I'm writing to you from a small apartment in what some refer to as "Little Poland" in Brooklyn, N.Y. I moved here recently, leaving my beautiful whore palace behind in search of solace and the occasional hot dumb Pollock to play with. Next to my keyboard is a half-empty, or rather half-full, bottle of Jack Daniel's. I like to think of Jack as my diuretic for pain, helping me pee out painful memories as well as happy and important ones too (car keys, the cat's name, where you left your panties). You see kids, I'm about to tell you where I've been for these many months and I must numb in order to relive the worst experience of my many groupie whore gone Diva journalist days.

It was an ordinary evening. I put on my face, curled my bangs, changed my jeans and found my way to the East Village to meet my friend Ritchie for a few brews. Me and Ritchie like to get together, do blow, get drunk and make fun of the bands that play around the Village. Bands with names like Lancelot or Spider Blood take a beating when we're in a crowd. Sometimes we even spit on them. And they like it.

Anyway, as soon as I'm there Ritchie calls on the cell to say he's not showing because he's got jury duty, or rather "his duty to show up in front of the jury for his possession charge." I agreed and decided to check out a band called INSOUSIANCE, but I walked in on the end of SATANACIDE packing it up. Like a good groupie I followed the Iggyesque boys in black downstairs to where the bands hang out and introduced myself. And that's all I remember.

The next morning I woke up to the sound of a lawnmower and some chirping birds. Obviously frightened, I jumped up to find I was chained to the floor of a van, unscathed except for a raging headache and need for water. I assumed I had been captured by one of those "man in a van" abductors or possibly passed out during one of my sexcapades. But, to my horror, the Bud Ice bottle, cheap band equipment and the hippie stench of patchouli only meant one thing. I was being held prisoner by a really bad Jersey band.

My mind was racing. What did they want me for besides my obvious sexual gifts and abilities? Did someone want my kidneys? My LIVER? Of course not! Were they ACTUALLY Satanists in search of some young virgin to sacrifice to the Lord of Darkness? OK, maybe not. Next to my head hung a hamster water bottle that distracted me from my frenzied and fuzzy thoughts. Lapping at the tiny drops of moisture made me sullenly think of Ritchie doing the same thing with an empty bottle of vodka just the other night. Would I ever see vodka or Ritchie again?

Perhaps I would be mutilated beyond cover girl repair and never be allowed to wax again revealing that I wasn't a real blonde and becoming a bohemian beast! Or drugged on an hourly basis and enslaved as a suburban housewife to a fat hairy guy named Tony, the No. 1 store manager of Home Depot in the tri-state area. I couldn't breath. I was going numb from the waist down and desperately needed my vibrator. And how DO you get out of Jersey anyway?

Follow this link to the conclusion of Mimi's misadventures, There's No Place Like Home.


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