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