Full Circle

Although it may seem that I have dropped off the face of the blog world, I have, in fact, not. I've simply been incredibly busy for the last six months. What, you may ask, keeps one busy for six months? I cannot find a succinct answer to that, but I will still try to explain where I have been. Looking through my last few posts, I have been cryptic to say the least. Now, I shall try to exonerate myself.

About a year ago, I made a wish for Christmas that I was ready for a "real" relationship, a boyfriend.... I can now, happily, say that the wish has come true. After the initial auditions, it was clear to me that I had to be diligent in my endeavors. Life-partnering can be tricky. But fate brought me a wonderful surprise: Brett.

We met online and exchanged emails for several weeks before meeting. That period was a good indication that he was a thoughtful, funny and intelligent guy. Once we were face to face, it was a done deal. I don't know if I believe in love at first sight, because it feels more like a drawn out swoon than a fall, at least to me. So, we end up entranced by each other and by September, we were "honeymooners" in Hawaii. Then, in November, I finished moving in with him. My roommate and comrade in debauchery, JR, found new digs with his own man. I traveled with Brett to visit his new Mormon in-laws, in Arizona. My family greeted him with acceptance and love, granted we stay about five feet apart the whole time. Now we are planning a trip to Chicago, where he is from, so that I can meet his family. Did we move too fast? Our therapist says that's neither here nor there. The important thing is that we have each other.

As I have said before, wishes come true.

JEALOUSY: No Longer Considered a Turn-On

Fuck John Lennon and Liz Phair for romanticizing the shit out of it for me in the first place. Fuck it. Let's go eat turkey with some Mormons...

Trick or Treat

This Halloween, I have chosen to stay home with my baby and forego the madness of West Hollywood. Somehow, I suspect that we are not alone in this decision. Or alone in a metaphysical sense either... Still haunted by ghosts from our past, demons of emotion and fresh wounds. Maybe I'll share more about that later.

Right now, my advice would be: Do NOT dress up like a pimp and a prostitute in the infancy of a relationship and add alcohol to the situation. Pretty it is not.

In any event, I hope that you all have a fun, happy and safe Halloween.

Swept Away

Leaving tomorrow for the North Shore of Oahu with my boyfriend.
That's right, I'm going on a well deserved holiday.





Beautiful, isn't it?

The Misfit

It's true what they say: a good man is hard to find.

Will an act of inclusion ultimately prove to be the final nail? No one wants to end up like Flannery's grandmother. Lip service with an added gratuity... I understand the quest for authentication, verification, rationality. I want to be a better man. I dress for the trip I never wanted to take. I pack up the cat and forget where I am. The seasons blur into daze and "it's just how I am" becomes a mantra.

Is it easier to believe in false prophets and go down with the ship? Easier than what? The journey begins when we lose our itinerary. Consider me lost, color me Warhol and call it a day.

I'm just tired, baby. That's all.
I'm glad I found you. It was no accident.
Be careful with the recoil and I'll mind the punchlines.

Wide awake and open wide.
This is how the world begins.
Storied, languid, beyond reproach-
Thick as thieves we shed our skins.

Sleeping Beauty and The Beast

Ordinarily, I like to open with a dramatic line. Something along the lines of: "Don't hand me a Temazepam and tell me everything is gonna be all right!" Which, of course, I actually said to someone recently and it makes me wonder.

I wonder a lot, lately, with things being so wonderful and all. Isn't life grand? When I feel like I've thought of an appropriately shocking and beguiling line to describe what I am going through, I'll be back. Until then, I'm afraid all we are left with is a case of Sleeping Beauty and The Beast syndrome. What, I ask, does a kiss awaken?

My Own Beat

Normally I am not the kind of person who walks around saying: "Hey, Blueberry! Go fuck yourself!" But lately, that's just how I feel.

I'm really irritated that a successful recovery from surgery means that I can't work out temporarily. That, coupled with the fact that I recently quit smoking, means I might actually gain a few pounds over the next couple months and will subsequently take me further from my physical ideal, which is a cross between a coke-addled supermodel and AIDS chic.

Honestly, I look sort of like a Muppet, Grover I think. All skinny with a swollen belly... Sexy I ain't, right now. But, that aside, my fur is coming in nicely. And, FYI, Vicodin does nothing for emotional pain whatsoever, nada! So abandon any ideas you might have about us running away together and spooning, because there aren't enough monkeys in the zoo to make me wanna spend another smidge of energy thinking about what the possible ramifications of the impact of.... Where is that prescription bottle?

*~*
I just want a time machine, you know? Take me back to the 14th of February, 1979, Cologne, Germany... I will sit, all of eight, quiet and attentive. I will make resolutions and ration my reserves. I hang on your every word. Fall into your backlight. I am uncool and God only knows what Valentinus did in the first place.

I feel empty
I feel dark
I remark
I am mesmerized
By my own beat
Like a heartbeat
~WIRE

If You Cut Me...

I have been recovering from surgery, so please forgive me if I am brief.

The operation took place on Wednesday afternoon, or evening, I should say, as it was almost dark as we left the surgical center. Never have surgery in the afternoon. Always opt for an early morning slot, as your surgeon will be fresh and it will be easier to fast in your sleep. I couldn't eat a thing all day and I was nervous and since I quit smoking, that's what I do when I'm nervous. Anyway, the operation went smoothly and I wasn't in any real pain until the next day.

After several days of recuperating and lots of educational television, I feel a little better. My sister has been a great help, as she is a nurse and has had a cesarean section herself. I'm not saying that the procedures are comparable, just similar. I feel more like a deleted scene from an ALIEN movie, where the monster is successfully removed from the abdomen before it hatches. I will have a scar shaped like a smile, just under my navel. Sexy, huh?

Wait til you see the pictures...
Anyway, I'm alive.
SO

Do I Not Bleed?

As I mentioned before, I have a hole that needs fixing. Not a temporary filling, but a permanent closure that will prevent that which is within me from coming out. I have elected to have surgery, right away. Tomorrow, in fact, tomorrow afternoon.

I suppose it would behoove me to stop being so elusive and just come out with it. There is, unfortunately, nothing very poetic about a hernia. In fact, this hernia is a result of residual trauma from a previous hernia surgery I had nine years ago. See, they punched a hole through my abdominal wall with a camera and then forgot to close up that hole when they were done. Over the years, as I gained and lost many pounds, the hole started to stretch larger until little bits of my guts could ooze out. I would just push them back in and go about my business, but since I recently started strength training at the gym, the problem has gotten worse...

I decided that I needed to have this done right away, because, truthfully, is there ever really a convenient time to have surgery? Besides, I like the symbolism of it. All the energy that has escaped through the hole in my navel will be reclaimed. I will be born anew and emerge even stronger... Like the Six-Million Dollar Man or the Bionic Woman or Madonna. It will be great.

I will keep you posted on my progress.
Be with me,
SO

The Glitter Fades

Personally, I can't wait until this whole Mercury Retrograde thing is over. Breakdowns in communications and emotional outbursts are so passe. I feel like if we are ever going to truly control our lives, that we have to get a better grip on the solar system and astrologically stop shit from going bad.

I'm kidding, of course. But that doesn't change the fact that am in the middle of a sacrificial rite of passage, letting go of the old in order to embrace the new. Madness occasionally rears its ugly head, but who am I to judge? I have an appointment tomorrow with a man who says he can fix the hole. It's all just bittersweet symphonics, but it feels like something more permanent. All that never remains...

I Know It's Over

So, yeah... I'm deconstructing within the structure again. This time with blockquotes, so you'll get nice and confused. I had to take down the last entry, because it was a stupid fucking holiday reference and an excuse to post a photo of me in front of a flag. Fuck that! I hate holidays.... I hate independence and I hate this, too. In it's unholiness:

Attraction is a strange and mysterious force. Regrettably, we don't have the canine luxury of blatent ass-sniffing in order to screen our company. Instead, human interaction is less obvious but serves the same purpose when getting to know someone. Often times, relationships develop through repeated exposure as is the case with office romance. The various parties are able to sniff each other out and then decide if they want to go there or not.

Luckily, I have no such problems. If I find someone I work with attractive, I do my best to ignore them and under no circumstance do any sniffing at all. Not that my industry is exactly teeming with types I might be attracted to... In my office, no one wants to Dunder my Mifflin and that's okay with me. I'm not closeted at work and there are many people that will happily discuss how disgusting Paris Hilton is or what's really wrong with Britney or any number of somewhat "gay" subjects. I just don't put out that vibe at work. I am a professional and I have a serious Defamer addiction to maintain.

I make excuses, obviously. I am working overtime in order to use the phrase "Dunder my Mifflin", which I don't even get. Does anyone watch television anymore? Does anyone have a job? Where is everybody going? Where's everybody....... *At this point, the Diva hits the floor and you know what that means. No, I'm not seeing more than two psychotherapists. Yes, I decided that I must have an elective surgery, right away. No, I'm not lying, exaggerating or otherwise fucking with you. Yes, you, the only one left. We'll just sit here crying together, hoping that the embassy sends an ambulance before we've expired. Maybe in time, we all just rot. In the meantime, I have to get on daddy's good side.

"If you're so funny
Then why are you on your own tonight ?
And if you're so clever
Then why are you on your own tonight ?
If you're so very entertaining
Then why are you on your own tonight ?
If you're so very good-looking
Why do you sleep alone tonight ?
I know ...
'Cause tonight is just like any other night
That's why you're on your own tonight
With your triumphs and your charms
While they're in each other's arms..."
The Smiths

Firmness and Comfort

I love to sleep and I absolutely hate not being able to do it.

Strange thoughts invade my mind on a nightly basis. In fact, my insomnia had gotten so bad, I felt like Paula Abdul. Needless to say, this is a most disturbing feeling and the realization of such prompted me to seek help.

So, after consulting several therapists, psychics, and dealers of dreams, I am sleeping again. With the aid of a little script I got from my doctor. Not the euphoric stuff I was hoping for, but it seems to do the trick. I was very hesitant to take prescription sleeping aids, because I don't necessarily trust myself to resist having a Neely O'Hara moment."I want a doll! I want a doll!" But so far, they are doing the trick.

My most potent memory regarding this particular subject is one of Madonna. There is a moment in "Truth or Dare" when she groggily rubs her eyes and says: "My sleeping pill hasn't worn off yet, so if I start acting like Joey Heatherton- You'll know why..." I always wondered what exactly she meant by that. After bouncing around in my mind for, oh, fifteen years or so... I finally stumbled upon THIS and suddenly it all made sense.

The perfect combination, you'll love it!

Maybe This Time

I feel like the weekend needs a anthem:



I was upset to learn that the creature I had come to know as the neighborhood cat, a creature whom I would find in my apartment occasionally, something that I went out of my way to pet and be kind to, a creature I believed was the neighbor's cat... was actually a skunk. A wild, probably rabid, fucking skunk. I find that incredibly sad and confusing. I miss that creature.

The future looks bright, though not so much that I need shades or anything. I just have the sugary aftertaste of optimism on my tongue. Did you happen to catch my other Fosse moment? Yes, it's a weird world that's wild on top. But I like it.

I'm processing a lot of emotions right now. The man in the moon smiled at me tonight and that makes it so much easier to let things die. No expectations, no disappointments, right?

Tonight you all look good to me.
SO

Idiot Heart

At a recent social gathering, I was introduced to several new people. The introduction went something like this: "He is incredibly talented. A genius writer..." Now, with an opening like that, you might think that I was the belle of the ball. But time and again, I was politely greeted with a so, you're a writer... followed by their eyes leaving me to gaze upon the muscle-bound, blond, blue-eyed creature to my left. "And what do YOU do?" They would ask him. His reply? "I work out."

Well, I work out too. Just not enough, I suppose. But the greater dilemma here is that I live in a town where being a cultural, literate, intellectual type is a handicap. Is no one interested in thinking? I guess not. Not here at least... If you do not live in Los Angeles, count your blessings. I may be a genius here, but it does me little good. Even when I find someone I think might be interesting enough to pursue, they usually disappoint in fairly predictable ways. That is entirely my own fault for having what I have come to understand is my Idiot Heart.

I used to spend a lot of time thinking about how stupid and ugly I must be, that no one wants to be with me. Now I know that the opposite is true. I just give men far too much breadth. Must I be pickier with such limited choices? Alas, the answer is yes. I must embrace my inner-diva and force them to grovel for my affections. I invoke the Queen of the Nile, Cleopatra, and mantra the command: On your knees! On your knees! On your knees! And while you're down there....

Hell hath no fury, it's true, but I am tired of scorn. Even my imaginary friends have lovers these days.

Mitch just returned from Europe, where he partied with Nacho Vidal and some Parisian whores. The night they were arrested for throwing a statue from their balcony at Le Claridge Champs-Elysées, Mitch met Anton. Could anything be more romantic than meeting a future lover in a French prison? Anton had been picked up for petty thievery and apparently stole Mitchell's heart as well. They spent the money I had loaned Mitch, on wine and cigarettes, before finally stowing away on a Japanese whaling ship headed towards Long Beach. I went right down to pick them up and have been regaled with crazy stories ever since. I promise that I will do my best to share the least perverted of them with you, though that might be difficult. You know how Paris gets in the summertime....

Forgive that you might forget.
Amen.

Still Waters

"If only you were more shallow..."

Yes, that would seem to solve all the worlds problems, wouldn't it? But, alas, it will never be. I am deep, bitch!

You can quote me on that....
SO

Rebirth

Having celebrated yet another milestone upon the road of life, and astonished at the tenacity my existence tends to show, I have resolutions to declare.

Therefore upon this day, I resolve to become iconoclastic in every aspect of my life. Will it matter if my coital activities match my decor? I think not. I've never been drawn to the "easy-to-assemble" lifestyle, opting inside for sculpture and color. I requite no one and need nothing.

Fairly, I go into the future with a skeptical heart. I plan to open it again, I do. When you offer love and it is refused, what is one to do? Box it up and bury it in the ground? Or dust yourself off and continue to dance to the beat of your own drum? I pound the pavement. I pound the flesh. I pretend to care and lift my dress.

Action taken becomes the accusation: Drama Queen... Yes, the list is very long now. Maintenance is always an issue once you've removed the hateful tissue. Cut and Paste. Growth and Denial. It's all very boring, I know. But it's all I have these days. My dreams were always too vague. The spells I cast don't always serve me. Reality is a bitter friend.

Don't get me wrong... I'm feeling stronger than before and I know that from these ashes, I will rise. I always do. Months from now, you won't recognize me and that's a good thing. I am born again. I am alive. Let's get it on...

Commitment

Or Who Becomes An Asshole Most?

This is a transcript of a conversation I had with an Art World person at a recent social gathering:

SO: Short of suicide, which is forthcoming and inevitable, what could I do to further my career as an artist? Do you recommend cutting off an expendable body part or attempted murder? What would raise the value of my art more?

AW: Oh, you're serious about art now? I thought you were serious about your music?

SO: I'm not serious about anything!

AW: If you really want to make it, you have to be willing to commit.

SO: Like I said, murder, mutilation, whatever it takes...

AW: *fidgets uncomfortably*

SO: Seriously, though... If I am ever committed to anything, it will be the psychiatric ward.

Then he scampered away, as expected. Yeah, I was fucking with him but still telling a version of the truth. In actuality, I am terrified that I have designed a universe for myself that isn't altogether different in tone from the world of Frances Farmer. This is disturbing on many levels. Maybe if I hadn't listened to all those Smiths albums....

So, it's my birthday tomorrow. I'm not very excited about the prospect of getting older. I always seem to freak out around this time of year. I was reminded that a mere four years ago, I almost killed myself and three of the people I care most about in this world. We were leaving a karaoke party downtown, in my honor. Needless to say, I had far, far, far too much to drink that night. I punched CK in the face and was promptly loaded into the passenger seat of my car for the ride home. Holly drove.

About the time we hit top speed on the freeway, I decided to have a full on mental breakdown when Anthony suggested that "everything was going to be alright." That triggered a response from the darkest corner of my soul. I screamed: "No! It's NOT going to be ALRIGHT!!!" Among other things, I am sure... Then I punched the front window of my car, which shattered, to my surprise. I tried to undo my seatbelt and managed to fling open my car door, while we were still flying down the freeway. Anthony restrained my arms from where he sat in the back seat. Holly merged onto an offramp and as she did, I yanked up on the emergency brake and almost caused the car to veer out of control. Holly managed to drive us to safety and no one was seriously hurt. That was four years ago, but it seems like more.

I have made arrangements to meet with a mental health professional tomorrow morning, as a preemptive move on my part. Maybe I will manage to get through this weekend without becoming a famous artist after all.

I'm not serious about anything.
Laugh Out Loud!

Saviour Onassis

You Better Work!

Just got back from the gym, where I experienced my first session with a professional trainer. She kicked my ass. Yes, SHE! I am proud to announce that I have a female trainer. This is good for me for several reasons, none of which I feel I have to explain. I'm excited about doing some strength training because I have been lots of things in my life, but "buff" has never been one of them. Maybe this will help with my self-esteem. Maybe this will get me laid more often. Maybe this will save my life. Who knows?

I've been freaking out lately, mostly because of the horrible, cruel, disturbing world of courtship and dating. You see, after five years of self-imposed celibacy and reflection, I stupidly decided to start dating again. I simply wanted to meet people, have fun, get laid, feel human... Normal, right? I'm not ready to commit to anything. I just wanted to break out of the monastery. I really don't want to think about the long term implications of romantic/sexual involvement. I guess it's a lot to ask of someone to feel the same way. I just want to be happy.

And I don't mean the brand of happiness Virginia Woolf felt as she filled her pockets with rocks. Though that particular image has its appeal, I should really wait until someone gives a shit before sinking under the waves. By someone, of course, I mean everyone. So, please, let me know how little you care. I thrive on rejection, humiliation and abandonment. As a friend pointed out to me: "Just because it happened to you, doesn't make it interesting to anyone else..."

Life, love, and even death take a lot of work.
Are you experienced?

$228.00

I'm compelled to confess that lately I have shown the kind of self-restraint one generally tends to associate with Jennifer Love-Hewitt. I left the tag on!!! And I danced!

Seriously, though, if you flush a kitten down the toilet and it somehow finds its way back home... Try to see past the fact that this kitten is cold, wet, scared, and smells like shit. Try to see the cute kitten within. Some things just don't die right away. Some things like coming back. Coming home...

And So It Begins...

Ain't Too Proud

Well, it's GAY PRIDE weekend here in LA and I'm just not feeling it.

My roommate is out of town and after the horrifying experience we had last year, I think it best that I stay home. I've been in quite a bit of pain recently, both emotionally and physically. The physical pain is easily identified as a result of working out far too vigorously in an attempt to block out the emotional pain. Damn that gym membership! Soon, though, I expect to be fully buff, beautiful and exceptionally miserably alone.... Oh, life.

Last night I locked myself up at home and watched The Night Porter, which is creepy. Though I do love Dirk Bogarde. If I had a "type", he would definitely be it. I've always had a thing for guys like Dirk Bogarde, Oliver Reed, and Glenn Ford. I need a rugged, yet sensitive, leading man type. I recently had a horrifying revelation about the archetypal pattern I am reliving in my love life. More on that soon, I promise. For now, I just want to not end up like Charlotte Rampling in TNP, because no Dirk is worth that.

Easy way out, anyone?

Love Live

So, last night I went to the House of Blues on Sunset Strip to see Linda Perry and, it was no real surprise, special guest: Courtney Love. Perry played some great material of her own before bringing out Love, whom she jokingly said she "discovered." Courtney looked great and has never sounded better. She played about a half an hour, all new material from her forthcoming album, Nobody's Daughter. My favorite song is Pacific Coast Highway, which you can watch the rehearsal of HERE.

After Courtney left the stage, Perry and the band went into a ton of Zeppelin covers and, finally, the original version of the Linda Perry written Beautiful, made famous by Christina Aguilera. I prefer Linda's rendition. All in all it was a great show and makes me excited to hear the new album. Hopefully, the wait is almost over.

BJ and Dirty Love

For a little over a month, my couch has been home to a kid named BJ.

I call him a kid because he is younger than me and has a penchant for cookies and milk. Hailing from Michigan, he has come to California in pursuit of fame, glamour and money. While living with me provides a fair amount of glamour, he is on his own for the rest of it. BJ went to school with JR in Michigan. That's why he's on the couch... Mostly, he watches TV and plays guitar. BJ is a great musician and I like having him around, to discuss songwriting techniques, chord changes and marvel at how differently the world can look through the eyes of someone born in the eighties... He helps with the dishes and takes out the garbage, so it's worked out pretty well so far. Besides, being around a nice, clean cut, straight boy, who is completely devoted to his teenage girlfriend, keeps me relatively level headed in what has shaped up to be a fairly tragic month for me, personally.

Due to said tragedy, I've been quite prolific and will be devoting the next phase of my life to finishing some projects that have been meandering through my subconscious for a while. There is something comforting in the fact that great personal loss can be forged into creative output. Once I have confirmation on the quality of the material, I will unleash it on you. Until then, please feel free to offer me a shoulder to cry on, or any other token gesture of solidarity. I watched that silly Jenny McCarthy movie Dirty Love and found, much to my horror, that I related to it on some deeply disturbing levels. It's not surprising that the film won many Razzie Awards and is regarded as one of the worst films ever made. Half of my DVD collection falls into that category... I really have very bad taste, so if you are like me, rent it. The tagline for the film is "Got Dumped?", so that should clue you in right there. Have I resorted to the same depraved levels of desperation that Miss McCarthy did? Probably, but I haven't been arrested yet.

It's not enough to ask the universe to bring you the perfect mate, because that's exactly what it will do. You have to ask for a perfect match, a perfect fit. You have to ask for your soul mate. If you simply ask for Mr. Right, he will appear, show off how perfect he is for you and then promptly excuse himself because you're not perfect for him. I want to be somebodies Mr. Right. I want to be chosen. I want to be cherished. I don't want to be Jenny McCarthy, not anymore. Is reciprocation too much to ask?

Love is a two-way street. Who's going my way?

Dark Matters

"I wear black on the outside, because black is how I feel on the inside." -Morrissey Unlovable

Surreal Moment of the week: I'm at this Memorial Weekend party with JR and BJ, when this punk-fabulous chick asks me: "Are you Courtney Love?" I feign humility and accept the title. Oh YouTube, whatever has become of me?

There's a blue moon on the horizon and I'm thinking of casting a spell. I recently picked up Paulo Coelho's The Witch of Portobello, so I'm in that frame of mind right now. I'm in need of a little escapism, especially in light of what Mitch told me he did to celebrate the long weekend.

"I smoked crystal meth and got gangbanged by a bunch of strangers in Silverlake," he said, matter-of-factly, as we sipped our morning tea. I scanned his face, desperate that he was joking, but he remained deadly serious.

"That was really stupid, Mitch. You probably caught some horrible disease."

"Nah, JR gave me some anti-biotics. I'm cool. Besides, how often do you get to pretend your Jennifer Connelly in Requiem for a Dream while getting double-fucked by multiple partners?" I didn't have a answer for that and was beginning to wish my imaginary friend was a better person. He's had moments of enlightenment, but seems to descend into very dark places all too often. I must admit that I'm jealous of Mitch, not the double penetration/gangbang thing, but of his ability to live a life free of consequences. He's like PG-13 violence, all show with no blood. This is what we teach our children. This is how we dig our graves.

I don't know yet what my Blue Moon spell will be for. Perhaps, I'll wish to put these dark matters behind me, while Mitch's bruises fade. I'm ready for a day so bright, I have to wear sunglasses all the time- like a celebrity or a cop. I'm ready for my close up.
Read me my Miranda...
Let's go.

A Very Special Hotel

You know how some days you're a jazzy little spider and the next day, life just falls to shit. That's about how I feel right now. I'm not saying you're responsible. I'm not placing blame. But if you want to step up to the plate and acknowledge your part in all of this, I'm not going to stop you.

I wasn't looking for excuses when I met you. Somehow that's what I found. Lost and found. Bought and sold. This was a diamond heart at bargain basement prices. I thought you were thrifty, able to recognize a deal. I was wrong. But then again, aren't we all? Wrong place, wrong time, wrong polarity... If I knew life was going to be so fucking stupid, I might have opted for a snails existence. Brief, but full of rainy day action, I'm sure. That's all I really want.

Don't tiptoe around my tulips anymore. I don't trust the gardener and I certainly don't trust the likes of you. So where does that leave us? Alone, again, I see. Writing desperately obscure blog entries and hoping for miracles. That's right... You don't believe in miracles. You don't believe in God and I'm beginning to feel the same. He's got a wicked sense of humour, for sure.

Send me the manuscript. Send me your heart, split in two. Bring me the head of John the Baptist and we'll call it even. It's a lonely life without you, Johnny. But I'm sure you understand. I've had enough pirates in my life lately. Forgive me?

Miserablism

Now that I've finished with another long horrible job... I'm thinking of enrolling in a course in miracles. School always suited me better than the professional world anyway. Yeah, I made it out to Coachella, as a day player. I only caught a handful of acts, but I did get to see the last half of Bjork's set and it was well worth almost losing my job. I don't feel like resurrecting the details, cause they bore the shit out of me. But yeah, this job was hell on earth in huge helpings.

I did manage to post a new song over on myspace, so check it out. I was "in a mood" so reserve judgement.... Here are the lyrics:

Living on the edge never interested me. Being afraid of heights, it was the tooth decay that did me in. Or maybe the cavity inside my ribcage, blackened, charred by habits designed to impress and offend. Now I find myself in waiting rooms, next to last in line, not regretting the past… but in awe of a present I was unaware of. Obscured by the branches and blinking lights, wrapped up like my fear of sugar, in the punch lines of micromanagement and the chaos that rules control. I read the labels, note the patterns and surrender occasionally to the demons of emotion whose mutiny I must abide. I don’t see the edge as the end of the world, but as a starting point.

This is the edge, kids. More soon, I promise....
Love as always,
SO

PLAY HOLE

Saviour Onassis presents:
GUITAR LESSON with COURTNEY LOVE
(May not be suitable for work or family viewing, due to the dropping of several F-Bombs. Adjust volume/lifestyle accordingly....)



Check out my other videos, subscribe, add me as a friend on my YouTube page. And please.... If you think this is funny, share it with friends, enemies, whoever. Post it up wherever you see fit. More craziness to come, kids...

Stay Tuned....
SO

Just Grow Up

Why do we do stupid shit?

I have this theory about the reasons we make foolish choices: Life has a way of balancing things out. Just when you think you have it all figured out, curve ball. So, you messed up a few months ago and in another few months you'll face the inevitable consequences. Sometimes our decisions lead to a fewfound sense of responsibility, a more adult view of the world. As we mature, we are forced to accept our consequences, good or bad.

Then there's the whole thing about choices today shape tomorrow, blah, blah, blah... So, I choose to be gracious about my responsibilities. A happy father. Maybe the one I never had.

No man is an island.

Look out for that iceburg.

Choose Life.

Make Love Not War.

Never Go Hungry Again.

Say hello to my little friend.

So Be It.

Life in the Penalty Box

I've been given a time out.

Benched, though I wasn't involved in the scuffle. I'm just guilty by association, I guess...

I should be used to the sidelines by now, but I'm not. I still want to play, but I should confess that the thought of retiring has crossed my mind. Is it wrong to give up the sport altogether?

Maybe the game will go into overtime... Meanwhile, I can only watch and wait and contemplate how I got here in the first place.

Identikit Crisis

So... It seems I have fended off what had the potential to be a full-blown nervous breakdown, if you were curious. Earlier today, I was hungry, angry, lonely and tired... This condition is best demonstrated by Dame Elizabeth Taylor in this crazy ass clip from "The Driver's Seat" aka "Identikit."



I certainly didn't ask for a stain resistant dress, but I could use a more stain resistant heart...

I strolled down Ventura Boulevard, thinking about my life as it is today. I stopped into a pet store, lured by the aquariums, and stood watching a nervous little bottom-feeder. What was he so nervous about? It seemed as if he were about to jump out of the tank. That's when I noticed the aquariums other occupant: a shark. Albeit, a small shark, but a toothy monster, nonetheless. I don't think the shark was interested in eating him. The store owners know which fish can tank together without killing each other, right? Enthralled by the drama, I watched as the shark got closer and closer to the sucker, then he suddenly turned and swam the other way. There would be no bloodshed here. I bid the pair farewell and carried on my way.

At the new age bookstore I saw a sign for psychic readings, so I figured... Why not? I've been to psychics before and was impressed at the wisdom you can buy for twenty dollars and fifteen minutes of your life. This lady was good. I won't go into what she told me, as it was private and none of your business. It was mostly stuff I already knew, but as I was leaving she felt compelled to add: "Here is what you don't know about yourself... You are not some beat-up old jalopy. Darling, you are a Bentley! Stop selling yourself for five dollars!" I have heard this metaphor before, it has to do with self-worth and in some ways I'm inclined to agree. I'm very expensive, like white diamonds...

Here's a little word of advice: If you should ever want to take this Bentley for a test drive, make sure you can afford to buy it. Otherwise, you are doing us both a disservice. And yes, when I orgasm, I orgasm... Maybe it's time for a diet.

HALT

Charlie has this sign on his refrigerator that says: "H.A.L.T. Don't get too Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired" It's a recovery slogan, designed to help keep life in balance. Here is my problem.

I'm Hungry. I have a profound need for love. To be loved, to give love, to fill the hole deep inside of me. Are desire and hunger so different? Looking back at the choices I have made in my life, I am starving.

I'm Angry. I am angry at myself for the choices I have made. I am angry about the hand I've been dealt. I am angry that there is nothing I can do to control certain situations. I feel helpless.

I'm Lonely. Which also feeds the anger. Who could love me? I feel desperately alone in this world sometimes. I have so much love to give. I want someone who is man enough to accept it.

I'm Tired. At the end of it all, I'm just really tired of it all. I'm tired of being hungry, lonely and angry. I keep trying to think of good reasons to stick around. And just when I think I've found it, it's taken away. The universe says: "Here. Isn't this great? Isn't it exactly what you wanted? But NO! It's not for you!"

I feel like Nancy Spungeon right now.

The Daily Grind

Sometimes I miss being human.

Usually, though, I am tethered to humanity through a vast and intricately powerful set of emotions. I cycle through as if nothing is wrong. Pedal, pedal, petal...

INT. DRUG STORE - DAY

A pretty yet quite obese cashier calls up the next customer in line, a young black buck with some toiletries and a copy of MAXIM with an anorexic bleached blond filleted on the cover.

CASHIER:
I wonder what she did in a past life to look like that in this one?

The black buck just shrugs, pays and leaves.

I contemplate her question for a moment before stepping up to cash out myself.

SAVIOUR ONASSIS:
It must have been something bad.

Then I smiled at her. A gentle, genuine smile, as if to say: You are prettier far than she.

The cashier twitched slightly before ringing me out. She did not return my smile.
C'est la vie...

Petal, petal, petal... HE LOVES ME!

A dinner party was dramatically cut short when two of the guests retired to another room. Moments later, one emerges, enraged, panting and hungry for escape. Then came the screams. Yes, a lover's quarrel gone horribly wrong. The bloodied party screamed: "He hit me!"

My answer?
"Yes, but darling... Did it feel like a kiss?"

Surgery was performed in sobriety, the following day.

Petal, petal, petal... HE LOVES ME NOT!

We don't have to do this, but it feels so good. Like teenagers, we can hardly stop...
"You don't have to swallow that if you don't want to..."

Petal, petal, petal... HE LOVES ME!

As I tear the petals away, I confess that these stories have been edited, quite extensively in some cases, but are, nonetheless, true, true, true... Like reality television, the atomic age and death. We all get along somehow, don't we?

If you have an axe, by all means... GRIND IT!

Our Father's Sequins

I hung out with my new friend Charlie yesterday. He had an itch for adventure and thought I might like to join him. I had an itch myself, so I complied. We met up and hit the road for our destination: The Reagan Library in Simi Valley. On the way we stopped off at a privately owned public sanctuary called Gardens of the World, which was a pleasant surprise. We strolled through a Japanese garden, complete with asian teenagers reading Joseph Heller. Then we found ourselves in a California style mission that reminded me of the set of a Salma Hayek movie. The place is quite compact and beautiful, though not everything is blooming quite yet. Maybe we'll return in a month to see the English Roses in full effect.

By this time, we were starving. So, we stopped off at a little Mexican place for some spicy duck tacos. It was good, but I could hardly tell the difference between duck and chicken. I remembered the time Roman Coppola sent me on a mission to find him a baby duck for a commercial shoot we were working on. Needless to say, baby ducks don't exactly grow on trees in the greater Los Angeles area, so I got him a lobster instead. Anyway, after lunch we hit the freeway again and finally arrived in Simi Valley.

The Reagan Library isn't a library so much as it is a giant monument to all things Reaganesque, and as we heard a young boy, much to his father's dismay, put it: "Fabulous!" The museum starts out with a collection of red dresses, worn by the various First Ladies of recent years. Charlie and I were surprised to find that the best of the lot belonged to Betty Ford. Who knew? Next up was an exhibition called "Gifts to the President", a large hall filled with an astonishing number of bizarre gifts given to Ronnie whilst in office. This was the beginning of what we would soon realize was the museum of 90,000 chachkis. Rhinestone beltbuckles (about 200), statues, paintings, saddles, portraits, knives, guns, quilts, big leather "artwork", etc.

We were quickly overwhelmed by the sheer number of insignificant crap, so we made our way into the hall of history, where various displays take you on a virtual tour of Reagan's life. Charlie pointed out that they was only one small picture of Jane Wyman (the first wife) and their two kids. The paint was worn off from people pointing to the names and, I imagine, saying: "See, I told you...." I quite enjoyed the Assassination Room, admiring the x-ray of the president's chest. For all the bullshit that the Reagan era represented to me at the time, it hardly compares to where we are today. In a strange way, it made me miss Ronnie a bit... Yeah, the Cold War ended, the Wall came down, but Jane Wyman wasn't the only thing oddly missing from the museum. Charlie said he wanted to write in the guest book: "What about AIDS?" On second thought, I don't miss Ron that much.

Towards the end of the tour, you can have your photo taken boarding Air Force One. We politely declined. The plane was not as fabulous as I had expected, as well as being historically inaccurate. There, in plain view, was a Vogue magazine with Catherine Zeta-Jones on the cover. Shame on you, Reagan Library! That bitch was an amoeba in the eighties! Then again, weren't we all? After that, we dropped by the Oval Office, noted the vast number of Jelly Beans available at the gift shop and stopped by the grave. I'm not sure he's actually buried there, but a headstone exists, on an ugly little monument next to a garden donated by Merv Griffin. It was cold, windy and depressing, so we decided to hit some of the local thrift shops before heading home.

Charlie found a few treasures, but I was not so lucky. Was there nothing for me in the Simi Valley? I had chachkis burnout. Charlie showed me a sequin jacket and said: "These could very well be my father's sequins." That got me thinking about my own history, heritage and legacy. What would fill the halls in the museum of my own life? I suppose I need to start collecting rhinestone belt buckles right away. I've got some catching up to do...

Now Casting

Imagine having a dream that you were in a play that you had never rehearsed (or even heard of) and being thrust out onto the stage. That's what my life is like now. I'm just trying to figure out what part I'm supposed to be playing.

With Training Wheels

Now that I can be sure no one is watching, I have a confession to make. There was a presence in my life, the latter part of last year, whom I was quite smitten with. True, it was probably more the idea of him that had me, but nonetheless, I was smitten. I was quite careful not to divulge too many of the details here on the internet, out of respect for what I hoped would be a full blown relationship. Alas, it came to pass that this man was not Mr. Right. I don't know exactly what he was... I do know that when he finally said to me: "I don't read people's blogs," I knew it was over.

For one thing, I thought I had come to represent more than "people" to him. And yeah, the blogging hasn't been so great lately anyway. I blame my own fears for that. Still.... I think that Holly said it best when she told me that he was my training wheels boyfriend. Granted, I have been off the horse for quite a spell and upon reflection, that was exactly what I needed to get back in the game. Of course, after a self-imposed celibacy, I feel ready to gallop a bit. Not quite up to racing again... It's strange, the nature of love. Human hearts are elastic and electric. They beat. They break. And sometimes, sometimes they attack.

Maybe that's why the mystery endures. I tried to write a love song, but ended up using the word whore anyway... What's up with that? Perhaps there's just too little of me, too. Now I've lost the track.... This I'm definitely blaming on Gwen Stefani. I tried to do a little shopping today and every store I went into was playing her fucked up new album. This shit is even more fucked up than spelling bananas! Here is, indeed, a prime example of someone with a gigantic platform and absolutely nothing to say! I miss the days when Gwen was ironic, when she was just a girl. I miss the summer of my youth. Most of all, I think I miss my heart the most.

Lately there have been flurries in the area. I'll let you know if it develops into something more.

Paying the Man

Is there a better way to spend an evening alone?

It's that season again and I am feeling the burn of being a decent and noble taxpaying citizen of this, our great country. The more you make, the more you make, the more you make... and so on, get it? Yeah, it's all jazz and it's that one elusive note, not quite heard. It makes you stronger and you don't even try. Riddle me this: What is Saviour's ultimate cure for insomnia???

Just pay the man and go.

So be it.

Rip in Heaven

I couldn't let another day go by without saying something about Anna Nicole Smith, who was an inspiration to me in my previous incarnation as a drag queen. She represented the very ideal I was ironically trying to evoke. A small town girl who used what God gave her to make it in this world. In the end, I guess it wasn't enough. It's very sad that she died the way that she did and even sadder to me that her death has prompted so many callous and barbarous remarks. I, for one, will miss Anna Nicole... With all she had been through recently, I suppose there is some comfort in knowing that she isn't suffering anymore. Heart failure, indeed.

Rest In Peace, Baby
Anna Nicole Smith
1967-2007

What's Doing?

Hello Mister.
To fully answer your question, Dale, would surely bore you to tears. So, I will provide only the most crucial of the tedious details...

I am currently in Phoenix, Arizona. I am here on business, because who the hell comes to Phoenix for pleasure? Though I did find some old printouts of local craigslist hookers in the hotel room, stashed above the TV with a dirty rag, a spoon and an empty bottle of rum. (I was looking for the Yellow Pages, so you can stop speculating.) I realize now that I work too much and have to take time for myself more often. I am missing several important social engagements this week and will probably have alienated all of my Lost Angels by the time I get back. They must be paid attention and lots of it or they float away.

I ate quite a bit of chocolate cake today and feel like I might implode.

Other than that, I will be back in rare form shortly.
(Short form rarely?)

Jazz from that special hotel,
Saviour O.

Signs O' The Times

These are truly interesting times we live in.

For instance, we have Hilary and Barack announcing their White House intentions. (I'm on Team Clinton.) And let's not forget the fact that Sundance is happening.... Although, frankly, I have no interest in seeing Dakota Fanning raped or a documentary about a man fucked to death by a horse. Instead, I plan to attend the Grindhouse and watch some fabulous old Jack Hill movies and maybe meet some people who think, like I do, that maybe the past wasn't all that bad.

On a personal note, I feel like a psychic weight has been lifted. Hopefully I will be able to rechannel my energies into creative and entertaining projects for a change. I am so sick of performing miracles and being a beacon of light and power... I got wounded in the fray but I am better now.

If you want to be "in the know" regarding the new season of American Idol, I highly reccommend going HERE to get the best A.I. coverage available on the planet...

Spiritual Longing & Creative Rage

Those are the factors that led me to adopt this hairstyle:



This is Chase Newhart as "Crabs" in the only film he ever acted in: Switchblade Sisters. You have to see this movie, if you haven't already, because it's the cat's ass! Directed by genius Jack Hill...but I digress. The stylist I went to, Josie, didn't exactly "get" what I was going for... In a couple of months it will be perfect. Pussycat Dolls may not always know what you are talking about, but they sure look cute listening. I said: "Don't be afraid. My physiognomy can handle the disparity." Needless to say, she went a little crazy with the scissors. But I am not my hair, merely the idea of my hair.

I work and I fail and do it all again. I lose my mind, only to find that I am still right here, where I left me.

Hey! Doesn't anybody want to get lost anymore?

I know I do. Maybe in something blue, like the eyes of Chase Newhart...
I always fall in love with villains.

Now It's Dark

But that's all gonna change, kids...

The winds are blowin' and the future is so bright, dare I say it? I wear my sunglasses at night. I'm in LA and I am pretentious and fucking adorable. Sue me...

Here's the thing: It's a new year and has been for about a week. When are people gonna stop wishing me a HAPPY FUCKING NEW YEAR? Yeah, it's all gonna be great. I know, I know... So just shut the fuck up already!

Seriously, I wish you all the best. But for now... I can't think past the fact that I have to pee. So... Happy New Year and all that. I love you and hope you love me...

Eat my fuck,
Saviour Onassis