I’m so busy! I’m so lonely! Why aren’t these pills working?

My meetings and showcases are scheduled. I focus on what to wear, and repeat the sage words of Joshua Homme, “He’s too pretty for you.  Deb, you need a real man.”

I had a moment. I threw I drink in some girl’s face. She kept shoving me and I was done with polite. I am no holds barred exhausted, and if you haven’t noticed than I don’t know who you’ve been dating for the past month. I didn’t beg you to come with me. I’m more comfortable doing life alone. One ‘misplaced’ drink and it’s over? After four weeks looking at that trite Che Guevara t-shirt while listening to your single-malt scotch (which I always pay for) socialist/Marxist babbling and you can’t spell ‘bogus’? There is no connection between a tired girlfriend and the lyrics to “Biker.” Chrissie Hynde is not your representative, and writing “instrumental break here” is moronic. This is such passive-aggressive bullshit. I prefer my men straight up, one olive, stirred not shaken. I am too busy for a guy who can’t spell bogus and who mangles Chrissie’s lyrics and is generally not making sense. You say you’re not as tough as me. You are correct sir. As I pack for yet another trip to Chicago I look for humor. Sometimes the noise from Christopher St. sounds like pain. Even though it’s always there I’ve learned how to tune it out.  My meetings and showcases are scheduled. I focus on what to wear, and repeat the sage words of Joshua Homme, “He’s too pretty for you.  Deb, you need a real man.”

During my most recent therapy session Diana and I dissected what to do when I get overtired.  It’s still a work in progress. Marco knows how much I travel. He’s called me when I’ve been in an Austin hotel. He’s called while Queens of the Stone Age were performing in L.A. I knew I wouldn’t hear him, but I picked up anyway. It was the first time in a long time I’ve stayed sober during a QOTSA gig. I thought he might make an honest woman out of me. He’s called me both before and after Patty Griffin performed in New York. We successfully navigated my life during a CMJ festival. “You are tenacious, driven and ordered, and I’m not.”  Dude, I don’t have time to wander around the West Village throwing my thoughts about like tumblin’ dice. I’m usually packing, on an airplane, or in an East Village club seeing a shitty band. My feet hurt as I walk home from Brownies.

Brian Liesegang, is “oh my God” gorgeous. I wish Pete had warned me. Took my mind right off the electoral recount and Marco. The music needs work that I’m not sure Brian hears. He does possess a special post-Filter something worth investing in. After visiting Brian’s studio I had dinner with Tony Margherita. We went to see Butterfly Child with Jeff and Sue. I would love to work with Tony on something. We don’t talk about ‘the business’ we talk about life, politics, books, of course we gossip. Just a little. Generally people in the music business only talk about the music business. There are moments I feel my friends from the Budweiser days think when I got handed the corporate card, and the title, I lost my love of music. Forgot who Sebadoh is. I’m the major label. What they don’t see is Sleater-Kinney living in my CD player. At the end of a very long day I went back to my white and fluffy hotel. Made to be shared. They usually are and I usually don’t. I took a couple of Ambien.

Seeing Sue brought a flood of Lounge Ax memories. I have this distinct memory of the Veruca Salt showcase. One enormous Lemming Fest. I felt embarrassed for the entire A&R community. I was one of the fish and had no interest in signing the band. EMI Records expected me to be there along with everyone else. Hook line and sinker. Then there are great memories like hanging out with Sue very shortly after she hooked up with Jeff. She was hilarious. They got so drunk the next day she had to ask her business partner, “Did I have sex with Jeff Tweedy last night?” I loved those days. We’d drink until the clubs closed and the next day asked someone what happened. If you were lucky the answer was you had sex with Jeff Tweedy. There was no walk of shame. We were young and cool. Sue and Julia booked all the bands who later gave us bragging rights; Soul Asylum, Husker Du, Bikini Kill, Dinosaur Jr., Yo La Tengo. We drank all night and hit record stores and Mexican restaurants the next day.

Sue was filled with the nervous energy girls get in the beginning of a ‘could be.’ Jeff was calling her everyday from the Uncle Tupelo tour. She and I were drinking beer in the middle of the afternoon. When you find yourself drinking beer with a girlfriend in the middle of the afternoon it’s a sure bet you have no appetite. Perpetual fluttering butterflies instead. Man that’s the greatest feeling. Marco didn’t make me want to start drinking in the middle of the afternoon. I am too busy. Instead I drink expensive wine over expensive dinners then I pay the bill. By the time I started throwing down an Amex card Jeff and Sue had two babies.

My entire body hurts. It’s not just the piercings. I thought it was a cute idea to get pierced straight down in a line. I’ve changed my mind. When Marco rolled that thing out I thought, “This is never going to work.” I might have cringed. Cid keeps telling me I’ll get used to it. She’s a size queen and has this figured out. He keeps asking if he’s hurting me. He is, but I tell him, “No baby I love it.” Along with my black and blue ego I think I have a bruised cervix. We don’t fit together.

He thinks I look like a movie star or a rock star. I get it constantly, plus, “Are you a fashion designer?” Or, “Haven’t I seen you on MTV?”  All of this is intentional. I spend money to look like a “someone.” Marco claims I have the best body he has ever seen. I wasn’t born this way. Hiring Scott twice a week knocks me back a chunk of money, but he’s worth it. The payoff is Madonna arms and wearing a size 2. Thank you Crunch. Thank you Marc Jacobs, Prada, Ste. 303, mostly Barney’s. I make my business manager cry.

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A “someone” in furs.

Thursday in Chicago was a kooky day. It was long, and involved so many different people. I love being in the studio. Working on a record is an entirely different environment. Sure, one with no windows, but still better than a window seat in business class. These recent trips involve the dynamics of personalities. It isn’t easy to keep adapting. I prepare for my next role in the backseat of taxies. That’s when a bottle of klonopin comes in handy. Meetings and showcases are continuously changing landscapes. Just like what I look out over when I fly. The weather is lousy in Austin. I don’t want to admit that I’d like to see Marco, but shitty weather is a tough companion. The scale reads 121 pounds. It shouldn’t. When I bend over my spine reveals a xylophone. My shoulder bones look like weapons. Blades. I’d like to blame it on him. I can’t. I am a chessboard giving away pieces of myself to capture that queen. Honestly a king would be good.

I’m bringing Mike Patton and Brian Liesegang to L.A. for meetings with Tom. Lately Tom has been hard on me. He keeps me on my toes. At least I know he’s in my corner and not trying to nudge me out of it. Right from the gate Tom said he’d give me enough rope to fly or hang myself, but before I hung myself he would step in and chances are if I took his advice I’d fly. If I don’t I’ll probably look like a photo from the French Revolution. Recently he acknowledged that I have created my own island in New York and he loves what I am doing there. Regardless it upsets me when he criticizes my work. I don’t get butterflies over a potential love affair. I get butterflies over what Tom Whalley, Jimmy Iovine and Steve Berman think of me.

We still have no president-elect. The New York Yankees won the World Series. I’m in L.A. far too busy to care about the atypical and the norm. ‘Far too busy’ is my favorite salve. L.A. weekends are fun. I schedule brunch at Barneys because that’s where everyone is, dinner at outdoor Bistros, and spend spa days with Liz. New York weekends get boring. I see bands with Dana we get really drunk and usually unsuccessfully try to meet guys. I go roller blading down to the Trade Centers with Thom. I spend 5 hours at the gym. On a Sunday night in New York I want somebody around so I take pills to forget I’m lonely. Marco didn’t call yesterday. The two klonopin, three temazapam and an Ambien cocktail made it okay. Two glasses of wine on the plane and another when I got to the hotel made it even better. I have perfected a work, exercise and pill elixir. As soon as I got my rental last night I heard “Monster in Your Parasol.” If hearing QOTSA on the radio fills my primary need for happiness no wonder my relationships last the equivalent of a 3-minute song.

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L.A. requirment-KROQ in the rental car

Still pinching myself. Yesterday I hung out with Jimmy Iovine. He waylaid me in the hallway, and suggested we hit the company cafeteria for lunch. I didn’t know we had one. He had no cash (I offered to pay). I wonder if Jimmy ever carries money. I think that might be an icon thing. If we find ourselves in the same elevator with him we’re not supposed to look. It happened once. I spent the entire ride wondering if it’s company lore. I didn’t look. Jimmy is Interscope’s sphinx.

We were served lunch in his inner sanctum. A small round room connected to his office. Jimmy’s office feels furtive, dimly lite. Ghosts float freely. I like it. Once I held a meeting with a band and Jimmy spent the entire time lying down, elbow bent, head perched on his hand like a pin-up girl in a baseball cap. In the sanctum the John Lennon “Brooklyn” photo is on display next to Jimmy’s “Brooklyn” t-shirt. There is a framed page from a Steven King novel that mentions him.  I didn’t have time to read it. I thought about the photo of David Anderle with OJ Simpson. David eventually took it down. I don’t think Jimmy would have. I asked him what it was like working on Double Fantasy he didn’t know. “I wasn’t there. John asked me to engineer and I told him I couldn’t because I was starting my own record company. He put my name on the record anyway.”

Jimmy has a super power. He can see egos. He knows exactly where to sling the arrow. Pierce the ego and cripple the man far more sufficiently than puncturing the heart. Jimmy is an unusual predator, and maybe that’s why he is Jimmy Iovine. Maybe he can spin the world on its axle. I feel boring around people like him. Over fried rice, he tells me I’m great and “good for the company.” He told me he doesn’t want to lose me when Tom goes. No hidden agenda here, just gutted motive lain at my feet. I still feel the carpet under them, “We should hang out more.” I’ve seen that drill. You become a Jimmy Person. Until one day the luster wears off. After that it doesn’t matter what you do, the ship has sailed and you may still have a job but you don’t even have a dock. Success and power are two different animals. I don’t understand power. I work hard. John Lennon would not have put my name on Double Fantasy.

Everyone has this notion that I’m going to waltz off to Warner Bros. with Tom. Andy Gould tells me Tom likes me so much that if I’m not happy at Interscope I could easily make the jump. I am happy at Interscope and Tom hasn’t asked me to go anywhere. Not even the company cafeteria. It’s all this Jordan Shure mishegoss running through this company like lava. Jordan is exactly like lava, interesting at a distance but nothing you’d want in your home. He’s the Jimmy Person. I know Andy wants to move Monster Magnet over to Geffen. Jordan’s going to be President there, and Tom is leaving because of it. Or so the rumor goes. The pieces on the board are moving quickly. I think I may be a Knight and would like to be a Bishop a Rook would totally rock. I want to stay and make the next Queens of the Stone Age record. They keep me tethered. Jimmy didn’t have to invite me to the inner sanctum. Even though he’s kid-like and he charmed me. Jimmy could start a gang war in a sandbox.

At some point during the day Jordan the psychotic bully stopped me mid-gait. Jimmy and Tom feel, “I’m not focused enough on the project,” so he’s taking Monster Magnet over to Geffen. Jimmy wouldn’t give a damn where Monster Magnet ends up. I knew that as the imaginary words were coming out of Jordan’s mouth. Sadly, Tom’s advice is to let them go, he says they’re old and not that great. I did lie down on the tracks for them. Tom told me to sit up. Flip the story; he doesn’t want me to use my focus on them. I have to let some pawns go so I have more room to play the board. Three years ago that band were my queen. But wait! Jordan also tells me his label Flawless, even the name says so much about the man, decided not to sign Brian Liesegang because he has drug problems. If he’s only going to deal with musicians who have never done drugs he won’t have a roster.

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C’mon, let’s be real here.

Jordan should have thought things out before he tried to make the A&R girl cry. Ted Gardner and Pete manage Brian but they also manage Queens of the Stone Age the only new rock band making any noise at this label. To boot dealing with an alcoholic Australian is scary. I’ve been on the other end of Ted’s wraith. There is a reason I zonk myself out when I get home/hotel, or throw the occasional drink at someone: Ego crossbows. Psychotic bullies. Australian alcoholics. Goodbyes to bands I midwifed. I am desperately trying to survive this place without feeling loss, sadness, pain, embarrassment or fear. Interscope is neither an incubus nor my lover. Or is it?

Goddamn, I wish I could take back that moment where my drink went into that woman’s face. Everyone here thinks it’s hilarious. It isn’t. I have a one bedroom apartment in the West Village, two beautiful cats, clothes that make Steve Berman refer to me as The New York Times Style Section, the best job in the world, I make good money, and I spend it on whatever I want (primarily trips to Paris, clothes, and personal trainers). I have all the answers for everyone all the time. I even have a Palm Pilot. I don’t have problems. I am the girl with the most cake. Marco, Andy and Jordan will not poison my cake.

Waiting in New York is a list. He wrote up a list of everything I did wrong in Philly because he, “Took the higher ground.” I reckon I didn’t get the best friend stamp of approval. Josh called him a Pretty Boy. Thom decided he’s a working class shmoe who’s faking the rest of it, and apparently the asshole is continuously walking around in my Motely Crue t-shirt. Look at that! I did make a biker out of him. I don’t know why I desperately want to hold on to this relationship even at the expense of my dignity and my t-shirt. I do know why. Boyfriends don’t fall into my lap. My lap is in a different airplane seat every week. I must get that t-shirt back.

My workload is unfathomable. I’ve got Queens of the Stone Age coming to town today through Tuesday. Then Tom flies in on Friday to see The O. Then I leave for Europe on Sunday. I have no time to fix a relationship, and if I’m honest with myself less time to have one. I had dinner with Diane. We’ve known each other since 1985 when we were both radio promo assistants. Diane was once happy. Before A&M was shuttered, she was radiant. Like me she is happiest when busiest. Like me she works herself to utter and complete exhaustion and is exhilarated by it. Our greatest disparity-Diane found time to get married. She and her husband were hot together. He is a biker, who now makes her miserable. He spends all day drunk and mucking around. He has health issues. She’s still sexy which is just wasted hotness. They ignore each other and she pays for everything.

When Josh said, “Deb, you need a real man,” I imagined someone like Diane’s husband. I look at her now and think she might not remember how to smile. I don’t want a husband who has to hide from Wynona Ryder. Or one who tinkers with his motorcycle, has health issues and ignores me. Or one who will cheat on me before he even leaves for tour. Or one who can’t deal with me when I’m exhausted and have a moment. On top of which, it would be one grand relief to stop having to pay for everything.

Here’s how I get my kicks; I walk around with rock stars. When they get stopped on the street I pull a sharpie out of my bag. I always carry a sharpie. I always wear great boots. I look like a “someone.” Fans ask us to pose together for photos. This is my way of having a boyfriend.

I made a quick stop home from LaGuardia and then straight to a QOTSA party. Josh told me everyone at Interscope is singing my praises. Steve Berman told Josh I’m “a bulldog” and their greatest ally. Rottweiler is in my job description. Josh wants me to back him up on releasing “Feel Good Hit of the Summer” as the next single. He doesn’t remember how hard our sales team fought to get Rated R into Walmart. I told the band, “Usually they’ll only peruse the first three songs.” The very first words on that record: “Nicotine, valium, vicodin, marijuana, ecstasy, and alcohol. Cocaine!” Lesson #1, tell a band what not to do, and it is the first thing they will do.

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Every night somewhere in the world there is a band that is the greatest band in the world.

The night QOTSA played Irving Plaza was epic. Every night somewhere in the world there is a band that is the greatest band in the world. All dressed in white and musically impeccable Queens of the Stone Age owned it. Afterwards we all got perversely drunk. Never snort off of Nick’s mirror, only use Josh’s. I should know better. I didn’t throw up or die, so that was good. The heel of my Marc Jacobs’ boot snapped off when I fell down the tour bus stairs. A bus only has three stairs but they were enough to ruin a great pair of boots and scratch the hell out of my bony spine. Michael carried my heel around, he may still have it, and for reasons still unaccountable we ended up in the back of a cab amidst a sea of Jacksons (I think Michael wanted a trick, and, oh fuck it I don’t know…). We’ve been trying to put the pieces together for days now.

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Trouble.

September came with a list of goals and I either have PTSD or I’m making up for a month of not sleeping. Thank god my doctor left klonopin and Ambien scripts for me. Three months worth so they have to last through Europe. CMJ is coming up. In the next six weeks I fly to Chicago, Austin, L.A. twice and then spend two weeks in Europe with three of my artists plus my brother. Daryl was raised with a laminate around his neck, and the best seats in the house for any concert he wants to attend. He thinks it’s all free beer and soaring rock stars. He never knows about the drugs. He doesn’t know about my pocketbook filled with pill bottles. He does not know about my loneliness. He doesn’t realize my perfect job exhausts me. I’m not sure if he realizes I love this job so much that even when I am out of gas I push harder on the accelerator. Daryl is where I go when I need to feel safe. He is my solace. If I get lazy Daryl won’t get his laminates, and that is unacceptable.

Dave Wyndorf keeps calling and he’s a mess. Josh Homme keeps calling and he’s happy. Jesse Malin called to see if we could catch up over dinner. I have a pile of books to read. Marco, who Thom wants to fix me up with, called and asked me out on a date. A date! I figure why not. What do I have to lose?

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These are my REAL MEN: Joshua Homme, Randy Sabiston, Michael Alago (who needs a boyfriend?)

 

-For all the men in my life who kept it real and helped me push that accelerator harder.  You know who you are. xxxx.

Addendum:  I never got that Motely Crue t-shirt back

Drug Farm

“Got a knife in my back got a hole in my arm when I’m driving the tractor on the drug farm” Lyrics Dave Wyndorf/ Photo: Michael Alago

 

Once again Gary Harris schooled me, “Debbie stop the bullshit! Get over it. I have never known an A&R person who had hits that didn’t get high. Debbie I have never known an A&R person who had hits that didn’t get high. I have NEVER known an A&R person who had hits that didn’t get high.” This A&R executive had mad crazy skills at both. *An aside-Before this roller coaster takes off, I must confess two important factors: I lived a life where timelines didn’t exist, and I spent many years picking up and putting down alcohol. 1989 through 2004 was a fast lane. Please be tolerant.

The late 80s came with Uncle Tupelo. East St. Louis may be the most depressing place in America. I think in order to live there, which they did, you were compelled to drink. “Whiskey bottle over Jesus.” Plus the beer at Cicero’s cost about fifty cents. Eventually I could outdrink Jeff Tweedy. Although chaotic and potentially disastrous the whole gig was fun. Teenage Fanclub and Uncle Tupelo played CBGBs. My red shoes ended up on the wrong side of the bar. Tony Margherita and I spent a good part of the night shouting for more beer, trying to retrieve my shoes and more often knocking each other over. Uncle Tupelo’s No Depression started a movement, and a magazine. CMJ ruled the 80s and an indie-hit record was still a hit.

While pounding down beers at Don Hills he spoke and I slurred about the Wilco masterpiece Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. Also, I may have fallen off my seat. Jesse Malin was so upset he thought the logical thing would be to tell everyone how worried he was. New York City rock & roll rumors do one thing, they get back to you. “I could think of only one person I would want to take to this show.” Jesse was offering to take me to see The Stones. “You’re telling people I’m on pills??? How dare you! I wouldn’t see The Stones with you if you were the last person alive.” I was too high and too arrogant to see my favorite band with one of my favorite people. I never had a hit record with DGeneration, but I did sign them to a major label and in turn they put me on the map below 14th St. the equivalent of a hit.

Around the time Andy Gould arrived, strip bars, the Cigar Club 666, The Ivy, The Palm, chic hotel bars, anywhere fun and everywhere we could drink became the norm. Andy was a combination of Arthur, and Austin Powers (and possibly any role Dudley Moore ever played). We worked ourselves to exhaustion. We drank and joked and danced. Andy even danced like Austin Powers, I had Axle Rose perfected. Andy helped me settle into L.A. The one where you drank Bloody Mary’s at Barneys for breakfast tablehopping to kiss-kiss. Drank Pina Coladas for breakfast while Andy Gould and Bob Chiphardi cheered on that nefarious Gene Simmons make out session. Martinis were as commonplace as naked pool jumping. I was scrupulous about keeping my clothes on, even though most of them were sheer and stained with red wine, they never got wet, and they always stayed on. L.A. is manifest for voyeurism. Andy ensured us a front seat. He was a genius, and I loved being Andy’s wingman. A cheeky twosome who shot for the stars, and every album, single and video we worked on together went big. Went larger than our collective malfeasance.

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Me and Andy Gould at The Four Seasons Hotel. Last call. Good thing my leg was there…

On “Black Thursday” I landed safely and securely at Interscope Records. Eventually Andy left me for Jordan Shure, and I filled the void with Queens of the Stone Age. I was signing the most important band of my career. I was also heart broken. That’s a story for another day, but involved vomiting a great deal of tequila on one of the cutest boys on the L.E.S. One bona fide fuck up. In absolution I gave up drinking alcohol and eating food. Instead I ate pills. When I walked my purse rattled. Still good fortune shone down on me. Black Thursday + a job = major hit.

Dave Wyndorf cornered me in a hallway at The Chelsea Hotel. “Are you on pills? You look terrible!!! You think you look junkie chic? You look fucking hideous!!!” (P.s.-I’m worried about you) Of course I was doing pills. I was eating pills all the time. My jumping off point were the sleeping pills I discovered that would get me through all the sleepless nights that finally gave birth to Power Trip. Having just been pierced from tongue to toe I did what any pilled, pained, pummeled waif would do ran down the stairs. Space Lord Motherfucker getting you through Power Trip almost killed me! By the way, once we had that hit record the drug farm seemed a very nice place to hang my cowboy hat with matching boa.

Another tour bus, another OzzFest, boys jerking off to another Pantera set, Ozzy performing night after night in those awful sweat pants with that stupid hose. It clicked, “What would Nick do?” WWND? “It must be five o’ clock somewhere.” That’s exactly what Nick Oliveri would do. I was still living in absolution for the tequila incident. So when that first beer got gulped guided by a handful of klonopin my body had a party. Rated R was rearing towards Gold. I was high.

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WWND? Obviously I’d done the thing Nick would do. Photo: Lindsey Anderson

Those days felt magical. Josh and Nick showing up unannounced at my NYC office, “Let’s go do stuff.” Stuff got done. Me showing up at The Academy in London, while a still fully clothed Nick palmed off a handful of Percodan. “Want these?” Josh, his brother and Brody called from Niagara. “Okay, I’ll meet you for ONE drink.” Sitting down at the booth, Josh locked eyes, “I’m gonna get you so fucked up.” Next thing I knew it was 5:00 a.m. and I was barefoot hailing a cab. The February barefoot walk of shame is not pretty. We already had one hit and apparently I was dancing barefoot to another.

Somewhere in the midst of all this self-imposed chaos Asif Ahmed showed up dangling The Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Some people black out and end up in Vegas. I ended up in Copenhagen. Asif and I wrestled on the floor of the Soho Hotel (an evil place). He broke bottles of red wine and drank from them. I drew a line. It was white. “If Jimmy doesn’t come to the L.A. show we won’t sign with you.” It takes a lot of sedatives and liquid fortitude to talk Jimmy Iovine into a rock club. “If you don’t come to the UK we won’t sign with you.” We shoved half eaten lobster shells into the Polygram executives’ man bags. Asif and I never walked into a meeting with anyone, not Jimmy Iovine, not David Joseph, not Lyor Cohen, without bringing bottles of red wine and demanding sandwiches. By this point I could lick my wardrobe and get drunk. However, somewhere between New York, Los Angeles, Lost Vegas and a whole lotta UK, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs signed with us. They delivered not just a hit album, but “Maps.” Fever to Tell made everything I did excusable (even though most of it was Asif’s fault).

QOTSA opened for the RHCP at MSG. It was Josh’s birthday. I drank magnums of champagne with Karen O and during the bacchanalia lost a couple of my hair extensions. One became the centerpiece of the big man’s b-day table. Asif notified me of the sad, sad, loss. Brody and I spent as much time in the Ladies Room as we did dancing and hugging. I was outlandishly skinny, I was highly successful and did not care that I was outlandishly high. Here’s the catch, other people did. Care.

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Me and Brody. If you’re lucky, and I am, you find out there’s a life filled with love outside of the Ladies Room. Photo: Lindsey Anderson

I fell down. A lot. I wrecked romantic relationships with my head in a toilet, a drunk- dial, or a temper tantrum. I threw money around like a member of G-Unit. I was always bruised. I wrecked thousands of dollars of Marc Jacobs clothing. Everything was excessive: dancing, sex, working, the number of people a bathroom could hold, shopping, exercising, apologizing, money, lack of money, travel, dinners, outfits, embarrassing myself…everything. But hey, I had hit records, Grammy nominations, charisma…Suddenly something stalled. I got tired. I got lonely. I’d had it with hits. I stopped getting high.

Sex, drugs and rock & roll compose a contract I signed with no legal representation. I made the mistake of believing the holy trinity must be grossly indulged. I would like to say the “Tractor” stopped there. Now and then there was a drought, or a break down. Finally the day came when the farm sold, and the tractor rotted.

Recently backstage at MSG, one of the most badass women to ever walk the earth whispered, “Debbie, sober is better.” Truth told not all A&R executives who have hits get high; it’s more like 85%. Gary knew I had something most don’t. Stories. When he demanded, “Debbie, stop the bullshit,” he was giving me permission to tell them.

-Dedicated to every person who came to my aid circa 1989-2004. Dave W, Phil C, Nicole H, Matt H, Jesse M, Danny S, Diane G, Steve K, Kristin H, Lisa B, Ellen M-P, Michael A, Thom E, Cid S, Asif A, Liz B, Julie F, Dana M, Mark W, David C, Jimmy I…more than I can list (or remember-oy the mind). I’m sorry if I’ve left you out, you are all my angels. Mom and Daryl you have the biggest wings, by far.