I was born in Northampton, Massachusetts (not at the psychiatric hospital it was once well known for). Northampton is nowhere near Boston. It is a serene college town with iron fire escapes and very little neon. >>>

Welcome to Northampton (unrelated to "The Hamptons"), where the coffee is strong and so are the women! This sign has not been defaced. This is what it actually says.

I spent my formative years in Adams, Massachusetts, population 8000. It is also nowhere near Boston but spared no expense on the neon. It had one stop light, a gazebo, a car wash called "The Pride of Adams," and a statue of William McKinley with his arm sticking out so you could hang bras from it. There was a pizza restaurant which was very popular. It didn't have truffled escargots or anything fancy. Just ordinary cheese, and toppings like "hamburg."

I don't recall what William McKinley had to do with Adams other than inspiring much vandalism. Sometimes people from Massachusetts are affectionately called "Massholes."

Henry Rollins oft has thanked "Mitch Bury of Adams, Mass" in his liner notes. This is possibly more interesting than the Pride of Adams car wash, in my opinion.

I survived high school.

And some time after I was gone, Gregory Crewdson staged this photo of a characteristically desolate man in office clothes standing in the middle of my street. Beside him his car door hangs open for no reason apparent, since he seems to be going nowhere. (I am not approximating when I say this was my street.)

In the intervening years I have come a long way from that little town and grown accustomed to living the sort of cosmopolitan life a young mohawked girl in rural New England only dreams of: I have delivered flowers to Moon Unit Zappa. Ewan McGregor once took a photo of me. I had a gym membership for, I don't know, around seven years. Sometimes I get to drive my 1996 VW Golf onto a studio lot. I'm two degrees from Kevin Bacon if you count extra work, and Robot Chicken. (pictured: André from Dalton, Mass., the late Dee Dee Ramone, and myself in front of Dee Dee's apartment in Hollywood in 2002)

Most critically, I have become adept at feigning a public appearance of success whether or not I do anything of consequence in private. Of course, I do many consequential things, and often. Someday I’ll write a memoir, but since I’ve already spoiled the best part (the car wash), I may have shot myself in the foot.
(I don't really have a star on the walk of fame. Obviously.)

This is a photo of me that was taken somewhere in Hollywood. As you can see, I look much more glamorous than I did wearing my brother's baseball socks. This is because I have assimilated to Los Angeles. It is a misleading photo. If you ever meet me, I will be in color and I won't have a lens flare in my hair. Now go look at my artwork.
Au revoir, Pee Wee!