Dark Matters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Very Special Hotel

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

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

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

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

Miserablism

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

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

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

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

PLAY HOLE

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



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

Stay Tuned....
SO

Just Grow Up

Why do we do stupid shit?

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

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

No man is an island.

Look out for that iceburg.

Choose Life.

Make Love Not War.

Never Go Hungry Again.

Say hello to my little friend.

So Be It.

Life in the Penalty Box

I've been given a time out.

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

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

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

Identikit Crisis

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



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

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

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

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

HALT

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

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

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

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

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

I feel like Nancy Spungeon right now.

The Daily Grind

Sometimes I miss being human.

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

INT. DRUG STORE - DAY

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

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

The black buck just shrugs, pays and leaves.

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

SAVIOUR ONASSIS:
It must have been something bad.

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

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

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

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

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

Surgery was performed in sobriety, the following day.

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

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

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

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

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

Our Father's Sequins

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

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

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

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

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

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