Life is whack. Never thought I would play music. Less be a rock star.

I was 15 growing up in France of all frickin’ places, and trying to hide this Playboy magazine under my brother’s bed cuz I heard my mom coming when I found this rock mag my older brother had under his bed with a big picture of Gene Simmons of Kiss on the cover. Now that I think about it, what was wrong with that picture? Older brother hiding rock mag while I was getting my jacks off on a Playboy?

Anyway, Dude, back to Gene Simmons. He was tall like me and looked so cool with this comic book hero-like costume, his make-up, that tongue. I mean, what else can a tall dude do? I was no good at basketball. And I didn’t want to end up doing some dumb-ass job standing around all day with my thumb up my ass. I made up my mind: I was gonna play rock ‘n roll!

So the first thing I did was tryout all my mother’s make-up. That didn’t work out so good when she walked in on me and sent me to the priest to get straightened out. He put me in the church choir. I showed up the first Sunday morning in a fishnet shirt and black leather pants. I guess the Father didn’t like the colour of my lipstick cuz he kicked my ass out of there telling my mother I could not be rehabilitated.

With my look getting the reaction I wanted, it was time to get a guitar. I never played anything. But I knew I couldn’t get my head wrapped around six strings. I mean, you only got five fingers, right Dude? So I figured I would pick up the bass. It’s only got four strings, so how hard could that be? And since I was going to play heavy metal, I would only need two of them. That would leave a few extra fingers free for my girlfriends.

So I sold my little sister’s dolls at a flea market and I bought a bass. I don’t even remember what it was anymore. Some piece-of-shit thing. I learned three notes and joined my first band. But they were, like gay, playing pop songs, so I left.

At 17, my father’s job moved us to Los Angeles and I started a band with the first long haired guys I could find. Then I found the next essential: a chick to support me. She worked at some chick clothing store. It didn’t take me long to figure out that I could get some good jacks off by putting a video camera over the changing room. That worked for a while until the owner caught me a reported me to the police. The police officer was a woman and she said she would let me go if I gave her the tapes. I guess some kind of butch cop. Whatever. She got the tapes.

One night I was at the Starwood, just trying to hold on to my cookies when I heard this guy swearing in French. That caught my attention because in LA, only waiters at fancy restaurants speak French. And they’re all gay. It turned out to be Steven Nixx. I think he was happy to have someone to tell crude jokes in French to because there really aren’t any good dirty jokes in English.

Eventually, I landed a gig with Pearl Necklace. I thought we were going to go places, but the drummer had this weird way of ending songs with this nervous twitch on the high hat. It sounded so shitty. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore and we had it out in the street outside the Whisky and I took care of that nervous twitch on his leg with my car. The rest of the band didn’t appreciate the favour I did them and kicked me out. Dicks. All of them. No wonder they never made it big like Metal Justice.

A week later, I bumped into Scotty Rokkett in some strip joint and he told me he was looking for a bass player. I told him to count me in. And somehow I’m back living in Switzerland. What the hell happened?”

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