of 4 and 5am

and even then the sirens fill the sky
sounds to remind of riots gone by

curtains tacked to the walls to
kill the encroaching light that

fights its way through gaps and cracks
turning corners; enemy of the night.

They laughed at Jacko, wept for The King
now hermetically-sealed he idly wonders

what the future might bring. Death
or glory – or maybe the madhouse

trussed up, whacked-out and terminally
neutered, babbling riddles of gold discs

so beautiful and the women – the women! –
oh man, you should have seen them

but I guess you had to be there.
Is this what my destiny holds?

A padded cell and a nurse looming large:
“It’s time for your medication, Mr Rose.”

153. Sightings 1997 - 1999

2009-01-19T01:47:00.000-08:00

Marrakech:
Axl in repose in the souk, hookah pipe in mouth.

New York:
Axl in the Guggenheim, considering a frieze.

Mecca:
Axl barefoot on a prayer mat, brow to the floor.

Laos:
Axl throwing fistfuls of rice at puzzled children.

Dublin:
Axl and Bono arm-in-arm, singing ‘Danny Boy’.

Athens:
Axl amongst the antiquities; Axl at the Parthenon.

Nassau:
Axl swimming with dolphins, microphone in hand.

Moscow:
Axl in Red Square, drunk on vodka.

Peru:
Axl in the Andes with poncho and pan-pipes.

Pakistan:
Axl dangling from the North Face of K2.

San Francisco:
Axl in a bath-house; Axl lost in the steam.

Buenos Aries:
Axl on the beach in Bermuda shorts, signing autographs.

Anchorage:
Axl in a cabin in Alaska; Axl fishing a snow-hole.

Tijuana:
Axl in a knife fight in a bar.

Jerusalem:
Axl in yarmelke at the wailing wall.

LA:
Axl in detox; Axl in Malibu, Axl in the studio.

Beijing:
Axl in China, Axl taking notes.

152. The Rock 'N' Roll President

2009-01-16T02:35:00.000-08:00

When the
baby-boom
president
is talking

about his
weed-smoking
days and
getting as

many hot
blow-jobs
as the rock
stars are

you just know that
the world is
more fucked
up than ever.

But then I
guess you
knew that
already.

151. One Last Word From Steven Adler

2009-01-15T02:02:00.000-08:00

A couple of years after I left this, friend of mine calls me up and
goes, ‘Dude, there’s all these old clips of you all over the internet,
you should check them out’ and I’m like, ‘First of all, what in the
hell is the internet and secondly, where can I score some?”

150. Duff’s Pancreas Explodes

2009-01-13T01:45:00.000-08:00

May 10 1994.

The doc tells me
that at the time
of the explosion
my pancreas had
the texture of
a gin-soaked
coke-seasoned
foie gras and
that I should
probably never
even so much
as look at
another drink
again if I want to
live to see

May 11 1994.

149. RIP Kurt

2009-01-12T01:08:00.000-08:00

He wasn’t such a bad kid, I guess.
I guess he just wasn’t born to cut it.

I guess maybe things got on top of him.
Shit though, I won’t late fame change me.

If you see me bitching or slacking
you have permission to shoot me too.

148. November 1993: 'The Spaghetti Incident'

2009-01-09T02:07:00.000-08:00

Slash: It wasn’t my idea.
Duff: It wasn’t my idea.
Dizzy: It wasn’t my idea.
Sorum: It wasn’t my idea.
Axl: It’s easily our greatest work.

147. 'Look At Your Game, Girl'

2009-01-07T09:07:00.000-08:00

I think of Manson locked away,
an American idle who
said “no sense
makes sense”.

I think of the way
those kids must have had to
scoop up Sharon Tate’s blood
to do that writing

and what it must
have felt like when
the fork slid into
Leno LaBianca’s swollen belly.

I think of this when
I do the vocals for
our version of his
meandering poetry

I think of Manson
and I think:
that could
have been me.

146. Somewhere Over The Atlantic, Slash Has A Moment

2009-01-06T02:05:00.000-08:00

So that’s it.
We’re done.

26 months
27 countries
192 shows
7,000,000 fans.

I hope I didn’t
leave the gas on.

145. Copenhagen, Denmark

2009-01-05T01:53:00.000-08:00

“Let's see if I know where I am:
Am I in Sweden?”
[NO!]
“Am I in Holland?”
[NO!]
“Am I in Copenhagen?”
[YEAH!]
“Well, do you know where the fuck you are?
You’re in the jungle, baby…”

144. Tel Aviv

2009-01-05T01:52:00.000-08:00

“Hello Israel
we are
Guns N’ Moses!”

2008-12-19T04:05:00.000-08:00

~ I, Axl: An American Dream will return in early 2009 ~

Seasons fuckin' greetings to
one and all.

143. Air Miles

2008-12-19T03:44:00.000-08:00

American Airlines
has the best big-assed
stewardesses

Lufthansa
more generous with their
drinks.

I spend
my flights secluded
behind eye mask,

headphones and
pretzels, a frequent flyer -
club class.

I pine for
the days when
lack of funds

meant the others
flew economy
with the other cattle

smoking, whoring,
snorting at
30,000 feet

but now America
is becoming
like communist China.

These days they
let any old riff-raff
into the player’s lounge.

142. ‘Four Wheels and a Full Tank’: A Medatitive Poem by Duff McKagan, Aged 29.

2008-12-17T02:52:00.000-08:00

There is no end
to the road
there is no friend
to be found out here
on the road
only ghosts
of nights gone by
no Kerouac voyage
of kicks and discovery
only weak coffee
white lines
of all types
and road-side signs
advertising
museums for the
world’s biggest pencil
and the world’s oldest
waffle house

This is America.
This is the American Dream:
four wheels, a full tank
and the freedom to be;
only the dream is
endless and boring
and nothing happens here
nothing but
endless movement,
a mass displacement
of isolated individuals
we are reduced
to crossed paths and
missed connections -
I mean
what use is this dream
if you can
never wake from it?

It’s hard not
to see the truth
when you’ve broken
from your moorings
and find yourself adrift
on the tide of fortune -
moving, always moving
yet still never more
than 93 million miles
from the sun.
We labour under the
illusion that we
are moving forward
yet we can only
ever circulate this orb
like ants on a
bored kid’s soccer ball
wilting in the sun.

141. Cancelling Atlanta

2008-12-16T03:23:00.000-08:00

The simple version is
six long years ago I
got arrested for teaching
some security bitch a
life lesson after he beat
on one of my buddies
in the crowd in Atlanta.

Back there today I could
feel vibes that were wholly
negative and I’m just not
that guy any more; today
I’d put a bullet in the back
if any yellow-shirted assholes
who much as even talks to me

so on the advice of my lawyer
my manager and taking into
account my current parole
obligations we decided to
pull the show. I'm not willing
to be a sitting duck for the police.
I'm familiar with that experience.

2008-12-16T03:22:00.001-08:00

Reno, Nevada
Salt Lake city, Utah
Rapid City, South Dakato
Omaha, Nebraska
Auburn Hills, Michican
Atlanta, Georgia (cancelled)

140. On The Endless World Tour, Duff Redefines Indignity

2008-12-15T02:10:00.000-08:00

I’m in the middle of a song
we’re rocking out
then I’m on my back
and everything is black.

No man has put me down -
yet something is amiss;
here I am knocked out cold
by a warm bottle of piss.

139. Tokyo, Japan

2008-12-15T02:08:00.000-08:00

"Hey this song is called
‘Live And Let Stir-Fry’,
heh-heh..."

2008-12-12T01:32:00.001-08:00

Austin, Texas
Birmingham, Alabama
New Haven, Connecticut
Portland Oregon
Hamilton, Ontario
Maine, New England
Boston, Massachusetts
Iowa City, Iowa
Fargo, North Dakota
Winnipeg, Winnipeg
Saskatoon, Canada
Vanocuver, Canada
Portland Oregon
Sacramento, California

138. Auckland, New Zealand

2008-12-12T01:23:00.000-08:00

"Australia! How the hell
are you motherfuckers?"

137. 'November Rain' Video Treatment

2008-12-11T03:06:00.000-08:00

A fiery vision heralds the autumn sun singeing
the land with frosted crust hues of umber, carmine
and crimson; skies so wide they stretch
and smile for many a mile over plane and
canyon. Cut to: a young man and women

so very much in love they appear drunk.
They are Anthony and Cleopatra, they are
Catherine and Heathcliff, John and Yoko
they are star-crossed visions of purity and
beauty. Cut to: a band performing with a full

orchestra in opulent, theatrical surroundings.
A man is seated at a grand piano. We see that
it is he, the young lover. As he begins to sing
his voice is full of longing, longing for his lover
who he envisions in a snow-white wedding dress

it the girl of his dreams, a creature of such
ethereal and staggering beauty that the viewer is
nearly struck dumb. Cut to: a church, a wedding.
It is our young protagonists at the altar, surrounded
by their family and friends and band. Cut to:

The Rainbow Bar & Grill where the young man
is with his pals and his loved one. Cut to: the church,
where the best man temporarily loses the ring (evoking
‘pathos’), cut to: the open road, to Harleys, to fireworks,
cut to: the priest, the vows, the exchanging of rings.

Cut to: the kiss, to the exterior of the church, to the
desert, Slash in leathers, legs akimbo, soloing like
his life depends upon it. Cut to: the live show,
to the church, to the lovers, to the wedding party,
but most importantly cut to: some November rain.

Please note: the rain must coincide with the climactic
section of the song; if we get nothing else right it must
be this. Please also note: it is imperative that the rain
looks like it is falling in ‘November’. Cut to: a funeral
service, more rain, whose funeral – the young bride?

Cut to: more rain, a tossed wedding bouquet in slow motion,
a casket being lowered into the earth. Torrential rain now.
The young man tossing and turning alone in bed. Outside:
rain falls. The casket is buried, he wakes in a sweat.
Repeat all of the above for nine minutes, fade out. Roll credits.

136. Steve The Bodyguard

2008-12-10T01:51:00.000-08:00

I guess that film with Whitney
got one thing right; in this game

the safety of your client is paramount.
It’s your job to make sure they’re OK

at all times. You also have to comport
yourself with discretion, not get phased

and you have to tread a fine line between
following what you’re meant to do

and what the client wants you to do; with
rock stars there’s definitely a difference.

Typical example: Sweden, August 1992.
I’m asked to stick to my client like glue.

His management tells me he’s been
getting a little wacky of late; unpredictable.

So it’s show time and we’re due to leave
Outside the hotel the limo is waiting.

I’m suited, in shades, smelling like roses.
I’m alert, I’m primed, I’m ready for anything.

“I’m due on in twenty minutes,” says my client
fixing his hair. “Let’s get this thing rolling.”

We hit the elevator, down from the penthouse,
then glide across the smooth floor of the foyer.

“Oh wait,” he says. “I want to play some roulette.”
and with that he hits the casino for an hour.

Meanwhile, the phone is ringing off the hook
with people flipping out “Yo, where is he, Steve?

What have you done with him? Is everything alright?”.
On and on, down through all tiers of the organisation.

So I’m, like, OK, you gotta chill on this. Right now
he’s gambling, but I’m gonna bring him over very soon.

This is when a bit of diplomacy comes in handy.
I speak to the guy and gently suggest we should get going.

Finally he cashes in his chips and agrees, “Yeah.
Let’s get this thing rolling,” and we’re on our way.

Only it doesn’t end there. We’re ten minutes from
the venue where 13,000 Swedes are drunk and bored

and my client suddenly snaps alert. “Stop the car!
Stop the car now!”. I’m like, what’s up brother?

Is everything OK? What can I do? And he’s, like,
“Look – over there: fireworks” and I’m thinking

yeah, and?, and he’s like “They’re awesome.
I love fireworks. Let’s go see them close up”

so next thing I know we’re taking a diversion
to go see some stinking firework display when

we should be halfway through a show and though
I want to say, dude, get a grip, I can’t because

the safety and happiness of the client comes first
and besides he could fire me on the spot and

then what do you have? A rock star lost in Stockholm
and me stranded, jobless, the cold shoulder treatment

and, furthermore, you’d have 13,000 pissed off Swedes
and four very annoyed musicians ready to tear you a new ass.

See, you have to think professionally, so I’m like:
Sure buddy, let’s go see some fireworks,

and all the while I’m thinking ahead
trying to maintain, remembering procedure.

So that’s exactly what we do: we go watch
some fireworks until the client gets bored or

psyched or whatever it is he needs to do to
play a show and eventually we’re pulling away

and speeding to the venue at 100mph and the client
is sitting looking out the window, totally unphased

We drive straight down a ramp and through a
loading bay and park up twenty feet from the stage

where the band are in the middle of some sort
of shitty blues jam dirge and though everyone

backstage is losing their minds no-one dares
rag on my client because, after, all, this whole

thing still hinges on him, even though, deep down,
I know, none of this would possible without

guys like me. The bodyguards. The drivers. The techs
The caterers. All the assholes you see straight through

when you’re too busying idolising the latest pipsqueak
ego-tripping little fuckhead who I’m paid to serve.

135. Prague Gig.

2008-12-09T01:56:00.000-08:00

“Okay you ex-Commie
bastards -
get ready to rock!”

134. April 1992: Axl Meets Kurt At The MTV Awards

2008-12-08T01:56:00.000-08:00

In hell’s green room
two worlds collide
two viewpoints merge
and sparks will surely fly.

In the red corner:
the reigning king
teetering on his chrome throne
holding court for the dregs of the decadent 80s.

In the blue:
the rag-clad serf
who scaled the gates
of the fortified compound screaming songs of revolt.

The king’s court
contains jesters and handmaidens
there to serve their benevolent master
to hang on every cracked prophesy

The serf meanwhile
is a reluctant leader of men
the peasant who dared to put his head
above the parapet, only to be welcomed in.

Tactical of mind,
the king first extends an olive branch
only to have it returned bent all
our of shape.

The serf see through
the political moves of the king,
laughing, he stays in his seat,
knows that never the twain can meet.

Yet today their paths conjoin
in the arena of entertainment
with TV cameras positioned
on every corner, a rapt audience waiting.

The serf’s maiden mocks the king
suggests he should bless their new baby
so the king responds as only the king knows how:
with a gauntlet thrown down,

but the challenge of a fight
is met with derision and laughter;
and now the king fears for the future
of his career hereafter.

The king wishes to take a scythe
to the arms of the serf with the people on his side
but the people have the power
so the king lets it slide.

Even so, he can’t forget -
even when their envoys interject,
this slight upon his character
this silent generational threat.

While the bile will rise inside
so too the serf will ascend the tower
while the king watches, devoid of direction
devoid of all power.

Yet the serf is ill-prepared for what awaits him
he’s installed on a new throne
only to find he hate it
he wants to return to his people

but his people have turned away.
He can never return to his humble state
now he’s trapped in a tower
in a castle by a lake.

Now as his new Rome burns
he fiddles with a gun
turns on the radio and
the music of the old king is on…

133. A Call From The Rocket Man

2008-12-05T02:05:00.000-08:00

"Hello cutie. It’s Selton. Selton John. Listening darling,
a few of us are having a bit of a get-together for Freddie
at Wembley and we’d love it if you and your reprobate
friends could pop along for a bit of sing-song.

We’ll all sing some Queen numbers and raise shit-loads
of money for AIDS awareness. Dame Bowie is threatening
to say prayer, and legends like Seal, Paul Young, Extreme
and that lemon Stansfield have all already confirmed.

I was thinking maybe you and I could do a duet on ‘Rhapsody’.
Then we’ll finish by all singing a rousing rendition of ‘Champions’.
Then maybe afterwards we could all go out carousing together?
It’ll be a party! So call me back darling. It’s Selton. Selton John."

(Image by Sexton Ming)

132. Soul Crisis In The Rose Vortex

2008-12-04T01:47:00.000-08:00

A constant:
the same words
returning to
describe the empty
feelings of removal
that consume me
when faced with a
wailing walls of faces.

The vortex
the void
what I call
‘the big empty’
or sometimes
‘the death camp’
or maybe on a
good day
‘the devil’s
sports hall’,

where the sound is
a hollow echo
like the wind
whipping at a turret
of an abandoned
castle in a remote
and desolate place

or else the strangulated
cries of desperation
that must surely
soundtrack what we
commonly perceive
to be ‘hell’;

or maybe just that dividing line
between pain and pleasure
between life and death
between protest and celebration
state repression and
total abandonment
and/or emancipation.

Either way:
the sound is ice cold
like a nail in the spine
that instant feeling like
everything you’ve ever
known has slipped away
and left you stranded.

Like every regret you
have ever harboured
comes home to roost at once
like every wasted second
like every girl you ever loved
like every single salted tear

re-appears, to remind you
that this life – any life -
is a lonely life, and that
in the end, when the scores
are counted, and the tallies
noted we live and we exist
and we die alone.

Afterwards: as expected
- as is now customary -
the shrill layers
of human voices
in exultation and the
screams of expectation
and unadultered adoration
(or is it adulation?)
peel away like an onion
to reveal nothing at its core.

It is this nothingness
that consumes me each
night; the silence of
fifty thousand echoes,
deafening even when
they’re long gone;

it’s like the building
is haunted by the night,
like all those screams
are eternally trapped
inside to rebound off the walls
bouncing and colliding
like a phalanx of lost souls
caught between life
and that great celestial
otherness known as infinity,
resigned to a life sentence
in a chaotic, deafening limbo;

it is this that I fear
the most - the very real
possibility that nothing
- and I mean nothing –
means anything; love,
money, fame, success;
nothing: zip, zilch, nada
the big goose egg; all
for what? For nothing.
It is thoughts like these
that, out on tour, in the
spotlight, exposed, naked,
scrutinized and dissected
I have to deal with each day
in my own little way.

Lord only knows
where I will find
the strength to
keep on giving.

131. Oklahoma!

2008-12-03T01:46:00.000-08:00

“You know, they don't want things
like this concert here in Oklahoma to fucking happen.
Yeah, there's a lot of people who
don't know why they do things.

They don't want people like you, that are here tonight,
to see some little loud mouth fucker like me,
who crawled out some shithole somewhere,
and worked his way up onto this stage.

There's something out there that doesn't want
people like you to realize that you can do
whatever the fuck you want with your goddamn life.
And there are those that unless they get a piece of the pie,

unless they get a piece of your ass,
unless they get a piece of your life,
they just don't want it to happen.
You do it their way or you don't do it.

Well, they can suck my dick! (crowd roars)
I believe that deep inside everybody,
there's something inside you that knows
what the fuck you're supposed to do with your life.

And no matter what anybody tells you
if you keep looking and you keep digging
you're gonna find it. And you can be
the person you fucking were meant to be

on this goddamn planet.
And don't let anybody, anybody,
ever get in your way, including me.
And I know it's not like the most humane thing,

but when it gets real rough, you can think
of a theme song that somebody else wrote.
Namely Mr. Paul McCartney.
And when they're trying to keep you down,

just hold on and know someday you'll bust out,
you'll get onto your own shit and they won't
be able to fucking keep up with your ass.
And you can be thinking just ‘Live And Let Die’ motherfucker!'."

130. Duff On Therapy

2008-12-02T02:18:00.000-08:00

Axl’s therapist.
Yeah. That’s was another turning point.

I mean, the guy
has a lot of issues to work through.

Crazy shit
from his childhood. Violence, religion…

though it quickly
seemed like he had the monopoly on pain.

I don’t know
what his therapist said, but he got righteous

all of a sudden.
It was like we had to tread twice as carefully.

I thought
a therapist was meant to make things better?

But no.
that definitely wasn’t the case here.

It didn’t really matter
so much when we off the road because

back home
we were all doing our own things,

back home
we were living individual lives.

But when Axl
brought this therapist out on tour

questions were asked.
Like: who is this guy and why

does he want
us to go into these ridiculous group hugs?

If he knew
anything he’d know that Guns isn’t that band.

We’re not
touchy-feely, love-sharing type of guys.

We each
have our roles, we each cover our backs

That was
always the way, right from day one:

Play the show
and everything else beyond it is your call.

But no.
Axl’s therapy session increased.

Out there
We wouldn’t see him except for stage time

And we’d play
these shows with this therapist in the wings,

giving Axl
the thumbs up every time he looked his way.

Many jokes
were cracked about that, I tell you.

It was like
he substituted drugs with therapy

and sure enough
he got himself addicted to ‘sharing’.

We could hire
a thousand therapists and they’d still

be unravelling that
dude’s personality on his death-bed.

Axl talked
a lot about being ‘healed’ round that time.

Suddenly he was
talking about feelings and ‘bad energy’.

He talked
about getting to the core of his ‘id’,

he talked
about ego, childhood, sexuality and recovery.

None of which
we would have minded if it hadn’t

turned him
into an even bigger a-hole than he was before.

129. Just Another Vegas Breakdown

2008-12-01T02:15:00.000-08:00

From the sky
it looks like an electric snake
undulating across the hot desert floor
the way it twinkles
and shimmers

I take over a floor at the Bellagio
and move my shit in.
I’m in total
‘ignore the band
at all costs’ mode

I just don’t
want to be around those assholes -
they sap my energy
misinterpret me
always want to party.

I seal the doors
order some food
run a bath,
meditate, but
the only mantra I can reach

is
fuckfuckfuck
in my head like a woodpecker
fuckfuckfuck
a drill deep inside.

Distracted
I drink some
honey tea
try and read some Hubbard.
That guy had

it going on, fucking started
a religion off of
his writing shit
(now there’s a
thought…ah, fuck it
rock ‘n’ roll is my racket
and I know it).

There’s
no place
else I can
go

fear, loathing
and so much more
fills me with anxiety.
On TV an infomercial plays
and I don’t know where
to put myself;

suppressing the urge to scream
even though my throat
is shot again
I lie back and make phone calls:

my management
my lawyer
my accountant
my realtor

no-one answers
I’m met by
a wall of voice-mail
to growl and snarl at
which I do
for an hour or so

fuckfuckfuck
in my head like a woodpecker
fuckfuckfuck
a drill deep inside

I take a bath
Vegas lies beneath me
sin city sanitised
fun for all the family
Disneyland with tits
and tips for
dawn brunch waitresses.

This place excited me once
but not any more
nothing excites me
the gamble is dead
the war can’t be won

Milestones become moments,
faded Polaroid pictures
to file away;
I find myself craving
some semblance of simplicity
in a life that is
inordinately complicated.

I guess I’m just burned
by night after night
of the fire fight
in the spotlight

fuckfuckfuck
in my head like a jackhammer
fuckfuckfuck
(just kill yourself,
silly).

It’s Vegas;
it steals your soul
at the entrance
and returns it at
the end-game
tattered and bloody

it fills your eyes
with dollar signs
as if they weren’t blinded already
it appeals to the basest appetite.

It’s sick
a cathedral for vulgarity
a celebration of obesity
a theme park for the living,
spending, farting,
dead.

I step out the bath
towel myself off
and wander naked
from pristine room
to pristine room,
four thousand of them
in all and I have
the best dozen.

I press my face to the
cool class of the window
and see nothing but casinos
cars and the thick black night
beyond the edge of town

fuckfuckfuck
in my head like a woodpecker
fuckfuckfuck
(just end it all,
asshole)

The desire to run into
the blackness engulfs me instantaneously,
the desire
to fill my nostrils with dust
to see the moon silent
and stars that weren’t glued
there by men

to escape The Strip,
the town, the tour
the trip
to run and just keep running
barefoot, wild like a coyote

out across the road
between headlights
down alley ways
through vacant lots
and beneath the
neon giants
that demarcate
the edge of town.

Soon they’ll
find me feral
unrecognisable and
hard-bitten from experiences
out there alone
in the night

they’ll find me snarling,
howling at the moon,
chasing my tail,
the gnarled leg of a lesser
animal wedged in my jaws,
my hair matted
my eyes a different shape
and colour.

I’ll no longer respond to
my birth name.

128. The Axl-Slash Dynamic

2008-11-29T02:52:00.000-08:00

I love Slash like a brother
and like brothers we fight.

We’re polar opposites;
two energies in collision.

It’s a star sign thing.
A yin and yang thing.

We’ve had so many run-in’s
it’s pretty much laughable.

The last time was during
a show in Dayton, Ohio.

I’d cut my hand open and
was backstage fixing it up

when I thought I heard him
take a pot-shot at me on the mic.

So I ran out with my bandaged
hand and I confronted him

in front of twenty thousand people.
I think I told him I’d kick his ass

and I actually meant it because
I knew I could, no contest.

Of course, I’d misheard so now
I was the dick and I apologised.

Slash just stood there, sloppy and
unflappable behind his Les Paul.

We carried on playing and
delivered another killer Guns show.

And that’s the root of our success:
the anger, interplay, the spark.

Well, anyway. That’s just one incident.
It wasn’t the worst. It won’t be the last.

But I think it illustrates your point -
the fact that we’re still just crazy fuckers.

2008-11-29T02:49:00.000-08:00

Worcester, Massachusetts
Madison Square Garden, New York
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
St Petersburg, Florida
Miami, Florida (New Year's Eve Show 1991)
Baton Rouge Louisiana
Biloxi, Mississippi
Memphis, Tennessee
Houston, Texas
Dayton, Ohio
Minneapolis, Minneapolis,
Les Vegas, Nevada

127. Postcard From Rehab

2008-11-28T01:51:00.000-08:00

Fuck,

Rehab sucks. I miss smack. I miss my snakes.
They got me on the good old 12-step programme.
They said I had to put faith in a higher power
so I chose Axl. I couldn’t think of anyone else
as powerful and almighty as our divine leader.
If he can’t help, then what hope does God have?

Send some smokes. They only got Lucky’s here.

Your pal,
Slosh Hudson

126. Six-String Wish List

2008-11-27T01:15:00.000-08:00

In order of preference:

Keith Richards
Jimmy Page
Joe Perry
Dave Navarro
John Frusciante
Ronnie Wood
Brian May
Lenny Kravitz
Wayne Kramer
Steve Jones
Sylvain Sylvain
Pat Smear
Rich Robinson
Brad Whitford
Andy McCoy
Big Sick Ugly Jim Martin
Gilby Clarke.

125. Pulling Teeth

2008-11-26T01:53:00.000-08:00

Getting Izzy to do anything was like
pulling teeth.

When he showed up he’d decide to play
in another key;

we’d say “Play it again” and he’d say
“Why?”

He just wasn’t raising his game
enough for me.

He’d become this really selfish user,
a loser.

He was strung out and not exactly easy
with fame.

It was real, real shitty when he left.
My oldest friend

trying to turn my brothers against me
with a power-play.

The lies the guy came out with just aren’t
worth repeating.

He tried to divide and conquer but it
all backfired.

Suffice to say the band knew who really
holds the power.

And Homeboy found himself left out
in the cold.

The day he drove over to tell me he
was quitting

I wouldn’t even let him in my house.
I just knew.

Friends don’t do that. Friends don’t shit
on friends.

And that was that, Izzy was out. Because
no man

is bigger than this band, not even me.
Yeah. It sucked.

But what can you do? Cry over splilled milk?
Nah. We soldiered on.

So, another warrior fell but the world war
continued.

Guns N Roses lived to fight
another day.

124. Exit Izzy

2008-11-25T01:51:00.000-08:00

After six years I wanted to get off the ride
It was making me dizzy. It was making me
sick.

Being a rock star was everything I expected
The only surprise was how little I enjoyed it
all.

I suppose you could say I enjoyed the pussy
and I enjoyed the drugs, but did I, did I
really?

123. Mass

2008-11-24T01:48:00.000-08:00

Fifty thousand mouths agape
one hundred thousands fists raised

a Sargasso sea of blood and bodies
borderless, it spreads itself wide

a flash-flood of energy and expectation
a collective yearning for a makeshift community;

ritualistic, it belongs to age-old traditions
of communal gatherings and catharsis

stretching way back to pre-recorded religions.
Wordless, it is more a mass recognition

of man’s right to worship idols of
their imagination’s own making -

catholic in the original sense of the word, this
mass knows no name, follows no concrete doctrines

rejects such as ideas as immaculate conception
or divine intervention and instead places onus

on the moment, the simplicity of volume and rage;
a brief sense that anything can happen in the next hour

and it is here in the moment when the devotees
feel closest to some sort of God, an entity

whose divine presence is recognizable when as
parts seas with a wordless wave of the hand.

122. Tour Poster, August 1991

2008-11-24T01:33:00.000-08:00

Guns N' F____g Roses
Wembley F____g Stadium
Sold F____g Out
 

2008-11-24T01:31:00.001-08:00

Paris, France
Mannheim, Germany
Helsinki, Finland
Copenhagen, Denmark
Cologne, Germany
Berlin, Germany

121. Europe's Finest Hotel (1991 tour)

2008-11-22T04:24:00.000-08:00

I don’t like this
wallpaper.

The view is
bullshit.

That’s not a
bed it’s

a fucking postage
stamp.

The air-con
sucks

or maybe it
blows

either way – lose
it.

There’s no
absinthe

in the mini
bar

I don’t like that
concierge

he looks like
a narc

there’s only two
jacuzzis

where’s the
third?

The ceilings are
too low

or maybe the
floor

is just too
high

either way – change
them.

You could only
fit four

people in that tub
at a squeeze

is this some sort
of joke?

I’m tired. I don’t
need this.

Is this place
east-facing?

I specifically asked
for east-facing.

What’s that
smell?

It smells
like ass – lose it.

No white truffle
omelettes?

This room service is
a joke.

Those curtains are
fag curtains,

the tap water is
too cold

the gym equipments is
useless

the elevator is
too small

I don’t like the
architect

can we
sue?

I guess I’ll do
what

I always
do:

suffer in silence
because

some asshole in the
organisation

couldn’t be bothered
to find

something more suited
to my tastes

because it’s too
late

to change, because
I’ve got

a show to
do.

I mean what
city are

we in
anyway?

120. Guy In Front Of Queue For Tower Records On Sunset

2008-11-21T01:08:00.000-08:00

I’ve been here for twenty hours
and I’d wait twenty more just
to get my hands on Illusion I
and II. I slept out here all night.
Look, I brought a sleeping bag
and a flask of soup and my girl
Trudy. Say hi Trudy. Trudy’s
kind of shy, except when she’s
in the sack, heh heh. Why am I
here? Because I love Guns N
Roses of course and because I
love rock ‘n’ roll and because
I want to be able to say I was one
of the first people in the world to
hear the new record. Where do I
live? In the suburbs, about three
hours drive from here. No, I only
have a radio in the car. What do
you mean? Oh, like how am I going
to listen actually listen to the record?
On my turntable at home, blazin’ a
J, of course! So what’s the point
of queuing all night if I’m not one
of the first to hear the records? Well…
Well, shoot. You got me there. I
hadn’t really though of it like that.
Damn, man, now you’ve got me
thinking about maybe I could have
just stayed in bed and bought the
record at my local store when it
opens in the morning. Oh, man. Shoot.
Well, we’re here now. One of us
might aswell stay and pick up the
records. Hey Trudy, I’ll pick you up
back here in the morning OK? You’ll
be alright – there’s still some soup in
the flask and if you get cold there’s that
Salvation Army place about ten blocks
from here. Watch out for the weirdo’s
though. It’s Hollywood. It’s fucked up.
But it’s worth it for Guns man. Yeah!

119. Axl Jumps The Shark

2008-11-20T01:47:00.000-08:00

Flame-haired,
sharp-tongued,

egomaniacal
primadonna.

White lycra
bulging vulgar -

goodbye danger,
“hello sailor”.

118. Note from Axl To Slash

2008-11-19T01:26:00.000-08:00

Don’t
over
dose
big
nose.

2008-11-18T01:31:00.000-08:00

Dallas, Texas
Denver, Colorado
Englewood, Colorado
Salt Lake City, Utah
Tacoma, Washington
Mountain View, California
Sacramento, California
Costa Mesa, California
Inglewood, California

117. Head Of Marketing

2008-11-17T02:16:00.000-08:00

Pardon my French but
Axl Rose is fucking insane.

His ideas are totally unrealistic.
completely untenable, unworkable.

He’ll walk into a meeting and say things like:
‘The new record will have 100 song songs on it

it’ll be released on seven-inch picture disc only
One hundred singles in a box-set. It’ll retail for

$16.99 because Guns are all about value for money
and because unlike Crue, we don’t rip off the kids.’

And I’d have to say, ‘That’s an awesome idea brother,
but it might not be financially do-able, you know?

Maybe we could put it out as a double album and
save the rest of B-sides and a rarities albums?’

at which point he’d flip out, break something,
curse us all out, then disappear on tour for three months.

Meanwhile we’re left here scratching our heads
holding a bunch of songs, thinking what the hell?

So eventually compromises have to be made.
Hundreds of faxes are sent and received.

Many late night conference calls are made because
Axl doesn’t surface during daylight hours.

Threats are issued and unrealistic demands made
We learn to ignore them, not take it personal.

The word from the top comes down ‘Axl is a genius, no:
asshole, no: genius’; either way, he’s our most bank-able artist.

So tasks are delegated, weekly meetings held with the
marketing guys, the publicity people, and key retailers.

More compromises are made, decisions in reached in abstentia.
We decide on two double-album, released on consecutive days.

Opinion is divided: some think it’s a stroke of marketing genius
others think it is the plastic personification of a raging ego.

Me, I don’t care so long as I get to keep my job; so long
as I don’t have to see in another meeting with Mr W. Axl Rose.

116. The St Louis Riot

2008-11-13T02:11:00.001-08:00

What?

Some guy, some asshole
thinks just because he paid his
fifty bucks he can film me
from down in the front row.

Nah.

That shit don’t roll with me, homes.
And I warn him, I tell him, get
that camera out my face, bitch
before I bust your chrome dome.

Shit.

Then the fucker has the nerve to flip me
off while the security retards are just
standing around scratching their balls,
doing nothing but vibe on the free music.

So.

Of course I have to handle it myself as per usual.
Like I haven’t got enough to do, what with
delivering the music and the rigourous
physical demands of fronting a kick-ass band.

Blood.

That’s what I think they want sometimes
only this time I flip it, decide to give them
blood. So I do what anyone would do when
their soul is being stolen by assholes. Serious.

Yeah.

So I take a running dive into the throng head-first
and the crowd parts like the sea of Galillee
for Moses or whatever and I bust that fool on the
chops. Of course, I take my hat off first though.

Then

then the security finally decide to jump in before
I bitch-slap 15,000 fools one by one and I
climb back on stage and I’m all, like, “Thanks
to the lame ass security, I'm going home.”

Bang!

I throw my mic down and it sounds likes a gun
going off and I exit stage left while the band
are just standing around but by this point I’m
so beyond giving a fuck it’s almost funny.

Crazy.

Then I’m the limo, in my robe, towel round my neck,
drink in hand, cruising back to the hotel, and
everything is silent apart from the crackle of the
radio reporting a riot at a show in St Louis.

St Louis?

Fucking St. Shit-hole more like. City of Barbarians.
It’s months later when the cops arrest me for ‘incitement’
but they’ve got nothing on me because they know
I’m Axl Rose, and Axl always takes care of business, baby.

2008-11-12T01:30:00.000-08:00

Landover, Maryland
Hampton, Virginia
Charlotte, North Carolina
Greenboro, North Carolina
Knoxville, Tennessee
Lexington, Kentucky
Birmingham, Alabama
St Louis, Michigan

115. Slash On Semantics

2008-11-11T02:24:00.000-08:00

Unless
all
the
girls
I’ve
ever
known
have
been
doing
something
wrong
I
still
don’t
understood
why
they’re
called
blow-jobs.

114. A Succession Of Glances

2008-11-10T01:30:00.000-08:00

Duff glances over at Izzy
and raises an eyebrow;
Izzy shrugs a thin shoulder
readjusts his guitar strap
cocks his hat; Slash takes
a shot, fiddles with his amp,
catches Sorum’s eye
who sighs and glances
at Duff who tips the faintest
of nods to their leader then,
with his back to the
audience, tucked behind
the speakers, he throws
a comical seig heil.
Suppressing laughter, they
lurch into another song:
“A-one, a-two,
a-one two three four…”

This nightly ritual
is the only thing that
still unites them;
the only thing that
makes them feel
like they are
still a band.

113. Plea

2008-11-08T04:27:00.000-08:00

“Yo, listen. This is serious.
I want to tell you something.
I want you to do me a favour tonight.
If you see anyone throwing shit at me
I want you to beat the living fuck out of them.
OK?
You have my permission.
Suckerpunch those motherfuckers
I’m serious.
‘Cos if you keep throwing shit I won’t
throw shit back. I’ll just leave.
I have that power within me.
This one’s called…”

112. Note Handed To Axl From Demure Underage Fan In Corridor

2008-11-07T02:26:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr Rose,

I want to have your babies. I want to kidnap you and
bring you home. I want you to do stuff to me I’ve never
done before. I want you to kiss and bite my neck and
pull on my titty ends. I want you to lick me and fist me
and force your cock down my throat. I want you to
hold me down, piss in my face and tell I’m a dirty cunt
bitch whore. I want you to tie me up with leather belts
then squat over me and squeeze out a link.

I want you to film it all and take Polaroids
so that we could never forget a moment.

Call me.

111. Tour Catering

2008-11-06T02:07:00.000-08:00

Sum up Axl’s
eating habits
in five words
or less?

Oh, that’s easy.

Bacon bits
and grits.

He can’t get
enough of
that shit.

2008-11-05T05:27:00.000-08:00

Toledo, Ohio
Richfield, Ohio
Toronto, Ontario
Saratoga Springs, New York.
Hershey, Pennsylvania
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

110. Grunge?

2008-11-04T01:35:00.000-08:00

It sounds like
something I’d
scrape out my ass.

Looks like
something I’d
scrape out my ass too.

109. We Are The Road Crew

2008-11-03T01:41:00.000-08:00

Out here
it’s a dog’s life, dawg

First up in the morning for load-in
last to bed with ears ringing
and nostrils stinging;
there is no leisure time
or sight-seeing for
the road crew.

No first class
no primo ass
just cast-off skanks
and crooked spines
from humping gear
and dodging guitars.

Seventh generation herpes scabs
and the dust off the speaker cabs
is the best we can hope for -
an album thanks
free daily catering and a
well-stamped passport at best.

But we don’t do this for the money
or even the drugs or chicks
we do it for the music
we do it because
like the band, without it
it’s either prison or death for people like us.

It’s a dog’s life, dawg
and it’s a good job we’re all road dogs.

108. Out On The Road, Duff’s Patience Is Tested

2008-11-02T03:58:00.000-08:00

If I see another
backstage platter
of crudités and dips
I swear man,
I’m gonna flip.

107. Axl Finally Arrives (An Exercise In Victimhood)

2008-11-01T06:26:00.000-07:00

“Yeah, I know it sucks.
If you got any real complaints,
you could do me a favor though.

You could write a little letter
on how much that sucked
and send it to Geffen Records.

Tell those people
to get the fuck
out of my ass.

The new record will be delayed again.
Geffen Records decided they wanted
to change the contract and I'm deciding:

fuck you. And since I don't have time to
both go back there and argue
and bitch with them and be on tour,

I guess we'll just be on tour and
have a good time and fuck them.
It's a shame but we'll play a lot

of the new shit tonight
and it really
doesn't matter does it?”.

106. Axl Is Tardy In Uniondale, NY

2008-10-31T02:25:00.000-07:00

Where’s Hitler?
We were due on forty minutes ago.

Fucked if I know, bro.
What we gonna do?

Damn, I tired of this shit.
It’s every other night.

I know, I know.
It’s like we’re his hired hands.

Can you hear them out there?
Those kids paid good money.

We do what we always do.
Sit tight, do shots, give him ten minutes.

Damn, I tired of this shit.
It’s every other night.

I know, I know.
It fucking sucks.

We’re going to have to open
with a blues jam again.

I know, I know.
It fucking sucks.

I mean, imagine Zep opening
with ‘Bonzo's Montreux’?

Ah, fuck it. We’re here aren’t we?
And those fuckers are wasted.

True, true. We could fart on the mics
and they’d still give us gold discs.

Ha! Yeah. What are you going do.
Hey, let’s have some vodka.

Hell yes. Shoot, line them up.
It’s going to be a long night.

2008-10-31T02:23:00.001-07:00

Los Angeles, California (warm up)
New York, New York (warm up)
East Troy, Wisconsin
Noblesville, Indiana
Grove City, Ohio

105. Slash Immortal

2008-10-30T02:38:00.000-07:00

I don’t fear death.

Death is there to be ignored.
Death is there to be challenged, defeated.
Death is there to be beaten in an arm wrestle

a card game, Russian Roulette, a rusted needle,
whatever.

He’ll let you know when it’s your time sure enough.
In the meantime, why let it concern you?
No. I don’t let death bother me.

If anything I gently mock it.
I prod it and it feels pliable
I shake it between my teeth

I face it with bemusement
but I don’t fear it.

104. Johnny Thunders

2008-10-29T02:44:00.000-07:00

They found his body
beneath the bed
bent double like a discarded
paper clip
in a New Orleans flop-house.

Tell the people:
the original NY Doll
the Heartbreaker
the gypsy king who was born too loose
is dead and gone.

Rigor mortis set in and
so did the conspiracy theories.
The roaches were out the wood-work
each with a different version of the same story.
But all I know is

when they carried
out his pale corpse
the body bag was
three feet in length;
and all his guitars were gone.

It’s true what he said:
‘You Can’t Put Your Arms Around A Memory’
but believe me, that night,
high or straight,
each of us tried.

103. Police Escort

2008-10-28T02:20:00.000-07:00

It takes sixteen cops cars with sirens
blaring and blue lights spinning to
get us out through the crowds and back
to our hotel twenty miles away.

We all share a dark chuckle about this:
about how the cops are protecting us
from the people, rather than the other
way round. It makes for a nice change.

102. Guns N Roses Mark II: Matt Sorum Debuts In Rio

2008-10-27T07:38:00.000-07:00

Unless you’ve been told at three minutes notice you got
to do a drum solo in front of 140,000 people with a
band who’ve never even rehearsed together, you don’t
know the meaning of the phrase ‘in at the deep end’.

101. Tour Prep (May 1991)

2008-10-26T04:52:00.000-07:00

Slash calls me up
freaking out yelling
something about blood
something about goblins
incoherent, the ramblings
of a feral man who suddenly
finds he has no reason to
leave the house.

In the background I can
hear what sounds like
a girl laughing or maybe
she’s screaming
or maybe he’s just
playing a porno
on his new widescreen
home cinema.

It’s funny that Slash
has a home cinema
because he doesn’t
have a bed and he
doesn’t have a fridge,
just dozens of snakes.
He keeps his drinks and
frozen mice in an ice bucket.

But I’m done laughing
at Slash’s antics right now
so I dish it to him straight:
Dude, you have to clean up your act
the tour starts in three days
that’s just enough time to detox
the kids have paid good money -
yada yada, the usual spiel.

I really give it to him actually:
you wanna end up like Johnny,
washed-up and strung out to dry
at twenty-five? You wanna be like
Janis, Jimi and Jim man, another
H-wood r ‘n’ r victim, “Fuck yeah,”
he gurgles. “Totally!” then I hear
what sounds like breaking glass

I’m sitting there thinking maybe
an intervention is the only way,
how it won’t be the first time one of us
is dragged kicking and screaming to rehab
in readiness for a stint on the road
when I notice it’s all gone quiet.
I figure maybe Slash has fallen through
his coffee table or something.

I figure there’s no point trying to
talk someone down when they’re reaching
the zenith of a five-day weekend
so I call up management and tell them
that our guitarist needs patching up
and of course they say “which one?”
and I say “the one with the hat – the one
they’re calling the best of his generation”

and the girl who works over there,
the girl who answers the phones
she says to me – get this – she says
wait a second, who’s calling please?
and I say: It’s Axl, sweetie
and she’s like, Oh, OK…Axl who?
and I’m like, it’s Axl Foley from Beverley Hills Cop
who the fuck you think it is?

And while all this is going on
at home Slash is rolling around in shards of glass
laughing and gurgling and trying to get his
zippo to work so he can fire up another pipe
and though I’d dearly love to fire his ass
the fucker has a habit of bouncing back
from these drug jags and either way
another world tour starts in seventy-two hours.

100. Illusions: The Final Cut

2008-10-26T04:17:00.000-07:00

Bad Apples
Bad Obsession
Back Off Bitch
Breakdown
Civil War
Coma
Dead Horse
Double Talkin’ Jive
Don’t Cry (Original)
Don’t Cry (Alt. Lyrics)
Don’t Damn Me
Dust N’ Bones
Estranged
14 Years
The Garden
Garden Of Eden
Get In The Ring
Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door
Live And Let Die
Locomotive
My World
November Rain
Pretty Tied Up
Perfect Crime
Right Next Door To Hell
Shotgun Blues
So Fine
Yesterdays
You Ain’t The First
You Could Be Mine

Now let’s go
tour this shit.

99. Axl Leaves A Series of Messages

2008-10-23T01:23:00.000-07:00

Hey, it’s Axl.

Listen. I’ve
got the title.

Are you
ready? OK:

Use Your
Illusion.

Pretty cool
isn’t it?

That shit’s timeless,
right there.

And so long as
everyone from

David Geffen
to the band

to the fucking
lighting guy

does exactly
what I say

I think that this
is going to be

awesome.

98. Matt The Drummer Corners Axl Rose In The Studio Parking Lot

2008-10-21T07:15:00.000-07:00

- Hey Axl.
- Hey bro. What can I do for you?
- Nothing. I just thought I’d say what’s up?
- Cool, brother. You want an autograph or something?
- Autograph?
- Sure. Should I make it out to you, uh…?
- Matt.
- Excuse me?
- I’m Matt.
- Sorry, bro. Hey, you look really familiar. Have we met before?
- Um, dude. I’m your drummer.
- Shoot! Sorry, man. I’m a little fried right now. It’s the album. Too long in the studio. I’m leaving right now, but you should swing by sometime.
- I did. But, you know, security wouldn’t let me in.
- Did you call ahead?
- No. Management said it would be fine.
- Always call ahead. It’s kind of a rule.
- Even for the band?
- Only for the band.
- OK. So, um, do you need me to come do my drum parts.
- Nah.
- No?
- Nah.
- How come?
- It’s in hand. Don’t you worry about it. You know, I don’t want to hex it or anything, but I really think this is a classic album we’ve made together. Good vibes. You know?
- Right. I mean, I’d love to hear it.
- Dude, you totally will. All being well, it’s being released next September.
- I don’t get to hear it beforehand?
- Better not.
- Why not?
- Dude, I can’t just go playing it to anyone. It might get bootlegged, then I’d have to take out a bunch of law-suits.
- But I am…you know, kind of in the band.
- So? I’m in the band too, but I don’t hassle you about your drumming.
- Sure, sure bro. But, I mean, you’ve not actually heard me drum yet.
- That’s cool.
- So you’ll let me hear it?
- Nah.
- OK. I mean, if you don’t mind me asking, when do we get to jam?
- I’ll let you know bro. Just sit tight and wait for the call.
- You told me that six months ago, guy.
- I did? Are you sure?
- Definitely.
- Are you working right now?
- Only for you.
- Cool, cool. Well, you know, maybe you might want to think about getting a little part-time work.
- Won’t that look a little funny though? I mean, I am in Guns N Roses: the worlds’ biggest rock band.
- And baddest. You forgot baddest.
- I mean, I’m in Guns N Roses: the world’s biggest and baddest rock band.
- You are? Oh, right, yeah – the drummer! Sorry. I keep forgetting. I’m a little fried right now. It’s the album. Too long in the studio. Um. So can you play drums?
- Sure. I’m the best in the business. I eat drums for breakfast.
- Great. Congratulations then dude, you’re in.
- In?
- The band. You’re in Guns N Roses, dude! Welcome to the brotherhood. How do you feel?
- Pretty good…I guess.
- Awesome.
- So when do we get to jam?
- Soon, dude. Soon. Any day. I’ve just got about ninety-odd songs to finish off first. Then we’ll do some shows. That cool?
- I...I guess.
- Awesome. Nice talking to you Mitch. See you around dude. Keep living the dream.

97. Love Thy Neighbour

2008-10-21T01:54:00.001-07:00

“Rock star Axl Rose put on a personalised leather jacket
as he left jail for freedom in the early hour of today.

The lead singer of the rock band Guns N’ Roses allegedly
slammed a wine bottle into a woman neighbours’ head.

“I live next door to a psycho,” said Rose.

Rose and 37 year old Gabriella Kantor both live on the
twelfth floor of this condominium in West Hollywood.

Deputies say Rose confronted Cantor in a hallway, threw
her keys over his balcony and then hit her with the bottle.

Cantor called the sheriff’s department and paramedics
took her to the medical center. She was treated for bruises

and then released three hour later, coincidentally about
the same time Rose’s manager posted $5000 bond securing

his release from jail. Rose delights in maintaining a
‘bad boy’ image. Profanity is part of his act, and not

just on stage - he also cursed on a live national television
music awards programme. Axl Rose, chauffered away

is to appear in Beverley Hills municipal court, November 19.”

(Extracts from NBC News Report, October 31 1990)

96. Dizzy Speaks

2008-10-20T01:16:00.000-07:00

Man, it sure would be
great to meet Axl.

95. Slash Works With Dylan

2008-10-19T04:13:00.000-07:00

I grew up on Dylan
but, man, what a drag.

He was just this weird little
guy who looked like an
Eskimo, dressed in a wool
sweater, leather gloves and
a baseball cap even though
it was 90 out. He was also
really impolite and there’s
nothing I hate more than that.

After I’d recorded my solo
he took it off the record anyway
because apparently – I quote –
“it sounds too much like
Guns N Roses.” Yeah? And?
Nah, I didn’t dig Dylan at all.
But, you know, maybe he was
just having one of those days?

94. Back In The Studio

2008-10-17T01:26:00.000-07:00

Late – about 8am.
Snakes in my arms.
Pins in my eyes.

Words on scraps of
paper scattered
at my bare feet.

Honey, hot water,
six sliced lemons
and a baby grand.

A pair of cans
around my neck
like a noose.

“Don’t worry,” says
a disembodied voice
from the control room:

“We’ll straighten
it all out
in the mix.”

93. Matt and Dizzy Learn The Way Of The Rose

2008-10-16T01:38:00.000-07:00

I guess we’re making a quadruple album?
I mean, that’s what we read in Spin.

‘G n R Frontman Unveils Ambitious
Plans For Two Double Albums’

“I’ve got 652 songs demo’d, I just
need to teach the band them,”

is what it said, so I guess that’s what
we’re doing. Just waiting for the call.

It’s cool because I get to go cycling in the hills
a lot more and Dizzy has his water-colours.

But, you know, it would be kinda cool to,
like, you know, jam some tunes or something.

At the moment being in Guns just means
sitting around eating steak frites and watching TV.

Which is actually kind of like my life before I joined
the band, only the TV is bigger, and I have a boss now.

I guess we’ve just got to sit tight and be ready to
rock that shit, right Dizz? Dizz? He’s nodded off.

92. D-I-V-O-R-C-E

2008-10-15T01:27:00.000-07:00

I was crazy about this girl;
for four years it was L-O-V-E, love.

I was a 24 year old hungry nothing
she a 19 year old model-slash-angel

two lost kids with
fuck-ups for parents.

She’s the chick I wrote
Sweet Child O’Mine for.

She’s the chick I quit drugs for
the chick I washed my clothes for.

One day I’m so overwhelmed, so consumed
by passion, I propose without thinking

I say to her, if you don’t marry me Erin
I’ll blow my brains out right now.

And she’s laughing and going, ‘Oh yeah? What with?
A hair-dryer?’; and though her sarcasm makes her cuter

and I’m laughing along too, deep down she knows I’m
packing, deep down she knows I’m serious about this

so a few days later we drive to the desert and have
ourselves a good old crummy Vegas shotgun wedding

in some tacky joint called the Cupid Wedding Chapel
somewhere just off The Strip at 4am.

We spend the wedding night shooting craps,
ordering beluga from room service and fucking noisily.

It was a time, man, but even then the arguments
were already commonplace; drunk, dumb shit

with lots of screaming and hurling of household
objects – just like all regular kids in love, you know?

But this girls, she’s a ball-breaker,
always all up in my shit so’s that sometimes

I can’t breath, can’t move, can’t think
and one day she’s cleaning my CDs

and I just snap: back off bitch – leave now
before I turn your ass out to the gang-bangers.

I mean, this chick made me feel like OJ
and all’s I knew was I didn’t want to see

myself on Fox News one day heading a
dumb-ass 20mph hour live TV car chase.

We reconciled, fought, reconciled again;
a spin-cycle of love and hate. I guess sometimes

my temper got the better of me.
When that red mist descended

like a curtain after an encore
I guess maybe I lashed out on occasion

but, you know, you got to understand
I was fronting the world’s biggest rock band.

I had big deals going down, people to keep in line,
songs to write, people to hire, people to hire.

When she miscarried I knew it was over.
The children in us were still best friends

but the adults had taken over, soured the mood,
spoiled the party. Everything was corrupt.

Everything was corrupt and everything was rotten;
everything had gotten crazy. We nearly killed those

crazy spirits that brought us together
but in the end it just couldn’t work.

Eight months later I had that shit annulled.
Filed for divorce and got myself a new girl.

91. Slash’s Morning After The Night Before

2008-10-14T03:33:00.000-07:00

My whole body
is
just a big bruise.

90. Slash and Duff Get Very Drunk At The American Music Awards

2008-10-13T01:29:00.000-07:00

So we’re slamming the
free drinks and we’re feeling
pretty damn good with
vodka, whisky and big gins
warming our bellies
All the greats are there:

Bobby Brown
Milli Vanilli
New Kids
Abdul
Hammer
Arsenio hosting

and suddenly they’re calling
out our names:
“…And the Favorite Heavy Metal/Hard Rock Artist
Awards goes to…Guns N Roses!”
and the sea of bodies parts and
and we’re walking on jelly legs

up to the stage
holding hands
high as kites
drunks as lords
chuckling like school kids
feeling like the dorks

that crashed the prom night
and suddenly everyone
is looking at us
and Slash, God bless him,
is rocking the mic, like
“God we didn’t even expect this

Hey, come down and
hang out at the show…
and shit!” and we’re
drinking champagne
and then we’re getting
called back up again

“…and the Favorite Heavy Metal/Hard Rock Albums
Awards goes to Guns N Roses
for Appetite For Destruction”
and now we’re feeling cocky
and full of love so we’re thanking
people from the heart and

when you speak from the heart
you don’t censor yourself
so we’re liberal with our curse words
but in a nice friendly warm way
and we’re wrestling over the mic
because we’re real

and it’s funny
and we’re high
and we’re G n R
and afterwards it’s some big deal
on the news and shit
and those fuckers

never broadcast live again.
It was as funny as shit
and obviously the record
keeps selling and selling
and selling
and selling.

89. Diz Meets Iz

2008-10-11T04:12:00.000-07:00

“Hi Izzy
I’m Dizzy.”

“Um. Dude, sorry.
This isn’t going to

work. We sound
like a fucking

clown troupe
or something.”