Commitment

Or Who Becomes An Asshole Most?

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

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

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

SO: I'm not serious about anything!

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

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

AW: *fidgets uncomfortably*

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saviour Onassis

You Better Work!

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

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

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

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

$228.00

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

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

And So It Begins...

Ain't Too Proud

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

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

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

Easy way out, anyone?

Love Live

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

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

BJ and Dirty Love

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

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

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

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

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

Dark Matters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Very Special Hotel

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

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

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

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

Miserablism

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

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

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

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