I was crawling on my hands and knees on a filthy concrete dressing room floor in Tijuana, Mexico. This was not a scene from Papillon; this was me after a gig. It was 1993. My band, Zuzu’s Petals, had just completed the most embarrassing blind-drunk set of our careers, and I was worried that we’d be kicked off our fabulous one-month, high-profile tour -- opening for the dreamy new-wave swashbuckler Adam Ant -- because I was behaving so unprofessionally. Zuzu’s Petals’ stock was finally rising, thanks to our well-received first album. With more people in the crowd, I felt more responsibility to put on a decent show and not be sh*tfaced.
Broken glass embedded itself in my palms and kneecaps as I dragged myself to the toilet, which sat bare and open in the dressing room. After I’d heaved a day’s worth of tequila shots...
Broken glass embedded itself in my palms and kneecaps as I dragged myself to the toilet, which sat bare and open in the dressing room. After I’d heaved a day’s worth of tequila shots...
- 9/6/2012
- by Margaret Wheeler Johnson
- Huffington Post
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