“I nail my mouth to the evil taste of lipstick, inhale the scent of someone else’s lipstick…”
Wadded up Kleenex smudged red. A can of aerosol deodorant. A tube of lipstick tossed onto a scatter of counter clutter. After a two-second shot of cosmetic detritus, Suzi Quatro struts onscreen, clapping her hands to the beat of the drummer behind her. Her lips are a neutral dusty mauve, her bass guitar a lustrous red. “I’m tired of making up while you’ve been making out with someone else’s makeup,” she spits in her signature punk parlando.
