Wednesday, July 26, 2006


My mother stumbled upon this article, which ran in the Globe last weekend, and then she picked up the phone and called me.

"Don't get me wrong," she insisted, "I think I have a pretty open mind. But this really shocked me." She then proceeded to read OUT LOUD the most embarassing bits of the article, including this sentence:

"If, before a gig, she isn't in the mood to put on the hot pants with the prosthetic penis springing from the crotch, or can't hack yet another scream-through of her signature tune Fuck the Pain Away, she does it anyway."

Except she didn't say Fuck the Pain Away, she said 'Bleep the Pain Away.'

No, really.

Oh mother, I'm sorry. Your daughter's all grown-up, and terribly queer, and listening to electroclash with her girlfriend in a dildo-encrusted club downtown.

On second thought, I'm not sorry at all. Peaches is the shit -- deal with it.


by Nome at 2:35 PM
6 mews

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