Merry Christmas!

May the Force be with you!



Careful what you wish for and all that... Empires may crumble.
Anyway, bless you for stopping by...

Saviour Onassis

Old Flame

So, after being trapped in my apartment complex due to the inexplicable loss of my garage clicker, I was finally able to procure a new one and go out into the world to do important things, like grocery shopping.

I hopped in my car and drove to the nearest, not exactly fabulous, supermarket. It felt as if I hadn't eaten since 1986, so I really didn't care. I was just about finished when I see this hot guy walk in. I check him out, he checks me out and we go on our merry way. Normal enough, right? Except I think I recognize him. In fact, I know I do. I remember his name: Kris... and it all comes flooding back.

Years ago, actually about 8 years, I moved to LA and was introduced to Kris, a friend of a friend, who thought that Kris and I would have things in common since we were both gay. We did have things in common and struck up a friendship that I had hoped would blossom into something more. I spent a lot of time and energy trying to convince Kris that we were perfect for each other, to no avail... After a disasterous Halloween outing, wherein I was drugged, televised and eventually thrown out of West Hollywood in Pamela Anderson drag-- for punching Jesus Christ! Well, let's just say that at the end of the evening, I had a purse full of phone numbers and a very angry Kris dropping me off at home, then phoning in a suicide call to the North Hollywood Police Department. I explained to the cops that I was not suicidal, just emotional. They seemed to buy it, and besides... Who wants to cart a naked, drunk Pamela Anderson off to the Looney Bin at 3 in the morning? (Don't answer that...)

I never heard from Kris again, until tonight... I walked up to him at the checkout stand and said hello. It took him a minute, but he remembered me. After paying for our purchases, we walked outside together "catching up." For the most part, he hasn't changed a bit. He's lost a little weight, but so have I. He explained that he still lived in the same apartment and was head over heels for his "straight" best friend. All of a sudden, I remembered that he seemed to sing that same lament, all those years ago. Hopelessly devoted to his unrequited love, I have been there myself. But I moved on. Sadly for Kris, he did not.

I asked where he was parked and he pointed to the car next to mine. The exact same car! I looked across the parking lot at the place where two white Toyota Matrixes sat, side by side. He had only made one purchase: a twelve pack of Diet Dr Pepper, which I had also purchased. As we loaded our identical sodas into our identical cars, Kris said: "Maybe you were right... Maybe we should have been together this whole time..." To which, I smiled and bid him goodnight. The air was thick with irony.

Here is the thing: This happens to me all the time. I throw myself at someone who doesn't want me throwing myself at them and eventually, sometimes even years later, they say: Maybe you were right... Which does me no good, because - let's be honest - I know I'm right. I sat here tonight, recalling all the past lovers, friends, etc., who have come back around and said "I should have picked you." I came to the conclusion that fate has somehow intervened on my behalf, because I still believe in love. I will say it again: I still believe in love. And someday, the right guy is gonna come along and say: I choose you. Hopefully when that happens, I will be ready to hear it.

Private Lives in Public Forums

I'm not really big on airing dirty laundry in public, but since I have mentioned the "unmentionables" before (sex, politics and religion), I guess I really have nothing to hide.

Memory is a strange and mystical creature, much like the unicorn... Recently, someone asked what I thought of the armed forces. What was my take on the men and women who serve and protect our country and freedom so selflessly? My reply, as it crossed my lips, surprised us all.

"Boot camp was hell on earth, but I really found that being in the Army taught me many valuable lessons about my own self worth. It fostered confidence and showed me that French men cannot be trusted to be faithful...." It was at that moment that I realized I was talking about someone else. Namely, Goldie Hawn in Private Benjamin. This seems to be happening with relative frequency and I'm not sure what to do about it. But that's not my primary concern right now.

I've just read the article in Vanity Fair regarding Augusten Burroughs' memoir Running with Scissors and the lawsuit filed against him by the "family" depicted in the book. They describe the effects of reading the memoir as completely devastating. Uncontrollable vomiting, trips to the emergency room, a police officer who was described as "Poo Bear" was compelled to "quit the force" as a result of the book. These people feel violated and are suing for defamation. Page after page of these poor souls lamenting the fact that Burroughs had "ruined" their lives by writing his book. Claiming that they only wanted to help him and protect him, I am forced to think about the fact that they are going public (Burroughs had actually changed their names), and also suing for their own monetary gain. Quick! Before the statuate of limitations runs out! They made a movie and we want a piece of the million dollar pie! The James Frey thing comes to mind, but you know what? Who gives a shit. I love Augusten Burroughs and I believe the book. Many things can be verified, "Dr. Finch" lost his license to practice due to "gross misconduct." And yeah, the book is sensational... But Burroughs had hoped the family would recognize themselves. Apparently, they did. Now they just want to get paid.

I apologize for my recent inanition. I am trying to overcome myself and the tendency I have towards misremembering events in my own life. But it's like the time, just after the war, when I stood on that hillside and proclaimed: "As God as my witness. As God as my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over I'll never be hungry again nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill as God as my witness I'll never be hungry again."

Sue me.
SO

Does my blog make me look fat?

Or rather, desperate? Or needy? Or crazy? I only ask because I think that it might scare off any prospective suitors. Imagine clicking here for the first time and reading my last post. Would YOU want to date me after that? I came to the conclusion that I am a scary mess whilst working out this afternoon. The treadmill was treading away and I tried to examine the reasons why I am alone. I don't recommend this, as it makes for a very hard workout. Forced to watch muscle-bound pornstars flirt with each other and all I really want to do is see what's on Oprah today. Move that well sculpted ass out of my eyeline, please... Thank you.

Who am I working out for anyway? Do I somehow think that masturbation will be more alluring if I, too, have a well scultped ass? I just don't know anymore. It's really not about getting laid anyway. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I just need something more. I want someone who wants me for my body and my mind. Is that such a tall order? What I do know is that I am sitting home alone on a Friday night in Los Angeles, eating soup and blogging...

I would like to think that the more information one has about another is helpful in determining compatibility, etc. But then I took this retarded online quiz about how to find my soulmate and the result said that I would have to have 68 dates before that happens. That's right, 68 different dates with 68 different people at 68 different times. I have no way of knowing exactly where I am in this numbers game, but I would suspect that I am really, really, really close.

The moral of this story, kids: I am ready for 69!

Wanted: Letters and Sodas

What ever happened to a boyfriend
The kind of guy who tries to win you over, and
What ever happened to a boyfriend
The kind of guy who makes love cause he's in it, and

I want a boyfriend
I want a boyfriend
I want all that stupid old shit
Like letters and sodas
Letters and sodas
~Liz Phair "Fuck and Run"

When asked what I want for Christmas this year, I am really inclined to go with Our Phair Lady and say: Letters and Sodas, all that stupid old shit that goes along with a boyfriend. I recently decided to reenter the dating pool and see what I could find, but that doesn't mean I am not open to cyber-romantic overtures. So, if you have ever proposed marriage to me in the past, please consider this your opportunity to re-ignite my passions. Please send the appropriate propositions to my email, which is available if you know where to look. I am fully expecting my stocking to get stuffed this year...

In other news: I suppose it was a subconscious reaction to Britney Spears recent cooter-flashing behaviour, that I dreamt last evening, of newlywed Tom Cruise shouting "Show me the modesty!" at me, as I lie supine upon a vast wedding bed in a castle far away... I complied and he promptly turned into what I can only describe as a werewolf or Kid Rock. It's so hard to decipher dream imagery, isn't it?

Anyway, I am not really expecting anyone to go out and buy me a boyfriend for Christmas, but suggestions as to who, or what type of man you think would be good for me, are greatly appreciated. And by the way, has anyone seen Mitch lately? He seems to have gone missing, yet again....

Most Sincerely,
Saviour Onassis

This Is How The World Ends

For you music connoisseurs and myspace freaks: I have just posted a brand new song on myspace which you can HEAR if you want. It's called This Is How The World Ends and it was inspired by my recent experiences with the apocalypse, lapses of faith and hatred of love songs. It's pretty cool...



Here are the lyrics, as transcribed by a slave army of meerkats and naturally, mine all mine. As in: Copyright Saviour Onassis 2006 All Rights Reserved and other legal bullshit. You know the drill....

THIS IS HOW THE WORLD ENDS
I belong a long way down here
where the song sings sweet and low
winter light has dried your tears
another night and day will be a year

you're lyin when your lips are movin
I'm cryin like I'm in a movie
Shangri-la is lost forever
we search for something special

as far as sacrifices go you're as good as gold
I've been given a lie in the shape of hope
and another hand to tie the rope
before I crash into the rocks and sea
one last thought occurs to me:
we only pray for what we don't believe

yes, I'm an optimist except for the shit I'm in
love doesn't factor in ~– I never learned to swim
baby, I'’m drowning here ~– stuck in a state of fear
there's not enough oxygen ~– I'm goin down again

so this is how the world ends
just like I imagined all along

but the people want a love song
and they want to sing along with it
sometimes they imagine
that it's their own when they're down in it
but I can't write a love song
and I won't explain the reasons why
sometimes I imagine if I fall in love
it would only die...…

Now: A Warning...

Having just come off a great-long-work-jag, Saviour Onassis doesn't quite know what to do with himself. Mulling over the infinite possibilities, he concludes that he will probably devote a great deal of his newfound TIME ON HAND to recording more trashy rock bits for an upcoming album. Perhaps he will paint a portrait of Johnny Depp or Frances Farmer or Salma Hayek... Who knows? Saviour Onassis is a fickle bitch and might even BLOG some, if the mood strikes his fancy. He has been quite upset about Gwen Stefani (again) lately and might have to rip her yet another new asshole for drawing inspiration from Michelle Pfeiffer's coked out ganster moll role in Scarface, when she really just looks a lot like Ann Jillian in whore pants.

Consider yourself warned.

The Accidental Nudist?

I recently got an eyeful of illegal alien anus, in my dreams.

It all started, as these things do, in the beginning... I had moved into my dreamy new apartment in Sherman Oaks, the Bel-Air of the Valley, and was madly in love with the balcony facing into the enclosed courtyard. It was completely private. No one is ever out here, I remember the landlady tell us upon moving in. But all that was about to change.... See, I love to breathe in that fresh California air, while sipping chai tea with a splash of french vanilla creamer, from early in the morning to late at night. I especially love doing this outside on the balcony, which is quite close to the windows of another apartment. The tenant was hardly ever there and left the blinds open, allowing me to see that she had one wall painted blood red, with a giant baroque mirror in a golden frame and a parrot. I would sit out there for hours staring at that bird, with its green feathers and blood red wall. It seemed content enough with me and its own reflection for company. Then one day, they moved out.

The blood red wall was painted white, which took several coats, and before long, a new resident had staked her claim and moved in. The blinds were left open and we were able to observe that she had very little, if any, furniture. Her financial state must have been dismal, because she apparently couldn't afford clothes either. JR noticed it first. He called me outside to verify that, indeed, our new neighbor was dancing around, completely nude. I thought that this was just an accident. She quickly realized that we could see her, and she fidgeted with the blinds, unsuccessfully, before simply killing the lights. It was over almost as soon as it had began, until the next time.

I have seen our new neighbor naked almost everyday since she moved in. I have come to expect it, in a way. She has a nice body, which seems to be what everybody wants to know. She's quite beautiful, but that's not the problem. As a gay man, I have nothing against women. I think they are pretty great, actually. And I can also appreciate the female form, it just doesn't make me bark, that's all... Anyway, this seems like an innocent enough thing. I simply ignore her ass and the fact that she will answer the door in the buff. She must know who is coming over ahead of time, right? The thing that is bothersome to me is the fact that I have had several graphically disturbing dreams about seeing naked people through windows and that, my friends, freaks me out.

Just the other night, I dreamt of an entire family, naked as the day they were born, parading around my inland empire. I ran across the street where I saw a man in a compromising position with a cat. Needless to say, the cat was not happy about the situation and I found myself banging my hand against the glass, shouting: Stop that! Hoping, at least, to startle the cat off the naked man. This is now the kind of thing I am dreaming about and I don't like it one bit. Should I say something to my naked neighbor? Or should I spend more time in my own birthday suit? I don't know.

But I do know that other people's windows are literally windows into their lives. Perhaps I need to look into my own for a change.

Just Shoot Me

I'm stuck in the middle of another god-awful commercial shoot and I am exhausted. No one should have to set an alarm for 4:00am, much less get up at that hour and start trouble-shooting/problem solving via cellphone before I even arrive at location. By five o'clock my brain is mush. I feel fat for eating too much and not having time to go to the gym, much less come home and flirt with my 10000 myspace friends. Whoa is fucking me and I don't like it.

Then there is the little matter of those who choose to dig themselves deeper holes. You know who you are, so don't pretend like no one can see what a fucking joke it all is. Okay, so life is tough.... Sober up, suck it up and move the fuck on. If Courtney Love and Whitney Houston can pull their shit together, I expect you to do the same. I can't worry about what tragic mess will be coming back home. Get it together, Mister. I mean it. Maybe look into getting some therapy. Or checking into a rehab... Something, anything. Just don't keep avoiding reality because you've made mistakes. It only perpetuates the cycle of bullshit and you might wake up some day in a mine field, wondering who set the world on fire. It was you, it always was. Snap out of it. Delusionary or not, you are better than this.

Carb is a four letter word.

I can't be responsible for the future and who has time to dwell on the past. I have the present to get through and these, my friends, are the best days of our lives. What do you say we start acting like it?

Who is with me?

Juggling

I am not a juggler.

Yet, I find myself juggling many things in my life. My career, my libido, motherhood... The list is endless, kids. And yeah, I may drop a ball or two, now and then, give or take... What's with the flirting anyway? Am I so hot, I burn? What we have here is a dilemma. Not a Court TV size problem, but a problem, nonetheless...

God, I love that word. "Nonetheless..."

David Lynch sat on Hollywood Blvd. next to a cow and a sign that said: "for your consideration: Laura Dern" and I about died. Sure, I will consider her. I'm not in the academy or anything, but I love me some dairy products, so I will SERIOUSLY consider Laura Dern.

Tell me what to do, Heir Director. Give me structure, I crave it. Give me orders and I will follow you to the ends. I need to be nailed so very badly right now.... The only problem is: I can't seem to find an available CROSS.

To each,
SO

Sugar Rain & the Ricochet

I've got so much ephemera.

Going round and round, I'm too dumb to be this down. Yeah, I know.... Babies need us. That's what we do, but the ass wiping is starting to take it's toll. Sure, I could charge millions for this, but I don't. And I never will... See, I have what they call in the real world "ethicalness" and I plan to exploit the living shit out of it until the cows come home or Kirstie Alley stops the madness, whichever comes first. Seriously, girl..... You are so thin, it's scary!

I've been trying to bounce back from that damn COLD. I hate the fact that my body isn't always an impenetrable fortress like my heart. Viral love comes to town and this bitch goes down. C'est la vie? Shit, man... I can't deal. So, I hop myself up on licorice whips and nasal spray and hope against hope that I will survive another round in "stupid human land." Yeah, I am working again.... Along with reading Courtney Love's Dirty Blonde diaries. That, in itself, explains some of the ranting. It could be worse.... At least I'm not hanging out with Paris Hilton anymore.

Everything I thought I wanted is an illusion anyway. Despite my best intentions, I've been had. So, where do we go from here? Down, dog, down.... In the meantime, I'll just keep posing in the sugar rain and hope that what I have to give comes back to me.

Ten fold.
I love you, anyway....
SO

What Do Gentlemen Prefer Again?

These days I am deconstructing within the structure. Having had my shots, I am ready for my close-up. Bring on the November Rain, the lucid pain, and all that remains... It's impressive to me that I can still do this. That this is one of the skills I have to get me through this life.

Alright, kids. Here is what I'm talking about:

Catherine Zeta-Jonestown Massacre

Alright, I keep having this dream and I really need to tell somebody about it.

I'm this ancient city, a fortress really. I've got high walls and lookouts. I am impenetrable. Naturally, as a city, I am a thriving metropolis of art, culture and politics. One day, a gift is left outside my walls. It's a large wooden horse and I'm so impressed by the gift that I open my gates and let it in. It's a really beautiful horse and everybody admires it. That night, however, I am hyper-aware of its presence, because I know how these things work... But the night passes, uneventfully and the next day some of the children decorate the horse with flowers and things. I am still suspicious and do not trust that this gift is legit. Several weeks go by and still, no enemies emerge from within the horse. The anticipation is unbearable.

Some of the soldiers get drunk one night and decide to ride the horse around town. As they do this, they knock the horse off its stand and it shatters, like a pinata. Only, there is no candy inside. There is nothing inside. It was just a beautiful shell. The soldiers collect the pieces and throw them into a pile. The whole town comes out to mourn the loss of the pretty pony. The remains are lit on fire and it lights up the whole city. It was very sad, really.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately and I just can't figure out exactly what this dream means. Obviously, part of the message is that I need more fiber in my diet. Also, I should probably give up my dreams of becoming a child-bride... Other than that, I have no idea what my subconscious is trying to tell me. I did write a musical called "The Trojan Whores", when I was thirteen, but somehow I think that's irrelevant. It would have been perfect for Catherine Zeta-Jones, since the lead character used her ample thighs to crush the enemy army. If I ever had to take out an army, I'm not sure how I would do it. Maybe I could just let them read my dream journal.

Talkin' Myspace Generation

So, over on my myspace page, I am rapidly closing in on having about 8000 friends. This is rather surprising to me, but I'm not complaining. For years, I struggled to get people to add me and thought of myspace as another way to collect rejection, humiliation and alienation... I guess I was wrong. Today, I spent some time looking at the motley crew of people who climbed aboard my ship. It's quite an eclectic group and I am proud to have them in my imaginary army. It occurred to me that any ordinary asshole celebrity doesn't get to choose who their fans are. People just like who they like and fuck you if that makes you uncomfortable. But I have to say that I dig checking out my friends and hope they dig what I have to offer.

Old School Spirit

So, I was at the bookstore yesterday, one of those chain stores with a coffee bar and multiple levels, just minding my own when I heard someone say: "How Old School are you?" I realized that this remark must have been addressed to me, since I was wearing a tee-shirt bearing the slogan: That's Right! I'm Old School! I turned to find a female, draped in violet velvets and such, sitting in a chair near the literature and poetry sections. She squinted through her cat-eye glasses and repeated the question. Having never been a fan of small talk with strangers, I mumbled a half-hearted response. "Old enough."

"I ask," she continued. "Because as a graduate student..." She went on about the ignorance of her youthful classmates, dismayed that there are aspiring filmmakers who have never heard of Frank Capra. I told her that I was no longer in school and I only bought the shirt because I'm cheap and I shop at Target. We discovered that we were both born the same year. She continued to talk to me for several minutes, about the nature of knowledge and other things. She bragged that she had read Chaucer at eleven years old. In short, she was a typical academic type, thinking she had found a kindred spirit. She had not. I basically dropped out of college to study drug addiction and performance art, full time. I learned a lot, but I lost more than I gained. I do treasure the academic friends I have, especially the ones who appreciate the fact that I am, for the most part, self-taught. But I was in no mood to bond over Shakespeare with this woman. She saw that I was on my way out of the conversation and decided to end it with a "quick joke".

"Charles Dickens walks into a bar and orders a martini.... The bartender looks at him and asks: Olive or Twist?" My eyes widened and I forced a chuckle from my lungs. Like Nancy Spungeon, I didn't want to live in a universe where that is considered funny. Or maybe I just don't get it... Regardless, I walked away, thanking her for the chat and continued my shopping. I ended up buying Only Revolutions by Mark Z. Danielewski. I try to read as much as possible, but not so much that I might end up telling crappy jokes to strangers at the local bookstore. Sometimes, I regret my unfortunate education. But it's like I tell my parole officer, "It's my life, don't you forget...."

Chewtoy of the Gods

I've been sick.

I don't mean in a carve-up-puppies-for-Halloween way, either. I have been put in my place by my allergies. This was a full-on assault on my body, though I tried in vain to continue my meager workout routine, my little body finally gave in and I was forced to submit. I stayed home crying and moping about for the last two days. Though I do feel better today, I am skeptical about the prospect of feeling like conquering the world anytime soon.

This always seems to happen when I have been working for a while. Suddenly, I have some time off and my body thinks it's being clever by taking advantage of the opportunity to kick my ass. I always say it is allergies, even if it's not. I don't like the idea of a viral infection one bit. Some nasty ass little germ traveling from someone's grody lungs into the air and finally being swallowed up into mine, that disgusts me. I much prefer the idea of some nasty ass little germ traveling from a mold spore or a freaking flower, into me. Don't ask me why...

So, having spent several days as a chewtoy of the gods, I am now ready to fight back. I emerged from my bed (after 12 quality hours, thank you Cherry NyQuil!) to find that the day is not so fucking ugly and I need to feel better. Perhaps I may even do a little yoga or some such activity... I certainly hope that the worst of it is over. I am a mean sick person. Anyway, here is a little word problem for you:

If I had a monkey and you were allergic to it, I would probably not get rid of it. I just wouldn't date you because monkeys are expensive. But I don't have a monkey, so what's the fucking problem?

Get On The SHORTBUS

By all means, you have to see John Cameron Mitchell's new film, Shortbus. It's an exhilarating cinematic experience exploring sexuality, love and life. Set in post 9/11 New York, mostly unknown actors (the best kind) engage in graphic sex scenes that help tell the story of their characters. It's an astonishingly beautiful film, intimate and engaging. I highly recommend it.



I love JCM's Hedwig & The Angry Inch and was more than a little worried that he planned to follow it up with "The Sex Film Project", as it was known for the last several years. But Mitchell delivers the goods here. It is explicit, but not in a titillating way, you become invested in the characters and the journey they are on. I can't really articulate exactly what I think of the film quite yet... In some ways, I feel like I have never seen a movie before in my life. I have definitely not seen anything like this before and it excites me to think about the ways this film will alter the cinematic landscape in years to come. In an age where people are obsessed with reality shows that are unrealistic, I think that the impact of Shortbus will be huge. Rarely are films so heartbreakingly funny and truthful. It moved me. It made me what to be one of the "special" kids. It made me want to ride the shortbus, all the way home...

COLD

"If you want to move someone else as an artist, you must be truly moved by what it is you're writing. But you must keep exploiting that emotion in yourself, over and over and over again, until you become completely cold about it." - Truman Capote

Just be careful not to freeze, Truman. Is that the lesson? Sometimes love doesn't mean what it's supposed to. I feel cold today. Maybe I will go to the gym and contemplate better bodies, run the wheel like a good pet and finally submit myself for rejection, yet again. What was the point of it all? Oh, yeah, we wanted to be puppetmasters. We thought it would be cool to have these great, elaborately constructed toys to play with. Control. Corrupt. Consider. I have been careless in the past, but it's not going to stop me from fucking up the future. I don't need very much to get by. I don't need anything at all... It's just this damn air I keep breathing and the sweet smell of humility. Don't you want me, baby?

I am good at exploiting many things. I am not sure that my own emotions fall under the banner of "many things." How can I pretend to understand something that I cannot name? The body had no identifying marks, no tell-tale signs of personal history or DNA to be decoded. It was simply cold. Still life and such. No... I am not a marksman for the ages. I am only here forever, this short time... And I knew, going in, that it wasn't going to be pretty. It was that challenge, in and of itself, that provoked me into action. Reaction. Retraction. Realization. Could it have been different if I had lied? Or at least told a better truth? More bitter blues from the peanut gallery, and black is the new black. Cold is the new season. Love is the new death. This is the new me.

Forget it then, pretend I never said anything. Exploit this, if you must, but know in your heart, that this is all my fault. Yeah, I have a flair for drama, but you need to break my heart to really appreciate the depths of my talents. I left them weeping in Tucson, because, in the end, it was simply too fucking hot there and I have always relied on the temperature to tell me my mood. Tell me, is it raining with you?

Blood and Roses

I've seriously had a lot of trouble thinking of things to blog about that aren't completely repulsive. Those of you who come here often can tell that I've been more than a little artistically constipated and the excuses I have are lacking in authenticity. Yeah, I've been desperately busy with work and even started dating again, but no one gives a shit about work and the dating thing... Well, let's just say, I don't want to say something that I will regret later.

So, here it is: I always seem to have the good fortune of knowing when my female employees are menstruating. They always work it into conversation, by way of an "excuse" for their absent-mindedness or lack of enthusiasm. I don't particularly care to know that the reason you were late was because you were bleeding like a stuck pig in the bathroom for a half an hour this morning. I understand that this is something that is perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of, but do I have to hear about it? Apparently, I do. Personally, if I am in the bathroom for more than two minutes, call an ambulance...

Tribal Instincts

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Take a Bite

You want a piece of me? Go on, I dare ya... That's right, sink your hot metal doll teeth in and see where it gets you. Hurts, doesn't it?

But don't cry, darlings. It never lasts that long... And the pain tastes just like Mom's apple pie. I have no excuses. I have no news, that I can share. I'm keeping my secrets locked up tighter than the Olsen Twins. These days, the only way to get me to spill is to transform yourself into some kind of enigma. Trick me with your exquisite taste. Tie me to the tracks and let the whistle blow.

As you can see, I am still shell-shocked from the apocalypse. There's no beginning to the story, but I'll be sure to report the end. As long as the record's still spinning, I will be busy with my prey... I feel a bit like a reporter sent to cover the war, who stays in the hotel room waiting for something to happen. I shower, watch a bit of telly, occasionally glance out the window to see the corpses and wonder where the fuck room service is with my chicken salad.... I am a bad magician. I can't find my rabbit anywhere. Maybe he ran off with Mitch again....

JR says that the strands of my web are really walls, limitations, boundaries.... I disagree, but I still believe in those things. They exist for a reason, right? Without walls, where would I hang my mirror? Without limitations, we would all be sleeping with angels... And without boundaries, vacations would seem less important. Over here is where we keep our livestock. And this is the torture rack....

Don't push me right now, I am terrorized and I have enough reasons to be beautiful.
Bite me.
SO

Like A Pioneer

Is the spiral turning in or spinning out?

Lately, I find myself scribbling little webs onto my bank statements, magazine covers, really whatever I can find. It's oddly soothing, though I fear the day when the spider comes home to roost. Failure is never an attractive option and I, in my infinite capacity for sabotage, tend to let my emotions get the best of me. It's this whole new "balls to the wall" attitude I have adopted. I am not sure it suits me. Maybe I am just paranoid...

Like a bad drug trip, my world just seems to be morphing so quickly that I cannot seem to find my bearings. On the plus side, I am dangerously hungry for more. I only hope that I can metabolize everything I consume. The weight of the world isn't easily lifted, is it? If you are wondering what the hell I am babbling about, you are not alone. I ask myself that question everyday. I forget who I am talking to, about, with... I have found a grand distraction in the form of an angel. It makes me wonder if I can fly?

The man in the moon dropped in and out again. My favorite regret... It's all words of wisdom and chocolate shakes, but who has the stray dog tonight? I can only pray until my knees get weak. Then I fall, then I dream, then I call and wait and wait and wait. Is there meaning to be memorized? The kind I have always seems to slip my mind. Turn around, Bright Eyes. I'm right here where you left me. Where I will always be..... And the beat goes on.

Did You Miss Me?

While it may seem like I have dropped off the face of the earth in the last few weeks, the truth is, I have actually been orchestrating the end of it. No, I never really imagined myself managing the apocolypse. It is not exactly on my list of dream jobs, but it was given to me and I did the best I could. Lives were lost, quite literally, and alliances severed, but I somehow was able to presevere and survive what I can only describe as HELL...

I battled some of my deepest fears and confronted the demons that haunt me. I have come to realize that MATH is my mortal enemy. I was always one of those kids who insisted that I would never have a job that involved MATH, let alone WORD PROBLEMS! Yet, I have found myself thinking about, staring at, and dealing with many many many numbers. I hate them.... They suck.

Part of my job involves dealing with zombies, mainly payment of zombies, but dealing with them, nonetheless... How often do you get to hand a fifty dollar bill to a three year old zombie baby? I like to count my blessings, as well as my curses. The zombies ate all the snacks and some of the crew. Locals are always difficult to control.

I might have seen a rockstar's weiner. Actually, I know I saw a weiner, but I'm not sure if it's owner is a bona fide rockstar or not. Cute, though, and it caused me to download the album from iTunes, so the "flash" technique works, no matter what market research might show.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you all know that I am still alive and well, despite the zombies, flashings, word problems, deaths, and the end of the world as we know it. I feel fine. Now, how the fuck are you?

Ban The Liaison!

Alright kids, it's time to talk about the relationship between intelligence and unhappiness. I know there is a connection there, but I can't quite put my finger on it. It is this missing link that must be destroyed. Here is what I purpose:

Let's start with eradicating the middleman, wherever he might appear. It is my theory that our social dependence on this behavior is at the root of our problems. For instance, in your daily life, if you find yourself in the middle of a conversation that would be better served by letting the participants engage each other, politely excuse yourself. Or just get the fuck out of it, whatever works for you. Also, it is advisable to take a cue from Travis Bickle. "You talkin' to me?" is a brilliant gateway into direct conversation and avoiding the standard "What did he just say to me?" will empower you in numerous ways. Perhaps you feel the urge to say: "How's it hangin'?" to the CEO of your company, but as a lowly office boy, you are required to follow protocol and tell your superior to tell his superior and so on, until the point is lost in office politics and red tape. Finally, it is of upmost importance to NOT involve other people in the pursuit of booty. Trust me on this, you are better off not asking Nancy to tell Gary that Freddy thinks Portia is hot. Or whatever combination you might come up with yourself. Here is what you do: If you see a baboon you fancy, just yell out: "I like your big red ass!" and watch how fast you'll see results.

Once the human need to insinuate ourselves into everybody else's drama has disappeared from the planet, I believe we will finally see that it was that very thing that led to our miserable existence. Of course, I could be wrong and we would be living in chaos, hyper-aware of our unhappiness and feeling more and more moronic every day. Hey, wait a minute! That what life is like NOW....

I'm going to have to rethink this whole theory.

The baboon bit I like, though. That I will keep.

I'll be back...

If you need me, my secretary will be taking messages.

The Surrogate

I do my best to keep the vibe around here intimate.

It's what I need, impossible though it may be. The web is world wide and I am but a spider, spinning away in my little corner. See how I am? Don't make me go all Charlotte on your ass... Help may very well be on its way, from above or beyond or wherever, but I certainly can't wait for inspiration to strike. I've got a billion things to do this week and I can pretty much say that I wasted the whole weekend on Being Bobby Brown. Jesus Christ! No wonder Whitney lost her fucking mind. That dude drove her crazy....

But I digress... Intimacy is the goal, and yet, my aspirations to have a bowel so clean you can eat off it seem unseemly and, for all intents and purposes, quite the opposite of intimate. What do you want? My head on a plate? A ruffie laced Jello pop? To be bound and gagged? What? I know, I know... Too many questions and not enough answers. I can't help you, darling, until you help yourself.

I'm not great with flirting. I'm clumsy and obvious. As I thumbed the pages of a magazine recently, I noted a bizarre behaviour that truly appeared to be involuntary. When I would gaze upon certain photos, my jaw would tense and from deep within me, a growl would begin and escalate quickly into a series of short, loud barks. Now, the photos that elicited this reaction were mostly of male models, I read a lot of fashion magazines, and I don't exactly identify that "type" as attractive, yet I barked. Crazy, like a dog being teased with a steak, I barked. Ruff! Grrrruff! Arfff! And so it is.

Like Rupert Everett said in Hello Darling, Are You Working?: "You get what you want in the form you deserve." My problem has always been not knowing what I want, or feeling that I don't deserve it. So, don't flirt with me unless you fucking mean it. I'm a pit bull and you're steak tartare! If, in fact, I do decide that I both want and deserve your attentions, be prepared that you, too will "get what you want in the form you deserve." And if you deserve me, then so be it.

I have to keep reminding myself to be bold, but it isn't natural to me. I'm not a great hunter like Steve Irwin, who died as he lived: bold. I was saddened by the news, but not really surprised. I found myself saying out loud: "Everybody dies." That guy had a great spirit and he inspired and entertained a lot of people. No, I don't do that. I practice passive aggression. I spin my web and wait. Though it's not obvious, if you look close enough, you can make out what it says...

Fuck the piggy!

Mama's tits are sore now, so you'll have to stop sucking for a while. That's right. Just stop. Let go. Oh, now why are you crying? I know, I know, everybody dies... Life sucks and then you get the bill.

Production Number

So I am in the office today, toiling away as usual, when lovely young Katherine trots by and stops dead in her tracks to ask me: "What products are you using?"

I think to myself, What products aren't I using?, before raising one eyebrow in the traditional "Excuse me?" gesture. Katherine surveys the landscape of my face and announces: "You look so young! Not that you didn't before, but... You didn't. What happened?"

Indeed. What has happened to the OLD ME? Somehow I always knew that when I hit thirty-five, I would go completely out of my mind and now it has happened. Oh, I've been out of my mind so very many times that it was hardly a stretch to imagine my renewed interest in my own aging body. Getting older is truly a fascinating, horrifying process and since it is something we all have to do, I suppose I should get used to it. I just can't understand why hair suddenly decides to grow out of an ear?

I really like the fact that I not only joined a gym, but that I have gone there to workout almost every day since. I don't really care that teenage boys stare, slack-jawed, as I struggle with fifty pounds. "I have never lifted weights in my life!" I tell them. "I do yoga..." And then I considered adding that I can suck my own dick to see if that would shut them up, but instead I just went upstairs to fight with the stupid TreadClimber, which I decided is twice the workout and twice the trouble. Fuck that machine, man. I can fall on my ass tripping over shoelaces! I can't, by the way, suck my own dick if you are still thinking about that. I find it helpful to have a specific goal in mind when practicing yoga.

So, there is that, and the beach trips this summer, which gave me a lovely glow... Also, the fact that I no longer live in a tiny studio, all alone, probably contributes to the youthful, fresh appearance I seem to be emitting. I thought about telling Katherine any number of these things, but in the end, I resorted to a fairly uninspired answer to her products question: "Mainly, I smoke a lot and jerk off to The Machinist." Katherine blinked several times before scampering back to her desk. Oh, well. She's not really my type anyway.

I actually like lots of things about getting older. First of all, I know more from experience. Hopefully, I am getting smarter as well as hairier and more bitter. I think that I am, but what do I know? I've got all kinds of products to apply, hair to remove and loves to forget. I should get going on that.

Five! Six! Seven! Eight!

Kiss Me Deadly

I watched Woody Allen's Match Point last night and now I feel all dirty. It's a rather stale plot, involving a cute tennis player, his ultra-rich and dowdy fiancee and Scarlett Johansson as the blonde femme fatale that tempts him. I felt like I knew what was coming, but was compelled to keep watching as the characters descend into hysterical behaviour of the worst kind. I almost wish Woody would remake the film as a comedy, like he did in that other one with Will Ferrell. Only this time, he should call it: "Woody Allen's Do The Right Thing."

In the end, that's what it boils down to. Morality. Justice. Obligation. I hate that shit. It's like when someone tells me to keep it simple. I don't think many things in this life are simple. Ignorance may be bliss, but that train left the station without me. I'm just hanging out on the platform, all complicated and shit. Someone might take pity on me and hand me a Diet Coke, but it won't help. I have a thirst for all things complex and weird. That's why I like Bjork. It also accounts for the fact that I fully expect to see an ex-lover on television in handcuffs with the headline: Serial Killer Caught! No one is particular, I'm just saying that it wouldn't surprise me.

What Are You Lookin' At?

Happy Anniversary, Darling!

While You're On Your Knees is officially one year old. The self-portrait above is in tribute to Self Portrait As, a bloody brilliant blog by my dear friend Holly, who is responsible for talking me into the blogesphere in the first place. So, if you like what you read here... Please barrage Holly with unnecessary and annoying comments about me. NOT! Because the world revolves around me, I need you to keep the unnecessary and annoying comments coming HERE, even though I have been a rather shitty blogger lately. My life changed substantially in the last year and even more in the last few months, so cut me a break, okay?

It seems like only yesterday that I wanted to pet every monster that I met. Love, truly, is the danger for me and the ultimate undoing. I only want to be loved, but who could love one with such a soiled and sordid past? I shall tell you who... No one and so I gave myself a new name with which to curse the ungrateful masses.

I feel like a ghost, walking through a crime scene. I am a figment of JT Leroy's imagination. Like Jackie, in the end I realized that I had to save myself or enlightenment would never come. Oh, I tried many vices and devices to help me along the way, but I was never a good liar. Bullshit, sure, I am full of that... But honest-to-goodness lying just gets you into the frying pan and that's one place I hope I never have to go.

Like the time I was so rude to some dumb bitch at the grocery store... Actually, that is so very politically incorrect of me. Let me try again: Like the time I was so fucking rude to some dumb bitch at the grocery store, Ma'am, I apologize. I appreciate the game you are playing, but I will not play along. Here, have a lullaby, I've got a prescription.

It wasn't until about June that I started losing my religion in a real and major way. Not my religion exactly, it was more like losing my mind. I started hanging out with imaginary friends with even bigger problems than my own. June is also my birth month. I hate my birthday because I really resent being born in the first place. I didn't get half the shit I ordered and the box it came in was simply wrong. I thought a lot about how much I relate to William H. Macy's character in Magnolia and how very sad that is.

So, I decided that if I didn't want to resign myself to a life on Magnolia Boulevard (where I actually used to live), where I only had to answer to monsters, I had to change. I moved into a bigger apartment and became a bigger bitch, just ask JR, he'll tell you the simple truth. But I don't want to live the simple life anymore. I want everyone to see, hear, touch and smell... That's right smell how fucking fabulous I am! I want it all and I want it now! But if I am going to end up like that nasty little cunt in the Chocolate Factory, I'm going to need some time to think.

While I am thinking, I hope you take the time to peruse the links I have provided here. Just to review exactly what you are looking at, who I am and possibly who you are, too. Thank you to all the dear, sweet, blogger friends I have made over the last year. Without you, darlings, I am nothing...

Much Love and Blessings,
Saviour Onassis

Mental Health

Yeah, I got Xanax. I also got a gym membership, so get your filthy mind out of the gutter. I've been working out everyday and soon, a new craze will sweep the planet..."Snakes On My Bod"... What do you think? I guess I just got tired of feeling like my life is a sequel to Frances.

It was this (little) breakdown I was having because I project and it's bad or something. Bad for the environment, or the species, I don't really remember. But the point is, and I do have one... I tend to transfer emotional seedlings into unwelcoming soil. I have done it time and again, with very little luck. Now, I have the good fortune to be blessed by the memory of past mistakes. And no, it's not fun. Let's eat, shall we?

Should I make my famous guacamole? I just happen to have two ripe avocados right here. No, it's no problem. I live to serve. No really, I do. Nothing makes me happier than being your handmaiden. Can you hand me that knife? At your beck and call, that's me. Ready, willing and able...

So, if it's satisfaction you want... It would behoove you to look elsewhere. Saints and sinners rejoice! The time for a mighty uprising is at hand. Just wait til my Viagra where's off and I will show you the what's what. We now, I say, we now return you to your regularly scheduled program:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

And Back Again

After temporarily losing my mind, I am back. Turns out, it was nothing a little Xanax couldn't fix.

Suspicious Minds

I don't trust my own mind these days, so I am opening the floor to you, dear friends. This is the first of several headlines meant to generate some discussion. I shall try to participate, but as I said, I'm sort of losing it right now. The saboteur is in full effect and I don't like it. Is it possible not to destroy the ones you love?

SO JEALOUS

I don't want to be part of the problem but I can see that it's me, not you, not ever, and so I beat myself up again. I try so hard to get roughed up, fucked up in a sea of never ending agony and defeat. It's a no win situation, fists on up. Like the way it looks that easy on TV, in the movies... Confidence runs wild, yeah, it looks that way to me. But I'm a fool for trying, it looks that way to you, doesn't it? Or am I missing something. I'm missing everything, but then there's you telling me I can. And it kills me, you know that it does. Everytime, a little more...Then there's you screaming say something, say anything. Just don't wait until you're halfway through the door before asking me.
I want the ocean right now and I don't care how deep I go. If I drown, then what I've lost might get found. I guess I want the ocean right now. I'll call it that because of what I can't admit.

I get so jealous that I can't even work, think, breathe without being aware of what you have that I will never. I have to wake up to me. There I am. There I am in the morning and baby, I don't like what I see. Reflections betray and I want what I haven't got. I don't know how it's become such a problem, but it has. It's something I have to do. I'll try not to keep you up all night. I'll try not to feel the way I do. Maybe I can, if I try to remain calm, detached, cool like Fonzie. I just wish it didn't hurt so much. How can they ask why I feel so angry? So betrayed, so messed up. Do you see my problem? I should only get what I deserve, what I ask for is apparently too much if I never explain it.

But then there's you asking me how long and I don't know how to answer. How long until you stop asking me to say something? It's taken me so long to get here. I don't want to go back. I just wish it didn't hurt so much to hear about your love. I'm not listening anymore.

Hot Pants

JR seems to think that my difficulty in attracting a mate stems from my pants. Or rather, from the fact that I still have and wear pants that are left over from when I was larger. Now, these garments tend to bunch up around my waist when belted. This is not a look I am particularly proud of, but shit... Pants are expensive.

"Throw away your fat pants," JR chimes on a regular basis, and part of me wants to. Another part of me fears gaining back a bunch of weight and not having enough denim to cover my ass. What's a boy to do? I have started to emulate JR and even bought some of the trendy, tighter jeans that he is so fond of sporting. I also fear looking desperate, which is silly because I am, essentially, desperate. But to dress like my roommate, who is almost ten years younger than me, seems wrong. There are certain things that I am positive I can no longer get away with, like tragically ripped jeans. The kind of pants that have seen many, many floors. When JR wears these, I call them his "slut pants." Because they reveal far more than they conceal and almost dare anyone who gazes upon them, to rip them off JR and make him their bitch. Hey, maybe he'll let me borrow them... Nah, like I said, it might be too desperate.

I can't help but think that there is something more than just my ill-fitting pants that keeps men from approaching me. Maybe I am wrong, but are gay men really that shallow? I guess I know the answer to that one, having once broken up with a guy because his favorite movie starred Diana Ross, and I'm not talking about Lady Sings the Blues or Mahogany. I like to think that I am open to things. If, for instance, my dream guy had to love an icon from days gone by, I would happily accept Pam Grier or Tina Turner. Both of them look great in hot pants. But the fucking WIZ?!?!? C'mon, already!

The last thing I had resembling a relationship was a fuckbuddy for several years. His name was Jon, another in a very long list. Jon was a film editor, a little thick and was rocking a severe combover that I found endearing. But, alas, all strange things cum to an end and we never saw each other again. Except once, at Starbucks where he chose to ignore me. It didn't help that I chased him through the parking lot, screaming: "That's right, asshole! Run away! And next time you bring someone back a souvenir from Amsterdam, make sure it comes with a fucking vaccine! Shithead!"

Maybe I should just go shopping.

Fresh Baked

I baked some of those Toll House cookies tonight. I was craving comfort food, okay? Sue me. I just really wanted something sweet and hot. Just a morsel, a taste... Sometimes I get that from Mitch, but lately he says I am too emotional. Or "hormonal", as he puts it... I hope I'm not pregnant again. Child-proofing is such a pain in the ass, you know?

Some people say "Just Write"
And I do.
Sometimes I don't tell the truth
And that's okay.
Sometimes you don't believe it.

Still, it's about the baking. Domestic and yet completely unfulfilled, I fear I've become my own worst nightmare. Am I a desperate housewife? Do I have a nudity clause that is holding me back from being all that I can? Will I always resent those bitches in Agrestic? Yes, yes, yes! There is nothing quite a freshly baked morsel melting on your tongue.

Unfruitful

In my quest for new ways to torture myself, I have placed several personal ads up in various places around the web. This is supposed to help me find a date, which I cannot seem to accomplish without venturing into parts of the city that depress me and by the time I get there, I'm so morose that finding someone for romance or even conversation becomes an impossibility. I thought that online dating would be a good way to weed out the undesirables without leaving the house. So far, I haven't had any luck.

One of the interesting things that personal ads offer is the opportunity to say that all your vices are done "socially." Drinking, smoking, drugs, and such can be listed as "Socially Only." Who smokes socially? That seems weird and a sort of denial to me. But after some thought, I decided that I, too, have only social vices. The only reason I do these things alone is due to my violently anti-social tendencies.

Yet, I am the type of person who dreams scenarios like this: I am at a party. I am under dressed and not nearly witty enough for the room. The one pop culture reference I make falls flat and the party guests all frown in disapproval. Note to self: Stop mentioning Courtney Love. I notice a server walking by with a tray full of pistols. I grab one and pop it in my mouth like an hors d'oeuvre and pull the trigger.

Any bits of advice on how to trap a man would be greatly appreciated. I am afraid my methods have proven "unfruitful."

Candles and Kind

I was trying to think of an excuse to throw a party. Searching for a reason to entertain, it occurred to me that moving into a new apartment might be reason enough. This is my new home and I really want to celebrate. The only thing that scares me about having a "moving in" party is that people might bring me house-warming presents, which is fine. But I don't really trust anyone else's idea of what I might like. Most of the people I know have horrid taste. But there is one house warming gift that I do find charming, no matter who the giver is: candles. I love candles, love the look, love the flame, love the aromatherapy... So, I asked Mitch what he thought of my throwing a "Candles Only House Warming."

"Funny you should ask," said Mitch. "I happen to know someone who did the exact same thing." Mitch was serious and in a storytelling mood. "Her name was Nina and she had just moved into a new apartment in Silver Lake. Nina was a massage therapist and kind of a hippy chick, so she insisted on candles. Like you, she had already established herself in town and had no use for another blender or what the hell it is that people give when someone rents a new hole... Anyway, the party was cool. Lots of freaky people showed up and they all brought candles, candle-holders, lighters, incense, all that shit. Nina was stocked. That bitch had more wax than the Wax Museum!"

At this point, Mitch started fumbling around for a cigarette. I watched him, fascinated by his inability to talk and smoke at the same time. He lit a cigarette and looked up at me. "What?"

"I'm fascinated by your inability to smoke and talk at the same time." I replied.

"Ha ha," said Mitch. "You're so funny!"

"Sarcasm is as attractive as leprosy, asshole. Tell me what happened with Nina."

"What do you think happened? She burnt up."

"Huh?"

"Yeah. The night after the big house party, Nina lit a shitload of candles. Then she smoked a bowl and ran a bath. After her bath, she got out of the tub and slipped, knocked over a table full of candles, hit her head and died in the fire. Her whole place went up really fast, at least according to the arson report."

"You read that?"

"I was undercover at the time." Somehow, I knew better than to pursue the conversation at that point. And I knew that I wouldn't be throwing a candle themed party any time soon. Mitch's little story served it's purpose and now I am totally freaked out about lighting candles. I guess I am safe, as long as I don't go for the Oprah perfect bath. Candles and Kind do not mix. Then again, maybe Nina should have let people give whatever they wanted to. Maybe she would have received a bath mat or a sprinkler system.

Over The Rimbaud

I'm thinking that HELL is so last season, it's passe and darling... I'm not buying it anymore. Tired of feeling sorry, sordid and translucent, I vow from this moment forth to... to... Well, the important thing is that I feel better.

I suspect that I am highly allergic to celebrities. Meeting Paris Hilton last week really did a number on me. It wasn't the same reaction I had to meeting say, The Goo Goo Dolls or Courtney Love, but it was still bad. Maybe it's the fact that I feel like I am miscast in these scenes. Shouldn't they be asking me for my autograph? Shouldn't I be the one awkwardly accepting strange gifts? Shouldn't I be fucking famous by now?

Yes, yes, yes. But for now, I am over the Rimbaud. Starfuckers of the world, unite and take over. I have to pee.

Life Springs Eternal

I had a horrible night. Just tragic...

Yes, I made some poor choices.

But when allegiances were challenged, I lost.

I won't be going out again anytime soon.

My heart can't take it.

I had a really bad asmtha attack this morning while cleaning up the shit and vomit.

I feel too fragile for this world.

That's all.

Trust Overfull & The Will of Man

I feel like a tiger with a steak lying just outside my cage.

Transitional mourning aside. These are the days of beer and poses, laid to waste on eyes too young and hearts too bruised. And I do say "Fuck You" for turning off the Air Con. This is the Valley, for Christ's sake, not Venice Beach. I struggled all afternoon to just do laundry. It was a bore.

If it's a crutch you want, a crutch you will receive. If it is pain you crave, then pain is what you'll bleed. I was never into "disco" for disco's sake. It was that damn Japanese wine that did me in. In all my dying, I have never once felt like silencing myself like I do now. Like I do now... See, it was the approach that caused the plane to crash. It was the intention behind those lying eyes. It was the juicy wet youth of the moment. It was and will never be. It isn't, anymore.

There was a time when I could have happily taught English to Aliens. But that, too, is gone. Daddy, it's gone. Go on and do it. See if I care. See how much I don't. See Dick. Run. If at first you don't succeed. Add a houseguest to the mix and stir. Sure, I've got a thousand dollars and not a shred of dignity. Three percent body fat doesn't impress me nearly as much as Charlie Bukowski, who always seemed so fragile. So about to break, that I broke my piggy bank as a boy and sent every red cent to Chinaski, care of Charles, LA, CA. No return address.

I've been had and had again, by my own heart. There might be an attack. But still.... I feel like a tiger with a steak lying just outside my cage.

My Trip to Paris

I have just finished work on a series of short promotional films for a certain music television network. They are pimping a video music awards show, even though they no longer show music videos on their network. Strange, I know, but mine is not to question. I actually quite like working on things like this from time to time. It keeps me humble to be in the presence of such genius musical artists as Panic! in the Disco and All American Rejects. Yeah, there was a scene we shot with some classic rockers named Anthony and Flea from some band called the Dynamite Jalapenos or something like that. Of course, I work in a managerial position, in an office that I have to drag around with me everywhere I go. It's something of a pain, but well worth it when someone asks for a stapler and I can lend them my Swingline.

Our final day of shooting took place on a sound stage in Hollywood on Sunday. Our set was built next door to the set of the new Lindsay Lohan movie, Georgia Rule, which wouldn't be a problem except for the fact that our own diva, Paris Hilton, and Miss Lohan have a rather sour relationship. Luckily for everyone, their bodyguards played football together and now do their best to keep their respective clients away from each other. I saw Lindsay on Saturday at the commissary catching some rays on the patio. This was just days after a scathing letter surfaced, basically saying if Lindsay didn't show up on time, she'd be fired. Needless to say, LL looked less than thrilled to be there.
When Paris finally arrived, there was no drama. The divas were oblivious to the fact that they were so close to each other.

Now, the latest Paris news has her taking a one year vow of celibacy. (Which shouldn't be that hard, since she says she's only slept with two guys... One of which, she made a video of. I wonder who the other one was?) Maybe she just meant two guys at a time, anyway, that's trashy gossip and I am here to talk about the facts. What really happened.... True dirt... Well, they shot her scenes and everyone was really happy, despite the fact that the whitest kittens we could find were tabbies. It all worked out perfectly and Paris retired to her dressing room after the shoot was over. Here is where it gets interesting...

Some of you might remember this painting I did of Miss Hilton eating a hamburger. Well, on my way in to work that morning, it occurred to me that Paris might like to see it. So, I called JR and asked him to bring it to me at the stage, in the off chance that I would have an opportunity to meet her. And so, I waited outside her dressing room for her manager to finish a phone call. When he did, I explained that I would very much like to meet Paris and show her the artwork she had inspired.

Even though previous posts claim that she and I are close friends, it just isn't the case. Although, my general feelings for and about her have been drifting towards a melancholy acceptance. Her manager said that he would ask her and a few minutes later, I was summoned into the dressing room for an audience with the Queen of Reality TV/Hotel Heiress Paris Hilton. This was a highly surreal moment for me. Paris sat in her makeup chair admiring her reflection as I approached.

"Hi Paris..." I said, shyly. "I did this painting of you, it's not a very good likeness. I thought you might like to see it." She took the painting from me and admired her reflection.

"Oh, how sweet!" Paris cooed. "It is for me?"

"If you like it, I would love for you to have it."

"I do like it." Several of her assistants had gathered around to see what the fuss what about. They all seemed to agree. I asked for an autograph and photo, in exchange for the painting.

"Does that sound fair?" Paris nodded and stood, still holding the artwork.

"It's the Carl's Jr. thing," she commented. "And it even has Tink."

Her manager volunteered to take the photo. Paris slid her hand around me and pulled me close. I was still reeling from the latent Carl's Jr. comment when the camera flashed. As a result, my eyeline is off. I am thinking: This is weird.

At the wrap dinner the following night, her wardrobe stylist for the shoot told me how much Paris liked the painting.

"Think about it," she said. "Paris can have anything she wants, but it's hand-made stuff like your painting that mean the most and you gave it to her because you love her. She totally dug it." I coughed a little when she said that I loved Paris. I suppose she was right, though. That is not the kind of thing that money can buy. I feel bad that I didn't try harder to make it look more like she really is. Several people have suggested to me that I shouldn't have given it to her, but sold it to her. For some reason, that just doesn't seem right.

After the photo, Paris searched the room for something to sign for me. She chose a copy of the "script" and wrote some kind words. I thanked her and put it into my notebook, which happens to have my autographed photo of the Backstreet Boys on the cover. "Oh!" Paris said. "That's my ex-boyfriend!" Having completely forgotten that Paris had once been romantically linked to Nick Carter, I felt like an ass. I just grinned and backed out of her dressing room, thanking her again.

My Paris Hilton experience was short and sweet. She really is a nice person and I will have a hard time dissing her from now on. She's just a girl who owns one of my paintings and half the hotels in the world. I think she might even own a little piece of my heart.

Did you call the Fish Wrangler?

That was the question my boss asked me on the phone last night as I drove home from work. No, I hadn't called the Fish Wrangler. It's all part of this elaborate shoot involving moonmen, chili peppers and barracudas. I'm heading out towards Malibu in a bit to see what else I have forgotten to arrange. I have a very strange job.

On top of everything else, technical difficulties had my computer down for about eight hours yesterday. That makes my job much, much harder to do. I had to reinstall my operating system and download three years worth of updates, in order to do something as simple as check my mail. Sometimes I hate technology...

Hopefully, everything will go smoothly for the rest of the shoot. Here are some more examples of the kinds of things that people say to me at work:

Should I take the bagels directly to the pool?

No, take them to the band's dressing room

Find me Paris Hilton's address, right away!

Seriously?

Did you call the Fish Wrangler?

No, I did not. Sorry.

Are those your nuts in my salad?

I certainly hope not.

We need the whitest kitten they have, okay?

Find White Kitten. Got it. Anything else?

I'm running about an hour behind because the suit was still wet and I had to blow it dry.

Get here as soon as you can. And next time, just know that if you need to blow something dry, we have people on the crew who can do that for you....

Isn't Hollywood great?

In The Details

I had no idea, for the longest time, that Details was a gay magazine. It's not an out and out "gay" mag, but as a friend pointed out to me, it pretty fucking gay. Augusten Burroughs writes for it from time to time and every issue ends with the "Gay or __________" segment. I don't really know why I am mentioning this.

I suppose it stems from a giant argument I had with JR last night about Caravaggio versus Rembrandt. It started with me explaining that this painting I did of Jesse Metcalf was inspired by the chiaroscuro works of Caravaggio. JR saw only Rembrandt and I took great offense to that. I guess there are worse things than having your work compared to Rembrandt, but I was not having it.

My job requires immense attention to details. Very boring details, often times, yet I dutifully pay attention to them. I don't know if it is God or the Devil that reveals itself in the details, but I am sure that it is a power from another level. Isn't it the strange and beautiful details that tend to capture our collective imaginations? Dale seems to be aware of this. I wish that we could all frolic a little more "in the follow through" from time to time.

I regret that I cannot always turn lead into gold. I am a bad alchemist, sometimes. When the wind blows this hard, I can't always make out the words.

Listening tends to throw off my equilibrium. And yet, here I am, stuck in the details...

Fear and Loathing with the Rich and Famous

I don't expect much from people, but I do expect you to know the difference between Kim Gordon and David Bowie. That said, I have just joined a top secret project that I will tell you all about very soon. It may or may not involve celebrities behaving badly. But with the producers tossing out names like Paris Hilton and Bob Saget, I am sure I will have so much dirt that this place will start to resemble an ant farm in the very near future. Hold on to your hats, cowboys, this bitch is going to the RODEO!

To Fleece or Not To Fleece

Left to my own vices and devices, I am likely to watch far too much Animal Planet and masturbate. Not at the same time, mind you. After all, how perverted do you think I am? Don't answer that unless you can dazzle me with your wit and candor. But with JR out of the house for the weekend, it seems that it is in those two activities that my interests lie.

I did fleece myself however. It's one of those rituals that I like to perform biannually, if not more often, wherein I take my clippers and remove excess hair from my body. I don't shave it completely off, but just trim it to a more manageable length. Inexplicably, this does wonders for my state of mind. Having been accused of not letting things go, I submit this behavior as Exhibit A.

I love the fact that I now have Air Con. The apartment stays chilly and I might need to invest in a couple of nice fleece blankets for the couch. I am tempted to run the fireplace, but in the middle of summer with the Air Con blasting, I think that might be a little too Stevie Nicks, even for me.

I desperately needed some time alone. After living in a tiny room by myself for eight years, being "Laverne & Shirley" is gonna take some getting used to. I like that I can run around the house naked, vacuuming and dusting til my heart is content. This afternoon, I pulled out my paintings and are letting them breathe. I find that they will tell me where they want to be hung up. So I am careful to listen to them before punching holes into the walls. Yeah, my paintings talk to me. Most of them do, at least. They have better taste than I do, so I will wait to see which walls they choose.

As for me, I going to curl up on the couch with a beer and go back to high school with Molly Ringwald tonight. I've got Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club set up as a double feature. Jake Ryan is to die for! Ah, youth.... Maybe it my freshly shorn bod, but is it chilly in here lately? Or is it just me?

Now With 25% Less

So, at some point in the last two years, I lost 25% of my body weight, going from 205 pounds down to my current weight of 155. This went largely ignored by people who see me all the time. But since I work in a profession where you don't see people for weeks, months or even years at a time, this last week had me constantly dealing with people's shocked expressions and stupid questions. "How did you do it?" or "What happened to you?" being the most common.

My attitude about the whole weight loss thing is fairly blase. I am over it and no longer feel the same enthusiasm for talking about it that I once did. Yeah, yeah, I was fat and my ass was like a house. Yeah, yeah, I know I look good. Now, I answer the questions about the disappearance of my hugeness in a different way, for my own entertainment. It usually goes something like this:

Have you lost weight?
No, I just got taller.

How did you do it?
I just listened to The Carpenters a lot.

Was it a special diet?
Yes, it requires you to drink tons of water and smoke lots of crack.

What happened to you? (This is usually accompanied by an unattractive facial expression that seems disgusted by my thin frame and so they get...)
I have a genetic disease that is eating away at my flesh, it's highly contagious.

Are you going to keep losing weight?
Yes, the doctors say that I will completely disappear in about six months. It's quite upsetting.

You looked better fat.
Shut up, Courtney!

Why didn't anyone tell me that being skinny just makes people hate you? I'm starting to empathize with the Nicole's of the world... You know, the skinny bitches like me.

Improv and the Art of Friendship

JR and I have had our first big row. It was silly, really.

The drama played itself out on stage at work today. I was portraying the freaked-out boss and he, the disgruntled employee. I didn't want to bring it home, but he insisted. His line was simple, but he refused to take his cue. Things were taken "personally" and being the highly sensitive artiste that I am, I chose to play the drama to it's logical conclusion. We have just finished several beers, a bevy of cigarettes and about two hours of semantics, which ended, of course, in hugs and laughter. This was only after he realized that the separation between who we play at work and who we play at home, must be different.

I don't real consider the "role" I play at work to be who I really am. It's a part and I am an actor. I say the lines and hit my marks. I provide levity or gravity as the situation requires. I am an accomplished actor in that regard. When the other players go "off script" I try to steer them back on course, but I am not always successful. Today was an ugly exercise in improvisation gone horribly wrong. I suppose I had underestimated JR's ability to play "psycho bitch." But, having won several awards for the part myself, I trumped his Blanche with my Baby Jane. Hopefully, we have both learned valuable lessons and will be better people for it.

Personally, I hope that the entire ordeal will be forgotten. But since I am still bleeding all over the place, I find that thought hard to fathom. I am missing a pound of flesh. What is the name of this play?

I worry about my inability to control my emotions. I try to note the channels (triggers), but sometimes, it seems as though I do not have the remote. Forget trying to explain to someone else which buttons to push, especially when they refuse to admit possession. I have to work harder at being the one in control. No one else seems to know what to do with it.

The Mitch Is Back

Plans to travel to the beach today were shit upon by God, who thought it would be funny to change the weather quite drastically. I did not laugh, neither did JR. He was looking forward to another romp with Poseidon, but as our day unfolded, the realization of that dream slowly whimpered and died. I actually got some things done around the house, but as I look around, I cannot remember exactly what they were. I only know that the place is feeling more like home every minute.

An invitation to a BBQ was extended to us and retracted too many times for my taste and when the hosts finally decided that it was on, I was off. Rather, JR was off to the BBQ and I chose to stay home and be the domestic goddess I always knew was in me. In strange ways, I have turned into my mother. For instance, yesterday I awoke early and began to clean the kitchen... Not that it needed it at all. I just wanted to spray and wipe the counters, over and over again. When JR finally got up, I had him put together the new vacuum cleaner so I could really do some reverse damage. He is younger than me and I tend to be more maternal than is required. When he questions my authority at home, I simply say: "Because I'm the Mama Bear, that's why!"

I had just settled down enough to watch some cable TV when I heard a horrible ruckus on the patio. I rushed to the window to see what the fuss was all about and found, of course, Mitch- stark naked, hanging from the mouth of a giant stork. They were struggling to land in the courtyard, much to my horror and dismay. I quickly opened the door and helped Mitch free himself from the stork's grip. It flew away and I escorted Mitch into the house before any of the neighbors saw. He was cold, wet and horribly dirty. I wrapped him in a towel and drew him a hot bath. Once in the water, he settled down enough to share his adventures with me. (For those of you who don't remember, my imaginary friend Mitch disappeared into the sea about two and a half weeks ago.)

"You really scared me, Mitch. What were you thinking, jumping into the ocean and swimming away like that?" I asked, as I washed his back with a loofah. "I thought you drowned."

"I did," He replied with a smile. "And I was instantly reborn as a dolphin. I traveled with a pod and they led me where I wanted to go." Mitch then recalled the tale of his meeting with the oldest and wisest living creature on the planet, a sperm whale who is commonly referred to as Leviathan, but prefers her real name, Shiloh Suri Kingston Greer.

Mitch had been granted an audience with Shiloh the Whale, in order to ask about me. He was concerned about my evolution. Shiloh explained that I had been stuck in a metaphorical prison, but that my evolution was finally happening. Everything that had happened to me, while in the belly of the whale, had led me to this moment and that if I continued to listen to my muses, I could do no wrong. She told Mitch that HE was an integral part of my development and that he should return to me as soon as possible.

Shiloh said: "Saviour Onassis has a good heart. He just needs to get laid a little more often. You should help him out with that, Mitch. Just remember... Watching American Idol is like watching someone pick their nose, but voting for American Idol is like picking someone else's nose. Nobody should do that. Tell Saviour, I said to be careful with the cable TV and to concentrate on his toes a little more often. Baby Onassis is gonna take over the world one day and you will be there to see it all. Now go back up there and break in that new IKEA bed he bought..." Then she swam away.



I thought about Mitch's story while he dried off and put on some deodorant.

"That's amazing Mitch, but how did you manage to email me from the bottom of the ocean?"

"In case you didn't know, dolphins invented the internet. They are, like, totally smart." And with that, Mitch threw down his towel and wrestled me onto the bed. His lips were still salty from the sea, but I didn't care. Mitch was back in my arms again. A wave of guilt came over me as Mitch kissed my neck. I stopped him, briefly, to apologize for not taking better care of his beloved dog, Abercrombie, who had been picked up on prostitution and cannibalism charges in Hollywood last week.

"Don't be silly," Mitch replied. "He wasn't a real dog."

Then the radio came on and we made love, as the smooth sounds of The Temptations washed over us, like waves.

Each day through my window I watch her as she passes by
I say to myself, "You're such a lucky guy"
To have a girl like her is truly a dream come true
Out of all the fellas in the world, she belongs to you.

But it was just my imagination,
Running away with me
It was just my imagination,
Running away with me...

Meet Me In Malibu

It was a grueling week at work. JR is working "under" me and I can say that living and working with someone is not something I find particularly rewarding. There is no one to bitch to about your home OR work life. We won't be doing this again anytime soon, if we can help it. We've been prepping a commercial for Country Crack, or Country Cock as JR likes to say. If you close your eyes and remove your taste buds, it's almost just like butter. We spread some into the groove on our squeaky sliding glass door and now it's quiet as a mouse. Another week of this and we'll be free.

So, the cable guy shows up this morning and surveys the hookups. He goes downstairs for I while, and I just kept unpacking. When he returns, he informs us that the cable was already on. "You could have been watching TV all week for free." That sucked, but was of secondary importance, as what we really need to live normal lives again, is the INTERNET! He set it up within minutes and was gone. Finally, JR and I could retreat to our respective rooms and socialize with people we don't actually have to live or work with. Whoopee!

First thing, I checked my email. There was a variety of junk, work related garbage and myspace friend requests. (I love those and add almost everybody.) Then I opened the following message:

SO-
i travld 2 th beli o th wale & lokd 4 yor efolushen. no luk. almos fukd a sqid & met a cool mermad. ar yu don movn yt? i thnk im redi 2 cum hom. meet me in malibu 2moro, k?
luv mitch

After my initial shock and confusion, I kicked my unpacking into high gear, not once questioning how Mitchell was able to email me from his current incarnation as a dolphin. I just knew that as soon as I had the place back to normal, he would return. His old apartment had been condemned, because of a "rotten body" incident and apparently, someone saw Abercrombie picked up by the Dog Catcher over on Highland Avenue. It's just as well, because there is plenty of room in my new bed. I'm excited to see Mitch again. I wonder if he will recognize me?

Mitch may not have had much luck finding my evolution in the belly of a whale, but I am pretty sure I know exactly where to find it myself.

Cover Me

I'm a little lost.

Not just in the way that I am absent, but feeling as if I am a stranger in my skin. My life has changed dramatically in the last few weeks and yet, oddly, nothing is really that different. I almost feel like an impostor. I know that this is all just another tunnel down the rabbit hole.

While shopping, recently, JR asked me why I don't feel like I deserve good things. I have been thinking about that and I can't quite come up with an answer that satisfies all that the question implies. Is it that I feel the need to punish and discipline myself because I am a sinner? Could the residual religion of my childhood still have it's claws in me?

I do want to be happy. I want to deserve nice things. I need to feel like I've earned it. Yes, I am finally released from my self-imposed prison. But I can't get over the feeling that this is all just a dream. My saboteur is in full effect and, though I am aware of it, I cannot seem to get control of him. It's like Mitch always said: "Don't shit where you live." I never really understood that, because of the modern conveniences like toilets and the like. I asked him: "Don't you mean: Don't shit where you eat?"

Mitch looked at me, as if I had done just that, and it all made sense. I do deserve good things. I just have to learn not to shit all over them. Maybe things will get even better. Who knows? I just might find someone to fight over the covers with.

My life is still in boxes, mostly, and I realize that I'm not that anxious to unpack. Could it be that I am ready to let go of my baggage? Somehow that seems unlikely, but as they say: Out with the old, in with... Well, you know how it goes.

Thank you to everyone who has shown kindness and patience with me through my molting period. (You know who you are.) An even more brilliant version of me is on the way. In the meantime, please, cover me... I'm going in.

Pirate Days

AARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!

We got moved in, but our Internet connection won't be hooked up until next weekend. This totally sucks and we tried to illegally log in to every wireless network in the building. No luck. All these "Melrose Place" types have passwords that we can't figure out.

Anyway, deep into another commercial and I will try to put something more interesting together soon. I just wanted you to know that I am indeed, alive and well, just not well connected. Thanks to everyone who has been checking out my myspace music page. You are all too kind.

Back Soon,
Saviour Onassis

New Music To Save Your Ass To...

While I am moving and you are on your knees... I thought I would let you all in on my new top secret project. I have been working on the first official Saviour Onassis album and posted a sneak peek over on myspace for you all to hear. Let me know what you think and remember: We are all rockstars!

The IKEA Drama

JR and I signed papers for the new apartment today. We got our keys and checked out the new paint job. I really love the place and can't wait to get all my stuff in there. Mostly, I am excited about the new bed that I am currently in the process of buying. This is the one I picked out at IKEA:

Of course, I would never use a baby blue blanket. Imagine something more vibrant in it's place, like me...naked.

I guess it was a mistake to look around too much, because IKEA has a way of making the interior decorator in me go wild. We looked for a new slipcover for the couch I have, but it's no longer in stock. We thought about the possibility of getting a whole new couch for our funky seventies apartment. There was this orange one that would look great with the white rock fireplace and the black shelves that I had agreed to.

Of course, JR thought it would look better in a Sand color, which I think just looks like dark white. I believe a light colored couch is a major mistake and I immediately protested. I hate things that blend in and match. I spent to many years of my life trying desperately to do just that. The carpet is sand colored and the rock fireplace is in the same scheme.

CUT TO: the two of us bickering like Lucy and Ricky at IKEA over a couch that neither of us can afford. I may have threatened to kill myself before ever buying a white couch, I don't know. It was rather silly and JR finally refused to discuss it any further. My whole point was that I believe that color adds warmth and inspiration to a room. He said: "I like things sterile." I don't want to live in a hospital, so we had to stop talking about it. For now, we will live with the old IKEA couch I already own. It was white, but has turned darker over the years. It sort of looks like sand. I keep it covered with colorful blankets and throws. That's where JR has been sleeping lately.

It has been a trying week as far as personal space goes. Two people cannot spend every waking (and sleeping) hour together in a small space without some tensions arising. Overall, it's been okay. We both like the same foods, so that's something. We smoke and fight and pack and laugh at strange things. Someday, we will probably look back at this week with fond memories, but for now, we can't wait to get out of here. It won't be long now.

And the next trip we take to IKEA, we are going our separate ways. That's what Lucy and Ricky would do.