Ask Trixie
In her infinite wisdom, the editrix of this rag has asked me to answer questions from all you poor lovelorn pukes out there, and/or try to help you come to grips with whatever your little neurosis is. Tinseltown Trixie wants you to understand that she is not Punk or Pop, although she can be very trashy at times. So pick up your pens or boot up your computer and send your snivelings to me, care of 100 Punks! Magazine.
Dear Trixie,
I am a washed-up-never-was-has-been rocker who has recently relocated to the Hollywood area to take his last shot at superstardom. After 14 years of touring and recording, I'm now pushing my mid--30's, I've lost all my hair and am much thicker around the midsection. I have always made enemies to get attention and up until now, it has worked somewhat. Problem is, most people around Hollywood just don't give enough of a hoot to even acknowledge my antics, let alone get angry about them. It seems as if they've seen it all before.

I was a medium--sized fish in a small pond up north and now I'm trying to get a rise out of people here. I've even donned a chicken suit on occasion, but nothing seems to be working. Should I resort to making friends instead of enemies? I've never tried it before, and I'm reluctant to dive into untested waters. TRIXIE, I NEED YOUR HELP!

Signed, Last Chance Losin'

Dear Chance,
Making friends is definitely preferable to making enemies, especially in a business where the odds of success are only slightly better than a snowcone’s longevity in Hell. Any unsigned artist — especially a bald rocker wannabe of considerable girth — cannot afford to alienate potential allies. To be certain, you can afford to piss off people only after they are crowding around to kiss your ass. Until then, unless you’d like to permanently gig for the venue staff (because everybody splits when you hit the stage) you’d best brush up on your social skills.

With regard to the Hollywood habitants, you may well be right they’ve seen it all, but you’re badly mistaken if you think they don’t notice your monkeyshines. What is Hollywood famous for? Duh... acting, my dear Chance, acting. This is a town where people learn to keep their cool and gloss over disgruntlements. I’ve seen women who smile so much you’d think their head was in danger of detaching at the jawline, but their eyes tell a different story, oh yes.

And some folks love to nurse resentments, storing them up like precious treasure, ready to reach into their mental filing cabinet whenever the opportunity arises to fuck over somebody who, in their minds, richly deserves it. And while a few people are perceptive enough to realize that such energetic attempts to garner attention are a sign of insecurity, most will just be pissed off. Sure, they’ll remember you, probably in much the same way they’d recall a bad case of herpes.

With regard to your chicken suit, I find it incredibly fascinating. I am assuming that onstage is the only place you garb yourself en poulet, but if you wear your feathered finery elsewhere (like in the bedroom), Miss Trixie would be endlessly amused to hear about that. Nothing grabs my readers (or me) better than a new kink.

To answer your plea for help, I would strongly suggest dipping your toe into the wading pool of cordial comportment. You never know when the next friend you make just happens to be bosom buddies with a highwire A&R dude or a player in a supporting act for a big-draw band that needs an opener for their next national tour. And maybe not. At least you won’t have to worry about some musician you pissed off detuning your axe while your back is turned right before you hit the stage. Life is about risk, and you may find this risk well worth it.

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