Thursday, November 5, 2009

The Goat and the Ram and the Water Bearer/

I met an Aries not too long ago. This Aries, this Ram, fascinated me. The goat, my Capricorn, older and wiser, is frustrated at the world. And I, the Aquarian is frustrated and pissed off at both of them.

But I think my being frustrated at my Capricorn is strictly artifical.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Semi-Autobiographical, to a Certain Extent.

Biking for Johnny and me was an escape. It was a proclamation of our freedom, of our rebellion. We felt one with the wind on our bicycles. Johnny's wispy blond hair that fell beyond his shoulders looked so beautiful in the wind. My hair, short and dishwatery, was always left in a wind-bursted mowhawk on my yellow bike. We rode everywhere, we were nothing without or bikes. Our passion for our bikes was as deep as the mutual hidden passion we had for each other. But we were too cowardly to admit it at the time.

Today, a warm early spring weekend morning, we were riding our bikes around my school. I attended school at St. Rose of Lima Academy, which for me was the seventh ring of hell. I stole his top from when we went swimming at a pool of my friend's and he was chasing me to get it back. We were riding past the priory. I was, to put it simply, laughing my ass off. "Mo! Come on! I'm gonna tell the priests you stole a shirt from a poor kid!" Johnny, thin, long, and pale was laughing. He nodded at the group of priests all decked out in their albs that were welcoming an extremely tall man in khakis and a black polo.

I turned and noticed the tall man carrying some suitcases. He was peculiar and and he looked much older than he truly was. His hair was almost completely a dark grey and thinning. He had smile lines and his deep brown eyes happily danced as he chuckled at Johnny's remark. He was certainly innocent. He was much more innocent than me and I was only newly thirteen at the time! I slowed down and Johnny was now biking beside me.I handed him his prized Nirvana shirt and said, "Let's go down to Franklin."

When we got to Franklin Park, a playground adjasent to the Red River elementary school, I sat at the nearest bench and asked, "You see that guy moving into the priory?"

Johnny, his pale blue eyes glistening in the morning sun, replied, "Yeah. What about him?"

"Dunno," my feet were resting on my bike seat, "he seemed childlike."



"You just don't want some new guy possibly cramping your style. You still want to get away with all the shit you pull there." Johnny laughed and sat beside me. He put his shirt on and watched a little girl that fell bawl at the sight of her bleeding knee with sympathy overflowing his eyes. "He seems OK. He's just a priest. You don't even deal with them that much there anyway."

That was from a story I'm writing. What do you guys think? NEED OPINIONS.

Friday, October 2, 2009

Goodbye Sister Disco.

I feel very... Townshend today. I dunno... I guess it has something to do with all the pictures I have of Pete Townshend on my walls. Maybe because I finally met a Pete Townshend... extremely tall, bright blue eyes, pale... plays guitar. Short hair and a mouth like Pete's. And this man's dance left me behind in a whirlwind of notes, chords, and Metallica.

This man teaches me guitar. He's very cool despite the fact that he's never heard of the Velvets, Television, or my beloved 13th Floor Elevators. I didn't have my boyfriend teach me guitar because he's a distraction. I swear, every time he even tried to teach me guitar I couldn't concentrate. This guy, however, knows how to keep my attention despite his cuteness. 

Haha... Just wanted to say that I've found another Townshend. I found a legit one. Not some bagger at the grocery store that looks more like Coffin Joe instead of Pete.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Close to the Frozen Borderline.

Nico is haunting me. Everywhere I turn, through sheer insanity or otherwise, I see her and her willow build. I see her flaxen hair. I see her eyes penetrating me and dissecting everything I do. The scientist is now the subject in my mind. 

Her heart of doom, her body, her mind is no longer. I see it in others. I see it in my boyfriend as the days go on. I've known the boy for two years almost, and now he seems less like what I saw him as. This is good,  but maybe concerning. His eyes, once quietly somber and icy, much like hers, are now widening, looking more frightened, more like a deer in headlights.

I see her forbidden ways in the shadows of my mind. My mind is facing the wind, I am trying to find the meanings of everything in the world through dark, shady streets. I see her child-like innocence in the dark eyes of a man forty-one years old. This man is too innocent for the time. I see his eyes dance across the room, sparkling, shining, smiling the kindest smiles, laughing at the stupidest jokes just because. People like this man are just living in dreams of beauty and love. They sail away into things once possible, but cease to even be fathomed by anyone slightly logical.

Maybe I'm just nostalgic about things sure to never come back. Maybe I am insane, but I feel Nico, throwing her songs up in the air. I see her enigma that she left for those few worthy to solve. Maybe she wasn't even that enigmatic... maybe she just wanted to runaway and to everyone she met, tell them a different story. Her kind, well-meaning case of Pseudological fantastica left everyone that knew her and know of her in this constant state of wonder. Was that her goal? Did she purposely lie to make everyone always think about her? Was she that diabolically vain to come up with such a brilliant plan? Maybe, or maybe her past just ruined her.

Well if that was her goal, she succeeded. She is haunting me against her will. I see her in the boy I love. I see her in the man that is in the shadows of my mind. I see her in my mind. Or maybe I'm in an endless Carolian dream world, under a watchful eye, in a maze within a maze. Maybe this world is of the Queen of Hearts, or maybe I forgot what a dream was. Seeing that I've possibly forgot what a dream was, I find a dream, a fantasy. This fantasy is Nico. I am again the scientist with a theoretical microscope that is being abused and insulted by a fairylike subject that I can't help but bow to on the Sabbath. Nico is haunting me. Everywhere I turn, through sheer insanity or otherwise, I see her and her willow build. I see her flaxen hair. I see her eyes penetrating me and dissecting everything I do. The scientist is now the subject in my mind. 

            That's Nico crica 1956

Sunday, August 30, 2009

If I Could Walk Away From Me...

I had a very good day today. It was magical. I slow danced for no particular reason to "Candy Says"by the Velvet Underground and "My Funny Valentine" by Nico with my beloved. We were listening to some mixtape I jacked from Jean-Marie, I guess he made it for his girlfriend and when they broke up she gave him all the stuff he gave her back. It had all these love songs on it. And they were all really slow and lovey-dovey. It was really sweet because after some French ballad, "Candy Says" started and it got all mushy between Pauler-Bear and me.

He, though he pretends to act all cool and distant, is such a mushy, emotional sap. And I really like that.

Saps are OK... Really OK. Like totally amazing. Like the greatest, coolest, bestest people in the world. 

Thursday, August 27, 2009

I Give You My Blessing.

So, there's this blog that has absolutely no followers other than me and one other person. This blog is 

Chalee, the owner, has featured me on the blog twice. One interview, and one little bit about my club. Check it out and follow it even! Also leave a comment or two on my interview, which should be the most recent post. 

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Teenagers Are Stupid. (Prepare for a Gross, Gynecological, Realistic Post)

Why am I discriminating against myself? Because it's true. The general population of teenagers are fucking dumbasses. Yes, I do stupid things, but not as stupid as not putting on a condom right or at all.

"Oh I can't get pregnant on my period." "Oh he'll just withdraw before he comes." "Oh we can get married and live happily ever after." Those are all myths.
1. Yes. You can get pregnant on your period.
2. Sure, that could work. But what about the pre jizz that comes out to lubricate the penis? That contains too semen.
3. No. Having a baby will not save or help your relationship. It'll most likely destroy it. Take Sara Palin's daughter. She was engaged to her baby daddy but they broke up.

Why are my peers so stupid that they would ruin their lives with, and I'm being excruciatingly blunt, a parasite that drains you of everything? Why can't my peers do something as simple as put on a condom right? Why must they risk everything by not using a condom at all?

Uh yeah... I know quite a bit about that birth control, babies, sex, and the anatomical side to all that stuff. And yeah it's weird, but if writing doesn't work out, which it without a doubt won't I'm going to go into gynecology, preferably preforming abortions. Because a few months ago, on May 31, George Tiller, MD, was killed by anti-choice radical Scott Roeder for providing late-term abortions (abortions after twenty-one weeks) at his clinic.

George Tiller was operating one of only THREE women's health clinics in the USA that provided late-term abortions. And he was murdered by people that couldn't just live with the fact that abortions were being preformed for women who needed them.

George Tiller's death affected me and the way I think greatly. Because of him, I find a calling to open my own women's health clinic, preferably on the south side of Chicago (those crazy racialists would never go down to the ghetto), that provides late-term abortions. I am willing to risk life and limb for that cause, even though I'm a cowardly, whiney, complainer.

OK, enough with the weird random vag talk.


Why did my parents sneer at all the happy kids at the block parties that were having "fun for the whole family?"

They made me jaded and just like them. Fun for the whole family is stupid and forlorn. Especially when you're sitting on a curb with cunt written on your Converse and a Reefer Madness t-shirt on underneath your motorcycle jacket waiting for some to rescue you and take you away to their place where you will sit there for an hour watching their new copy of Forbidden Zone. But of course stupid Jean had to take his sister down to Aurora for some lame reason... even though he knows I haven't seen the Forbidden Zone in ages and I'm willing to murder to see it again.


Friday, August 21, 2009

Since I Know Nothing of Fashion.

I'm writing a story. You guys probably know of it, seeing that I posted a little expert from it on my blog. I finally, after all my years of writing, make a young (fourteen), pretty, fashion obsessed character. She's the little sister of the main character James. She's precocious and has like five pairs of Louboutins thanks to her mother's friend's connections all over the world.

Since I know nothing about fashion and only get my information about fashion from my Grey Ghost, what do I do with Edith-Paul Frances Glore? I send her away to Paris for a year with the fifty-two-year old poet from France that she has a huge crush on because she's going to intern for Chanel (I try to be as far fetched as I can when creating fashionable characters. Isn't that what fashion is all about? A fantasy world? Something that teases you with a simple design and a hefty price tag?). Why? Because I know music. I know art. I wish I knew fashion. But I don't. I know what looks good, I know what is to die for. But other than that, I'm clueless.

Just wanted to mention that. I really like that character. She reminds me of me when I was her age, minus the insanely gorgeous wardrobe. I always went for the guys waay too old for me and I was always a favorite of all the gay men that work in the jewelry industry (my mom sells fancy watches to rich fucks on Chicago's equivalent to 5th Ave.). I just was pushing myself with making her so fashionably aware that I frightened myself and sent her to France. Fashion isn't my forte. My usual outfit is skinny jeans, converse, motorcycle jacket, sunglasses and a band t-shirt. Not an Alexander Wang t-shirt, insane high heels, tight leather pants (Though I do have a pair I wear with a turtle neck and a blazer) and a Chanel purse.

Heres the expert from my story that describes Edith, "Edith, like the rest of the family was lanky and tall. She had dishwater blonde hair she wore to her chin with bangs. She had big, big navy blue eyes. She still had freckles sprinkled across her nose. She was pale, and I don't think ever had a zit. She had my mother's mouth, cheekbones, and nose. She always dressed stylishly. She kept up to date with all of the trends. I'm shocked that boy said no to her." Edith also collects fur coats and action figures. She's the only one in the family that is allowed to call James "Jimmy."

What do you guys think of Edith? 

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

I'm Sorry, but I Don't Care about You, Your Money, Your Family, or Your "Cutting Edge" Look.

England is a great country. I think it's beautiful, rich in culture, and has an amazing music scene. Yet, over the course of about two years, there has been some strange... happening there. And I hate to call it a happening because happenings, at least the way I learned of them, are great, amazing gatherings of people coming together to form a core group inspiring a generation. This happening is generally just that, at least at first sight. Wild, carefree, punk-looking kids running wild around London, causing a scene, catching attention seems like a great, amazing thing. But it only seems to be a great, amazing thing.

After a while, those kids become washed up, annoying, and over-glorified. Those kids are hipsters. Not just any random hipster like the ones coming from Lincoln Park, but rich hipsters only famous because of their rich mommies and daddies. They're seductive, yes, with half-shaven heads, motorcycle jackets, and ripped leggings. They seem interesting, like they know their shit. But, chances are, they don't.

They're dubbed "grunge" and own the label, but they don't know shit about grunge. They know "Nevermind," which, of course, is an amazing album, inspiring a generation, but that's not the only grunge album. Nirvana (though they are my favorite band) is not the only grunge band. And "Smells Like Teen Spirit" is not their only song

I understand the "Think rich, look poor" philosophy, Andy Warhol came up with it. It's a great philosophy, but only in moderation. No one likes posers. No one likes kids that say "Oh... I make all my own clothes. I'll never buy a pair of jeans all ready ripped" but that sneak into some high end, trendy department store to get their cutoffs. They try to be punk, grunge, and everything inbetween, but they aren't truly what they think they are. Punk and it's offspring is about being a voice for the downtrodden. Punk spoke to kids that thought they had nowhere to go. Punk saved lives, and to mock it by pretending to be punk when, at the end of the night, you drunkenly stumble into your posh little loft on the ritzy, trendy side of London that you paid for with your rockstar daddy's money is a disgrace to all those kids that found themselves through punk.

Grunge wasn't about being beautiful. It wasn't about being a model, that, if they didn't get the job, they'd just have mommy and daddy pay for their brand new Birkin bag. Grunge was about making something out of nothing. The "Gods of Grunge" (as my beloved refers to them) came from broken homes, trailers, the muddy banks of rural Washington. They had nothing but a guitar and something to say. Grunge today, is generally nonexistent. Yet, there are some kids that like to keep it alive. The kids that are poor and connect with the music. And those great, fun, smart, downtrodden kids are being mocked by those fucking limey hipsters when they walk around London town with a fucking Balmain jacket with a flannel screaming "Oh I'm SOOO grunge! Look at me in my flannel I got from Harrods! Oh look at my bright pink Dr. Martens! They're SOO punk rawk! Oh look at my 1000 quid motorcycle jacket! I'm SOOO badass!"

Sure, grunge is a fashion statement. It's a statement about not needing the fancy brands and the hottest shoes. I hate all those fucking twats from England that go to clubs every night dressed in cutoffs they got from some high end boutique pretending to be grunge. They aren't. Grunge is Madam Satan smashing their guitars. Grunge is working hard to say something. Grunge is about slapping the general population smack dab across the face. Grunge is about marginalizing the public to do your own thing. It's about alienation. Not rich mommies and daddies. And I know this rant won't do much, but it's to let it all out. British hipsters mock people that are lost without punk. And it breaks my heart when I see some fucking socialite running around trying to act tough and punk when they are really living the good life. Posers are the enemy. Trendsuckers are the enemy. British hipsters are the enemy.

I hate Alice Dellal, the Geldofs, and all those other bitches that are rich and from England. I still love England, I just hate that little scene.

They can all go to hell. But can they just stop annoying and mocking the real music/music history/music meaning snobs? Because, seriously, I hate featuring Satan #1, 2, and beyond on my blog.

I guess England truly is dreaming now.

Monday, August 3, 2009


I am now growing tired of the Tom Verlaine and Mark Arm hair that my Edie Sedgwick-esque haircut grew into. I loved the look of looking like the lead singers of two of my favorite bands (Television (Tom Verlaine) and Mudhoney (Mark Arm)), yet it gets tired very easily. And it is full on boy hair. Meaning it gets oily more easily and my own mother mistook me for a boy from behind when I was riding my bike in my VU t-shirt and sunglasses. I'm also getting those ramshorns. It's a genetic thing where, over the course of a few hours, the oil in your hair wears your hair down creating a flip in the whips of your hair by your neck. It happens to people when their hair gets to my point.

That's why it's time to let go of my sometimes Ms. Brady shag and sometimes my Tom Verlaine/Mark Arm hair. I've been looking over pictures and decided on a look: The YSL Fall 2008 haircut. My own personal gay Grey doesn't think it'll work on me. Yet my hairstylist says it'll look great on me if we make some adjustments to the look. I think Grey's just jealous because he's regretting his crew cut and is dying to have his beloved Morrissey haircut back. I wanted the Fall 08 YSL hair since the collection came out, yet at that time I just got a Debbie Harry in the Atomic video-esque cut that grew out into a really bitchin' Mick Jagger look.

Yet, if I get that hair cut, I fear it won't grow into my Mark Arm hair, and that's always the desired look when my hair grows out from a short cut. It might grow out into a Johnny Ramone look, which would be fine, yet annoying because then it'll get all Farrah Fawcett-y throughout the day. And there are as many cons to that hair as there are pros. First con: My boyfriend would give me that deer-in-headlights-look he always tends to sport when anxious, pissed off, weirded out, and/or embarrassed. He likes my hair just fine and would rather me get the usual Edie cut (We call it "The Edie") yet I would hate my hair to be longer then his. I swear, if I get the YSL, he'd say "Al, what's with the Rhys Webb haircut?" and then promptly ruffle it.

Another con would be the fact that it is a bowl cut. Bowl cuts + me isn't always a good mix. I just happen to be cursed with that horrifically Irish round face. But, as my hairstylist said, I'll be getting a similar style that is suitable for my face.

Yet, a very, very, very nice pro is that I'll the only girl in my class with the look, yet I'm the only girl in my class that rocks short hair.

And I like the look. I think I'd look good with it. And if I don't, I'll get a pixie. Hair grows back. And it's worth taking risks with.

There are definetly more cons than pros with the YSL cut, but I'll go with it.

What do you guys think? Should I go for the YSL or stick with my beloved, usual "Edie turned on, tuned in, and dropped out" haircut?

Saturday, August 1, 2009

Current Obsessions.

"Campus" by Vampire Weekend. - Being a prep school girl myself, I can do nothing but relate to this song. Especially about a certain ex of mine, but I'm soo not into him anymore.

"Touch Me, I'm Sick" by Mudhoney. - Yes, the obsession is still going strong.

"Very Ape" by Nirvana. - Reminds me of my beloved. He tries to act tough and differential, but he's a softy.

"The Soul of Patrick Lee" by John Cale and Terry Riley. - It's AMAZING. The vocals by Adam Miller are to die for.

"She Belongs to Me" Bob Dylan. - My beloved did a cover of that song for me, though it's about the Catholic Church, he says there some things in that song that just scream me. Excuse me, my ego is huge right now.

"Puss" by The Jesus Lizard. - It's hard, fast, and violent.

"Heads Will Roll" by The Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs. - I'm not much of a Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs fan, but I LOVE this song.

That's it. Check them out, leave you opinions.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

If You Called Me...

If you called me a cunt, I wouldn't care. I don't beleive in censoring words because they're "bad." For the world to be truly beautiful, you need the ugly. That's how the world spins. And I'm really going all Hemingway on you guys for some reason. Living near his birthplace helps, I guess.

I say cunt all the time. I swear all the time. I use offensive words. But I don't do it wit malcontent. I do it because I don't know any better. And growing up, I was a precousious little bitch.

Something I'm Actually Proud of.

"Clark Grohl is a nihlist. Clark Grohl likes to destroy. In the words said by a piece of Clark Grohl, the singer Nico, "A true artist must self-destruct." And Clark was determined to do just that. But then Clark Grohl was introduced to slefish indulgences, and had me."

That was a little exerpt from a story I'm working on. I really like that one bit. Just wanted to share it. The character that bit was about was kind of based off of a lot of people combined. Including Ernest Hemingway, Nico, and myself. I always like to write destructive characters, they're the funnest to come up with. I'm not gonna post the story, it's far too personal for me. I'll post little bits I'm proud of, though.

Friday, July 17, 2009

Radio Free Chicago.

There're no decent local radio stations in Chicago. When my dad was my age, there were a ton of great, amazing radio stations that played the greastest music. Now, however, it's all just bullshit.

I'm gonna start my own radio station, someday. And I'll make sure it's in Chicago.

Their Last Song was "Suckers"

It's sad when bands breakup. Especially when the band had some potential. My boy's group broke up. The last song they played was "Suckers." "Suckers" was the first song they ever wrote. And it was about a blowjob.

But, it was inevitable. Especially when the rythem guitarist is a douchebag.

Well, now my boyfriend is gonna start a more artsy group with his bassist. Or a more Nirvana-esque group. I'd think it'd be cool if they went in the avant-garde, artsy direction, but the bassist isn't that artsy a bassist. Shit, he was lucky he could do a decent version of the bass solo in "My Generation." Too bad my boyfriend I all upset and angsty about the disbandment of his band.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Oh Come On.

Come on, Rhys Webb isn't gay. Besides my best friend, being gay himself, has a perfect gaydar. Rhys isn't gay.

Friday, July 10, 2009

Fuck You.

Fuck the ignorance of the world. They are pieces of shit.

I was listening to some golden Nirvana rarities and talking on the phone with a friend about going to the Art Institute with him and we were talking about the Ivan Albrights there and my really obnoxious, ignorant, lame aunt says, "What's this grunge crap you're listening to? What's with you and grunge?"

First of all, I'm not infatuated with grunge like some of my friends. I just like hard, heavy music, and in my opinion Nirvana's version of "Puss" is a great hard, heavy song. I told her, "Dude, I'm not obsessed with grunge. Nirvana's just a really really good band." She even was of the MTV age when they came out, she was nineteen, but she was busy being all nostalgic about cheesy eighties pop, never growing up. Being the female Peter Pan but in an annoying, ignorant way.

Then I went back to talking to my friend and then, once again, my aunt buts in, "What are you doing going to the art museum? That's boring."

People like her don't appreciate art, beauty, or even life. She doesn't know what beauty is. People think that being friends with the "fringe people" is bad, but only because they are ignorant. Because they only know God. Because they only know the rules, the norm. They won't ever stray from the middle of the belt. They will remain blue collar and dumb as a doorknob.

But these people whom I love so dearly, that treat me like their own daughter, don't know that art keeps me alive. They don't realize that I love spending hours at museums, just gazing at statues of Buddha and Hindi gods and goddesses. They don't know that the sounds of harmoniums and guitars make me euphoric. They poo-poo the things that make me happy; they poo-poo the people I love merely because they don't know any better. They think people with long hair are weird. They think anyone that identifies as Muslim is a terrorist. They think French people hate America. They think that gay people are going to Hell.

I can't even believe that I'm related to people like that.
Yes, there are some great, tolerant people in my family, but most of them are in their own little world of Fox News, blue collar America, people who hate unions but are in unions anyways, and ignorance. They upset me so much. They belittle me. They tell me that the people I hang out with are freaks, particularly my best friend who is gay and my friend from France. They are constantly asking why I want to be a writer. They just can't accept people, even their own niece/cousin/granddaughter/whatever.
People that aren't accepting of people are just ignorant. They're just scared to leave the safeness of their little world. I'm glad that I can. I'm glad that because I've ignored my family that I know the coolest people in the world. I'm glad that I'm not an alcholholic at seventeen. I'm glad that I can take in people of all races, creeds, sexualities, genders, and political stances. I just wish more people can be like that. And, though I'm sad to say this, my family, being as ignorant as they are, are peices of shit. Though I still love them, they have no respect for my opinions and are intent on changing them. They can't make me do shit.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009


These boots are the sex.
I know a lot of people that would kill for those.
I am one of those.
And I know a lot of people that would kill to see a girl in those.

It Doesn't Really Matter.

I really hate people that say, "Please pray for this person for he/she has turned away from God."

Who cares? Why does it matter whether or not someone believes in God or not?

I am raised Catholic, but I don't really practice any religion. I just live. My philosphy doesn't include God. It includes freedom, fun, beauty, and art. I don't care if you're Baptist, Muslim, Atheist, part of a cult, or Satanic. I don't care what you believe, as long as you don't hurt anyone or press your beliefs onto people. It doesn't matter if they're good people anyway.

Even my hardcore Republican Catholic grandmother doesn't give a flying fuck about what you believe in, as long as you eat her food without complaining, she won't care.

Maybe the world would be better Godless, with people keeping their beliefs private, but people are proud of who they are, and I guess that's OK too.

I have hardcore Catholic friends, they don't care my lifestyle and I don't care for their lifestyles, but we're friends. And we like eachother and we have so much in common that beliefs don't matter. My bestfriend goes to Mass every Sunday morning with his family, and he's gay. He wear's a crucifix around his neck with pride.

I have friends that have been altar servers since fifth grade and they are wild sex fiends. Everyone has their own opinions on God and what God expects of them. I believe whoever just doesn't want anyone to get hurt, to have everyone appriciate beauty and art. My boyfriend doesn't think anything is up there at all. That it's all science, and part of me believes that too, yet the part of me that never grew up, the little girl, the Alice in Wonderland in me wants to believe in fairy tales. And I won't deny myself a fairy tale.

Some religions are beautiful. I respect those religions. I respect all religions. But you tell me that you shun people of other religions, I'll shun you just as you shun my friends, just as you shun me.

Don't press your beliefs on people, they don't care. They'll just end up not liking you. And don't tease people because they believe in God, it shouldn't matter to you. Sure, you it against them if they are being hypocritical, but don't tease or hurt them for nothing. Everyone is a person. Catholic, Muslim, Hindi, Jewish, Bhuddist, Atheist, Taoist, whatever, everyone is a person.

Monday, July 6, 2009

He Only Comes out When I Drink My Gin.

Don't get the reference?

Dr. Jimmy.
Don't get the reference?


I was just thinking about angsty teenage boys that a sexually frustrated.
I was also thinking about perverted old men I know that are:
A) obsessed with the Who &
B) sexually frustrated.
Quadrophenia just came to mind.
You got to love boys like that.
They're fun to tease.
Not that I am the perpetrator of the said sexual frustration.
Ahem... you get the drift.
I have guy friends like Jimmy from Quadrophenia, they're hilarious.
I love them.
I love Quadrophenia.

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Your Lonliness Tells You That You've Sinned

Paris seems so unobtainable to me. That bohemian Parisian lifestyle that only poets, artists, and their muses seem to live seems so far away, so long gone. I've only longed to live that lifestyle since I was like twelve, but now reality hits me. It's impossible. The poets I fantasize about are dead or never existed. Their muses are only souls trapped in paintings, that never walked the earth.

I have a friend from Paris that moved here to Chicago about three years ago, he's one of my closest friends, and he's one of the only people I've told about my dreams of Paris, and he said that my dreams are too far fetched, that Rimbaud is dead, and that even if I find what I'm looking for in Paris, it won't be the way I envision it. He says that I can be a promiscuous poet in America, that it isn't that much more special in Paris. I merely told him that he doesn't get it, and he said that he does, and he knows it doesn't exist.

Jean-Marie is a Capricorn. I know tons of them, my boyfriend is one. But Jean is a total Capricorn, not born on the cusp of Sagittarius and Capricorn or the cusp of Capricorn and Aquarius, as my boyfriend is. Jean likes to be blunt and blatant. It suits him and his black hair and his sarcastic disposition. Yet, he is stable in that sense for the better. He doesn't believe in fairy-tales and won't stand nonsense or beating around the bush. He is sweet though, and he promised to take me to Paris someday, but I don't believe what he says about the Parisian poets. I'll find them. I will. I know I will.

Yet his bluntness and incredible ability to pull me out of any outrageous flight of fancy made me a bit unsure. Maybe that time is long since dead, maybe Pig-Alle is merely a tourist destination now. But I'm used to getting what I want, it's terrible, I know, but I will be sure I find something like my Paris. Like my Rimbaud. Maybe what I find as my Rimbaud won't be a poet, maybe it'll be a painter, musician, or even from Paris, France or even Europe! I just might all ready have two Rimbauds. My two favorite Capricorns might be my Rimbauds, though he was a Libra.

I dunno, Rimbaud made me want to be a writer. I wanted to write like Rimbaud just as much as I wanted to write like Lester Bangs or Legs McNeil. Rimbaud's life captivates me. His long nights with beautiful women, his fiery relationship with Paul Verlaine intrigues me. His premature death saddens me. "A Season in Hell" relates to me so much it make my knees buckle. I convinced myself at twelve that I will go to Paris and bring me back a poet. just like Rimbaud. Now that I am older, and a teeny tiny bit more in touch with reality, I feel that I will never, ever find a poet that would publish a whole book of poems about me.

But if dreaming is all I can do, I am happy with that. Dreaming, hoping, wishing, whatever is a perfect release. Sometimes reality just is too blunt. Bluntness is great, but fairy-tale dreams are fun. Jean keeps grounded, sure, but my Aquarian dreams and need for freedom is stronger. My boyfriend encourages me to work hard and focus on "the now" but it's just so much more fun to get lost in your own little wonderland of swarthy, subtle poets and flighty, bright-eyed painters. But I'm happy with my sarcasstic bookworm and virtuoso romantic if I'll never find my Rimbaud. Hell, I'm happiest with my own personal virtuoso.

Green Monsters. Green Piss. Green Day.

Green Day pisses me off.

I love concept albums, totally, but there really isn't much credibility to having the singles all over MTV is there? 21-Century Breakdown is an OK album with some classic Green Day style songs. But they don't change it up. Billie Joe Armstrong is waaay too old to be sporting guyliner. They don't grow and learn. Great, American Idiot earned them millions of dollars, but why not expand? Why not change the sound up, why not change the image up. Because it's not the 90s anymore, now it's all about the image. Armstrong sold out to that. He sold out to the image. He was great in the 90s. Dookie was one of my favorite albums, but now all I have to say is:
What's the point of being a somewhat credible band when Hot Topic mall punks are wearing your t-shirts saying that they're deep, emotional, sensitive, and no one understands them. Whatever if they really feel that, but the black hearts, black parade, black soul shit is just that: BULLSHIT. Why Armstrong, do you give these really annoying teenie-boppers a stepping stone?
BTW* I still have a burning crush on Mike Drint. :P, so just remember, Mike Drint is cool, Billie Joe Armstrong is lame.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Of Everything That Stands the End

It's really beautiful out today. I think I just might be a morning person but I feel nature flowing through my veins.

I always wake up at five in the morning, it's this weird natural thing. I either go back to sleep or let my dogs out. Today I let my dogs outside. I usually stay out there with them for fifteen minutes to take in the misty Chicago morning. I sat on top of the totally unused dog house that once belonged to my now deceased neighbor and watched the very light, dull pink light from the cold sun caress the grey blue morning sky. The morning star was out. It was really gorgeous. My dog Melrose was sitting on the ground right next to me, blissfully watching the bitches, Lily and Becky, fight.

The morning is always forlorn. The very early morning at least. I love that feeling of being alone with only pale morning light and animals as your company. You get time to think about things you rarely get the chance to. I thought about my version of the human life cycle: Birth, love, death. The funny thing was, was that I found myself sitting naturally in the northeast direction. It doesn't have a meaning, it does to me, but it doesn't to the rest world. Finding myself sitting in that direction made me feel wistful. I always feel wistful, though. I smiled and thought that someone was sitting southwest outside, feeling just as wistful as me.

But I doubt that. The town northeast to me is a sleepy, quiet little town. Everyone I know from their would be fast asleep, and when they wake up, it'd be midday, and they'd all have to go to work.

I road my bike to that town. The streets were totally empty. Some shop keeps were just getting to work. I road past a friend's house, the house was quiet for once. I saw a cat too. I always see that cat around, I sometimes stop to pet her. She's really nice. I sat on a curb and played with her. I call her Gummo, it suits her. She reminds me of the bunny boy from the movie of the same name, a total vagabond. Gummo and I have that in common. And yes, I did this all while my parents were fast asleep.

I think it's worthwhile to be a vagabond. You get to see things you wouldn't see otherwise. If I wasn't a drifter, if I wasn't merely curious of the world around me, I wouldn't be an Alice. I would be just another Allison. No, Allison is not my name, it's just a term I use to describe girls that are just ordinary. I used to be called Allison by mistake a lot, I made sure people knew me as Alice. When I hear my name, I think no limits. When I hear the name Allison, I think boring, no point, bland. It'd be terrible to be considered bland.

I just can't stand it when people say they don't want to travel. It tells me that you are ignorant, unwilling to change, to adapt, and that you will never experience the beauty of sitting on a curb outside some beautiful, Victorian house petting a stray cat you've named Gummo. I travel everyday. I travel on my bike, going wherever my heart takes me. I do this all in the earliest hours of the morning when I cannot be seen, where I can take in the beauty. Where I can think about birth, love, and death. Where I can wonder about what's going on northeast from me. Where I can follow a cloud, and find myself meeting Gummo once again.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Disco Goddess

New favorite Nirvana song! It's "Hairspray Queen." I think it's totally dope....

And I was just informed that it's about oral sex. Whatever, now I'm all giggly because now I'm thinking about things of that sort... Yeah... just wanted mention it.... Wait! Now that I'm thinking about it, my boyfriend's group covered it at a party once! But they covered every Nirvana song because my boyfriend would bone Kurt if Kurt was alive and a girl. It's a whole vanity thing to fall in love with a person that slightly resembles you.

Do you ever notice that? Couples that look alike? I do all the time. As I said, it's a vanity thing. Or an envy thing depending on the couple. But I noticed like the last few guys I've went out with were like all blond and blue-eyed. I'm not a total blondie, but I am blonde and blue-eyed. Well I've always liked waspy looking boys.

Now I'm thinking about late 80s Nirvana. That was the best Nirvana. Like the best song off of Bleach was "Love Buzz" but I'm biased because that's my boyfriend's song for me. Other than that, it's "Downer."

Well that was your daily dose of Nirvana and sexual connotations... no... not even connotations, just blunt sex talk... I have "Hairspray Queen" somewhere in my playlist towards the end, try and fine the lube reference!

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Because It Just Sounds So Beautiful

You all know the Who. You all know Pete Townshend. You all know Pete Townshend plays guitar like he's fucking someone; you all know he plays guitar exquisitely. You all know Jimi Hendrix was the greatest guitarist in the world, hands down. You all know that twang Kurt Cobain's guitars make. You all know the psychedelic, unmistakable sound Lou Reed's guitar makes on the Velvet Underground & Nico record. Guitars are the must have instrument of rock 'n' roll. Guitars are that iconic thing in every band. The guitarist is always the most beloved. The guitar is the sole instrument in a song that can take the song, musicians, and listeners into a timeless world.

I was listening to my boyfriend practice today. He randomly showed up at my place this morning with a song he wrote for me and after I fed him, he toyed around with his guitar. He tore through some of my song books to check on some chords. He started to play the overture to Tommy by the Who, which is some of the greatest guitar work Pete Townshend ever came up with. His playing whilst humming and occasionally stopping to smoke a little, reminded me of the flamenco guitarists. He added some flutters as he played that sounded really flamenco-y. I always loved and respected that kind of music, including mariachis. So when he finally got tired playing, I decided to show him some of my flamenco records. Then he got into this really passionate explaination about Jim Morrison and his love for flamenco guitar.

Then he decided to tear through my record collection to find the greatest guitar songs in the world, at least in his opinion. It was a very eclectic list, it went from "Sisters of Mercy" by Leonard Cohen to "Whiplash" by Metallica then all the way to some Bikini Kill song. There's no doubt in his love and passion for music, but his love for the many sounds a guitar can make goes beyond it all.

I only wish I could match his love for the guitar. I only wish I had the discipline to devote my time I use to scribble weird sayings on paper looking for inspiration to music like he could. I wish I could play four different instruments instead of little bits and pieces. Seriously, Lester Bangs even started a band, why can't I?! I used to be in a band but we were just around so the kid that played guitar could try and score a date with me. I want to be like my boyfriend where I get blisters and calluses on my hands from playing guitar. I know it doesn't sound so glamorous, but that's dedication (Haha, Anvil!). The only thing I got on Pete Townshend is that he thought "Like a Rolling Stone" was four minutes when it's actually six. Other than sheer snobbery, I can't play a guitar like I'm fucking someone! If I could trade my skill for writing for playing guitar like that, I would! Fuck! I'm not going anywhere with an uncanny ability and love for writing essays, at least Paul can impress people that aren't grammar-philes with playing guitar better than John Lennon.

Warning: I'm about to write like a guy. Guitarists can get the panties off of any chick. They have the carisma you can only obtain through mad skillz. I want to be charismatic. When my boyfriend doesn't have a guitar in his hand, he's shy and soft spoken, when he does, he's Iggy Pop, but way taller and not as buff.

Guitars make that beautiful sound. They sound as beautiful as sitars and harmoniums. If they were paintings, they'd be the Mona Lisa. If they were people, they'd be Nico and Jim Morrison. I don't care what kind of music I play, as long as my guitar makes a beautiful sound, as long as my guitar sounds as beautiful as Buddy Holly's "Listen to Me" playing in the background as I watch the sunrise while laying on the dewy grass with my boyfriend. I want my guitar to be caressed and then set on fire like Jimi Hendrix's guitar. I want my guitar to be my eternal lover. I want my guitar to be with at all times, not just gathering dust in a corner of my bedroom stuck inbetween overstuffed bookcases.
The image of seeing some kid ride his bike with a guitar case on his back down the street going to band practice while I was in fourth grade is forever imbedded in my brain, just like seeing "Thriller" for the first time when I was two. Guitars are beautiful. Fender or Les Paul, acoustic or electric, perfect condition or left on a dark stage in pieces. Guitars are some of the few all around beautiful things in the world. and the people that even attempt to truly devote their valuable time to learning it, to mastering it, are even more beautiful.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Starman, Waiting in the Sky

Who has a voice more beautiful than one million angelic choruses, killer guitar skillz, and can pass as the prettiest person in the universe? That's easy. That's David Bowie, Ziggy Stardust.

David's music has always been around me. Glam rock was always ringing in my ears. When I was a baby my parents even tacked a Bowie poster in my room on the wall nearest my crib (mostly because they had one and didn't know what to do with it). I always woke up with David and his gorgeous eyes staring at me. I always called him "Bo Bo." I guess everyone has the one musican they've loved since before they could even think. For my mother, it was Stevie Nicks. For my father, it was Frank Zappa. For my boyfriend, it was Kurt Cobain. For Grey, it was Morrisey. For me, it was David Bowie.

Out of all the people I idolize and worship, David Bowie is the only man that could beat me in a beauty compition, he's so gorgeous! I bet Lou Reed was jealous of him. Hell, I bet Nico was jealous of him! He has perfect cheekbones. His cheekbones are so perfect they've become a daily reference for me. I always coo, "Aww... he has David Bowie cheekbones!" about some guys I like.

Other tha his sheer beauty, I love his music. My favorite song of his is "Queen Bitch." He has a lot of other amazing songs, but I grew up obsessed with that song. It's also one of the few songs my boyfriend managed to teach me on guitar. He always changes his style but still stays the same. I like to think of him as the female Cher, how he's a camilion of sorts, but of course his music is 1,00,000,000x better! (I hope you guys don't think that's dorky. I can't help it, I love me some Cher! Hey, we all have our guilty pleasures.)
I also went through this year long period of dressing like him. It was pretty wild, but my friend Grey was really into it. We were Bowie twins. We did the make up and hair and everything. People would stare at us walking down the street. We would even loiter around this one boy's house. I asked him out when I was a freshman and he was a jerk to me so we'd stand around near his house and everytime he'd walk past, we used to stop him and flirt with him and he'd flip out on Grey screaming, "Dude! I don't like guys!" and then he'd scream at me, "You're just weird! I don't like gay music! I like Metallica! God!" Then he called Grey a fag and I kicked him in the balls. Yep. No one's mean to my Grey Ghost.
Bowie taught me acceptance. When Grey came out to me, I wasn't shocked, but I still was like, "Woah, my best friend is gay." I was only in sixth grade and I thought he was kidding, I even said, "No you're not! You like Tessa, don't you." Then I realized that he wasn't kidding. He was telling the truth. I still oved Grey and didn't care. And if it wasn't for David Bowie and Morrisey, I would've cared. I guess I'd have to say thanks to David, if I didn't grow up listening to him. I wouldn't have Grey. I wouldn't have my anchor. I would just have my S&M obsessed friend as my closest friend next to Grey, and all she talks about is cock size.

Saturday, June 27, 2009

Lesson in European Languages

"Bitch" is the same in Ukrainian and Polish, being "Suka."

Shyeah, I know some Ukrainian, thanks to the Russki in my class. And I call him a Russki out of love. I also call him Stalin to watch him get pissed. I found out "bitch" was the same in Polish and Ukrainian by boredly looking up Polish swears to mess with my cousin in the language of her ancestors.

Just wanted to mention a funny little coincidence. Now you can all go to Poland or Ukraine, take out a megaphone, and scream "SUKA!!" really loud and piss everyone off! :P

Also, I know French very well, here's a great list of French swears:
merde - shit
putain: whore
con - cunt
connard - jerk
connasse - bitch
cul - ass
bite - dick
baiser - to fuck

There a ya go, thought I'd treat you to some laughs. And yeah, don't mispronounce the words, people'll think you're a dumbshit. I didn't put in pronunciations because I'm too fucking lazy.

Friday, June 26, 2009


"Usually, because of the dual nature of this sign, your experiences seem always to oscillate between two extremes. Emotionally, you may become confounded and perplexed when your soul is torn between opposite attractions. Your temperament is, nevertheless, kindly and able to appreciate the most subtle emotional experiences. "

I like that. That was from part of my astrological birth chart interpretation.
I do "appriciate the most subtle emotional expirences." Even the slightest smile towards me makes me happy.
Oh I may seem like a cold-hearted Aquarius with too many Capricorn influences, but Piesces makes me the giggly, hopeless romantic I am.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Broadway Looked So Medieval

1977, New York City. The center of the universe is in fear, nervous, anxious, yet blissfully awaiting the new world, the new decade. Son of Sam was on his killing spree, the election for mayor has reached a tipping point, the blackout caused uproar and violence. Music saved them. Disco, hip hop, and, maybe most importantly, punk saved New York City.

The Ramones were busy, only three years into their twenty-two-year world tour, just releasing their third, and maybe greatest, most beloved album, Rocket to Russia. The Talking Heads released their influential debut Talking Heads: '77. CBGBs was the hippest place to be on the Lower East Side. CBGBs was where rebellion came alive, where poets, artists, and musicians fame together in the 70s. CBGBs was an underground version of Max's Kansas City, made famous by the godfathers of it all, the Warhol Superstars.

I first learned of the 1970s punks at eight, I think. I fell hard in love with them at eleven. Legs McNeil and Lester Bangs were my soul brothers in writing. I tried so fucking hard to write like them. My teacher asked me what I wanted to do in twenty years I said, "Resurrect Punk magazine." I got my first motorcycle jacket (yes, there are multiple motorcycle jackets) in sixth grade. I wore my hair like Patti Smith, I made a t-shirt with a target on it saying "Please Kill Me," in honor of the Richards: Richard Lloyd and Richard Hell, who is the mastermind behind the death-defying life changing song "Blank Generation."

Punk just suited me at the time. I was a moody little twelve-year-old that just hit my menarche. I liked things loud, fast, and hard. I still do, but then it was so new to me, I sort of bowed down to my record player every time I played The Voidoids, every time I played Television, every time I played Teenage Jesus and the Jerks. Punk, no-wave was so new to me. It was pure anger, aggression. It was pure love. Between the heavy riffs and angry lyrics, I felt the musician's love for what he or she was doing. When I first heard Tom Verlaine force out the phrase "prove it" I felt his love. When David Byrne was singing "Psycho Killer" I knew he was passionate about his music. I knew Tina Weymouth was passionate. I knew Chris Stein was passionate. They all were. They needed something new. Pop was so boring, so dull. They all ready heard all of the Rolling Stones albums over and over again. It was their turn to create music, to break the mold.

I don't know. I guess I just liked the tall skinny guys with long hair playing guitar and singing about sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll. But I think I knew the meanings even with my young, naive age. I knew their anger. I felt their anger everyday. I went to a suppressive Catholic school. Jesus was constantly forced down my throat. I took "What Would Jesus Do?" and changed it into "What Would Richard (Hell) Do?" Which would be drugs and blowing everything off. So I took the initiative and went with "What Would Tom Do?" That was better. It was more mellow, more suitable for a girl in sixth grade.

Punk was the reasoning behind everything I did. When I wrote, I wrote for Lester, for Legs. When I flirted with boys, I'd act like Patti Smith. When I acted up, which was more often than not, it was a subconscious way of acting like Richard Lloyd and Dee Dee Ramone. I was a total punker. Then I went to Ireland, and I met a very nice, shy violinist and he reminded me of the Velvet Underground. John Cale was his idol, though John was a viola playes. I stored my motorcycle jackets for a rainy day and got myself a double-breasted black pea coat. Black turtlenecks replaced my Circle Jerks t-shirt. Crisp black pants were the new tight ripped jeans. Polished black riding boots replaced my Dr. Martins. The black pea coat became the replacement for my signature piece, my style staple, my time machine, my security blanket, my motorcycle jacket.

John Cale became my new Tom Verlaine. Nico was my new Lydia Lunch. Edie Sedgwick was the new Debbie Harry. Lou Reed was the new Richard Hell. Andy Warhol was the new Hilly Crystal. I left the Ramones with a sincere farewell, and moved into the Factory, where speed was the drug of choice, and heroin was just a musician thing. With becoming an obsesser of the Factory, superficiality was respected, was encouraged. I tried not to remember no-wave, and the beliefs around that. I wanted to be Andy. I wanted to be Nico. I wanted to be the Superstar.

I feel somewhat wistful over the punks, how they've comforted me, how I've learned to color outside the lines from them. Warhol seems so unobtainable. Punk was my first. New York City was my heartbeat for years, and still is. But Manhattan was never in the question until I met the guy from Ireland, it was always Queens. Life was Connie Ramone throwing TVs off of rooftops trying to hit Dee Dee. Chaos kept me going. It still does. Now I've balanced my love for punk and silver. I wear the pea coats only in winter, I wear the motorcycle jackets every other season. I have become recognized from my motorcycle jacket around town. My boyfriend told me that a year before we started dating he knew me because of the motorcycle jacket and ratty black Converse high tops. There's this old dude that chatted me up because of my motorcycle jacket. He's a funny little acquaintance that I always talk to when we bump into each other. The motorcycle jacket with the 1960s style make up became what people recognized me for. They still recognize me for it. Punk with the sprayed-on silver lining is my identity. It will never change.

Triangles were fallin at the window as the doctor cursed
He was a cartoon long forsaken by the public eye
The doctor grabbed my throat and yelled "God's constellation prize!"
-- Richard Hell "Blank Generation"

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Prepare for a Long [Haired] Rant

Since when was long hair on guys considered feminine? I don't think Joey Ramone looks so feminine, do you?

OK, so I was talking to my cousin and he was saying how he didn't dig my boyfriend's hair after I said that guyliner is lame. I asked why. He says, "Long hair is just as feminine as guyliner." Now, once he said this, I pictured my boyfriend and his hair. His hair isn't smooth, silky, and shiny. He doesn't do anything to it. He just leaves it. He doesn't wear ponytails and he only gets his twimmed an inch or so when his mother complains. His hair's past his shoulders. His hair is anti-girl. (Yet sometimes it flares out around his face like the Farrah Fawcett feathers, so of course I have to sing "Look who's got a Farrah do, dontcha wish you had one too?".)

After that, I didn't really care. I mentioned it to my boyfriend and he got pissed. Then he proceeded to show me a bunch of pictures of heavy metal guys that I can really care less about with long hair to prove how unfeminine they are. Then he said that he didn't like my cousin anyway. Thought he was to jock-ish.

There are a ton of guys with long hair that do look feminine, no doubt, but there are a lot more guys that look just as masculine as they would with short hair. But are you saying that if a girl had short hair, like moi, that they would look masculine? Why think someone is of a certain sexuality because they have short or long hair? Why can't people accept androgyny and not question it?

My boyfriend is in a band with a bunch of grunge kids and punkers. He has long hair, wears dirty jeans and ripped flannels, what's so feminine about that? I'm an essayist, my bestfriend is gay and he's obsessed with Karl Lagerfeld. I like frilly pink bras. My hair is short like Edie Sedgwick, I love make-up, I wear expensive shoes, I follow the trends, what's so masculine about that? Is it when I wear my boyfriend's flannels with band shirts and ripped jeans with my old, grungy converse with no make-up and sunglasses that you think I look masculine?

Do you think CJ Ramone looks feminine when he shreds the bass? Do you think I look masculine when I headbang with a short dress and high heels on? Do you think my boyfriend looks like a girl when he kicks his amps with sweat rolling down his face during a show while his drummer kick the bass drum?

What makes you think that hair length has anything to do with femininity or masculinity? I personally think that long hair, like past the shoulders long, on guys is sexy. I like it. I like that when they look down their hair falls off their shoulders and creates a curtain. I think it's sexy when girls have short hair, you can see their eyes. I like not even having to comb my hair. I like it when my boyfriend ruffles my hair like I would to a boy with short hair. I like long hair on guys. It's rock 'n' roll. Jesus had long hair, so why diss long hair? Long hair and guitars and motorcycle jackets all just go together. It's rebellion, it's something my mother would kill me about. I love it.
My boyfriend is the three percent of the male population with long hair. Suck it, minority obsessers! And if you think guys with long hair are gay, you're wrong. Take it from a fruit fly herself, gay guys aren't the types to have long hair. I swear Grey shuddered when he first saw my boyfriend and his hair.
So buuuurn. I will not end my love for guys with long hair. They just happen to be the sex. And I'm quite the sadist and like pulling hair, I've been doing it since I was a baby. It's in my blood. I kind of broke up with my last boyfriend because I met my current one. You see, my last boyfriend was clean cut and preppy and brunette with big perfect blue puppy dog eyes, but the one I have now had the perfect long blond hair and mad guitar skillz.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Sad Song.

Edie Sedgwick in Lupe.
Poor little rich girl.

Well she was sensitive
She understood me
She understood the European things of 1943
But she does all these things that I can't stand
I get jealous if she stays with another man

She cracked, I'm sad, but I won't
She cracked, I'm hurt, you're right

Well she cracked, I won't
She did things that I don't
She'd self destroy, necessary to self enjoy
I self develop, necessary to self help

She cracked, I'm sad, but I won't that's right
She cracked, I'm hurt, you're right

Well she cracked, I won't
She did things that I don't
She'd eat garbage, eat shit, get stoned
I stay alone, eat health food at home

She cracked, I'm sad, but I won't
She cracked, I'm hurt, you're right
She cracked, I'm sad, but I won't
She cracked, I'm hurt, you're right
One more time, one more time
She cracked, I'm sad, but I won't
She cracked, I'm hurt, you're right

"She Cracked" by the Modern Lovers.

Auto Tune the News, Baby

Rachel Maddow featured them on her show on MSNBC.

They are hillarious.

Watch, and you shall be amazed.

Friday, June 19, 2009

And What Exactly Is a Dream?

"Who in the world am I? Ah, that's the great puzzle." the dreamer behind Alice in Wonderland Lewis Carroll proclaimed that. Everyone asks that question. "Who am I? Who are you?" No one ever knows the answer, even if they think they do. It is a puzzle, knowing who you are. I don't Lewis Carroll ever knew who he was. A holy man? A writer? A mathematician? A living, breathing Peter Pan? Or merely a dreamer?

Even before I could crawl, I always knew my namesake Alice Liddell. And I always knew the man who loved her. I always her own personal Aquarian dreamer. I always knew Lewis Carroll. Alice in Wonderland was read to me over and over as a child. I can even recite some passages by heart.

When I was younger, I never thought much about Lewis Carroll or his life or his poetry. I just liked the Cheshire Cat and wanted to be just like that character. I never knew much about his relationship with the Liddells, going from beloved friend to estranged outcast. I never knew how lost he felt, I never knew how heartbroken he was. Now for the past six years, I've somewhat understood his soul, his mind, his heart.

I now know that he really loved Alice Liddell, enough to propose to her when she was twelve. I don't think he had a sexual love for her, he was never comfortable around the sexuality of women, or any people for that matter. I think he just wanted to be with her. She was beautiful, no question, and she was an inspiration. She was Alice in Lewis Carroll's maze known as Wonderland. Before he proposed to Alice, he was a beloved friend of the three Liddell girls. Occasionally taking them out on a rowboat telling them fantastic stories full of magic and nonsense. Once he proposed to Alice, after the publication of Alice in Wonderland and before Through the Looking Glass, he was cut off completely from the Liddells.

He was heartbroken after that. He loved Alice so much, and maybe showed lack of judgement. He loved children because they lacked sexuality, not because he got his kicks from them.

Lewis and his poetry opened up the doors of a beautiful world of imagination to me. I learned of hookah smoking caterpillars and croquet with the Queen of Hearts from his stories. I grew up with my mind becoming Wonderland. I thought only through nonsense for years. Everything I said sounded so strange but it was so clear to me in my head. I eventually obtained a certain graspe on reality at nine, but never lost the fairy dust that lined my mind.

Lewis' stories were magical, and they spoke to me as a little girl. And I liked them because I had the same name as the main character. I longed to be part of that maze of Wonderland, but I soon found out that I can create that maze thorough dreaming and my imgaination. That's why writing appeals to me. I want to create a world that people can escape to. Where they can be my Alice and I can be their Lewis. I want to be another Aquarius planting seeds of magic and wonder everywhere I go. I want to be Lewis Carroll.

Who am I? I think I'm a dreamer. I think I am a contridiction. I think I am a groupie. I think I am a writer, an essayist. I think I am planting seeds of magic and wonder everywhere I go. Yet, what exactly is a dream? And where can I get a new one? And where is Lewis? And where is Alice? Where is the Mad Hatter? Why, they are all in my head, aren't they?

A BOAT beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July --
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear --
Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream --
Lingering in the golden dream --
Life, what is it but a dream?

Lewis Carroll's "A Boat Beneath a Sunny Sky" also vertically spells out Alice Pleasance Liddell, the little girl he once truly loved.

Thursday, June 18, 2009


Whispers of ocean waves
California dreamin' to your heart's content,
My only beautiful friend
Clear liquids on your tongue, in your eyes
Seeing grass on the beige sand
Seeing rays of sunlight in the moonlight
Jumping for something that you only think exists
Feeling something that cannot be felt
The world has left you forsaken.
Forsaken insanity is your friend.
Your immaculate friend.
I wrote that. I think it's obvious that it's about taking LSD on the beach, or what someone told me it was like. He said it was immaculate, feeling forsaken. The way he described it I can never put into words, he described it beautifully. Of course, I'm too much of a neurotic pussy that always needs to be in control to even try drugs. But this kid wasn't in California, he was on a private beach on the North Shore, listening to the Mamas and the Papas, Jefferson Airplane, and the Doors with his buddies. He's a rich bitch so he just happens to get away with doing drugs on his neighbor's property at 3 AM. I think he got it from some foreign exchange student he was with. Of course he said she was some gorgeous model from Sweden. I've met her, she's a stoner from Georgia, the country, not state you Geography-phobes.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Let's Dream Walk Hand in Hand [for the Sake of the Fireflies]

"I've called this number three times already... today, but I -- I got scared and put it back in place... I p-put my phone back in place. I still don't know if I... should've called up. Just tell me, why don't ya, if I'm out of place. 'Cause here's your chance to make me feel awkward and wish that I had never even called up this place. I saw you though today walk by with hippie Johnny. I had to call up and say how I wanna take his place. So this phone call today concerns hippie Johnny. He's always stoned. He's never straight."

Those words were from a song written by the straightest, coolest guy ever -- Jonathan Richman. You may know him as the dude that sings "Roadrunner" with the band The Modern Lovers. Jonathan reminds me of an old friend of mine. He always works hard, but always get screwed over.

Jonathan Richman was born exactly three days before Joey Ramone. They are both children of the fifties, lovers of bubblegum pop. Jonathan made a career honoring the old world with the sound of the new world. His music always makes me nostalgic. He makes me remember why I love Americana, and why I love the old world.

I was driving down this road with my boyfriend a few days ago, we were going to Rockford to visit an old friend of his, and we were listening to Mr. Richman's I, Jonathan, which is my favorite Jonathan Richman album, listening to "That Summer Feeling." And that particular song was perfect. It was twilight, and we were driving past these gorgeous old houses. One was red, white, and blue with stringed star lights draped over the ledge on the front porch. I saw little kids playing kick ball with this chubby red-headed boy doing the rock-on hand gestures. With that song, I remembered what it was like riding my bike down deserted streets with my friends while the sun was setting. I remembered swinging at my old elementary school when the fireflies were beginning to creep out. I remembered sneaking into my neighbor's pool with my first real crush. I felt nostalgic. And the cherry on the sundae was when my boyfriend played "Blackbird" his acoustic guitar with his friend on drums when we finally got to Rockford.

Jonathan Richman is one of the few musicans that can plant that seed of happiness in your heart while making you think and remember catching fireflies at twilight on your front lawn with neighborhood kids you barely knew, but befriended for the sake of the fireflies.

And for the sake of the fireflies, summer washes away the jaded feeling of the cracked winter. Hatred disappears. Love blossoms into something more. The ice cream man seems more friendly. Summer nostalgia plus Jonathan Richman brings five very dorky seventeen-year-olds to run down the street barefooted, playing tag. Twilight in the summer and the fireflies change people for the better. People smile more. Jonathan Richman wrote songs about Twilight in his home town of Boston, and how magical, maybe even forlorn it is, but with that, people forget the twilight in any suburb or city brings magic. There's a bittersweetly whimsical feeling to that lonely twilight, because you aren't alone. The fireflies are beside you, and Jonathan is crooning in the airwave.
People forget to cherish those summer twilights. People regret it when they don't make the most out of summer twilights. People forget what it's like when the garden is infested with fireflies, and they regret the lost feeling of loosing the fireflies. When summer leaves, you're gonna always want that feeling of nostalgia within you, and your gonna feel weird when you yearn for something annual, yet seemingly so far away. Cherish the fireworks on the Fourth of July, remember the fireflies, run through the park barefooted at twilight. Do it for the fireflies. Do it for the magic of summer twilights. Do it for the whimsical sky when the sun is almost gone. Do it for waking up outside at sunrise,beside that curly haired boy from across the street, with the jar of fireflies glowing. Do it for the golden mists. Do it for the summer parties. Do it for forlorn games of tag. Do it for that summer romance where you got all fluttery. Do it all for the sake of the fireflies.

Janitor of Lunacy, Identify My Destiny

Dee Dee, Dee Dee, Dee Dee... What happened? Sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll happened. The third greatest bassist in the world, and I grew up worshiping him. I was ten when he died of a heroin overdose, and a single tear dropped onto the newspaper as I read the fifty word article on his death. I lost Joey a year earlier and then my beloved Dee Dee. His death day anniversary just past and I sit at the computer, blasting Brain Drain, maybe, in my opinion, the epitome of Dee Dee [the sex] Ramone.

Dee Dee Ramone was an original Ramone. He was everything the Ramones were. He was the loudest, fastest, toughest, and, above all, the most artistic. He wrote their greatest hits, he was the original "1-2-3-4!" guy, he (and Joey) were the beating hearts of the Ramones. Dee Dee was also the cutest. What? I can't let the giggly little girl in me run wild for a while? Dee Dee was it. Dee Dee was what the Ramones were. Dee Dee was the punkest punk. Dee Dee was everything.

I first heard of Dee Dee when I was eight, when my father played Leave Home for me, after I said something about the original "California Sun" when I heard it on TV somewhere. He said something about the Ramones' version being better than the version I heard. He was right. I fell in love with the Ramones, and I fell in love with the guy with the black mop top shredding the bass.

Dee Dee was a storm, though. He was a wild drug addict, had Multiple Personality and Bipolar Disorder, and had daddy issues (but all rock stars do). I didn't care, I liked him anyway. He was my second love, right after Steve from Blues Clues.

Dee Dee molded my opinions and the way I speak. The sound of my voice, beleive it or not, is kind of a refined version of Dee Dee's and Edie's. It's subconsiously affected. My hair is getting very Dee Dee, mostly because my Edie hair is growing out.

Dee Dee is great. He is absent minded, yet intelligent. He was born in Virginia, grew up in Berlin, and took his first shot of heroin before he turned 14. He had a fasicination with Nazis, occasionally yelling out the classic "Deustchland, Deustchland uber alles!" during certain songs at concerts. Joey Ramone, however, didn't mind at all. I sometimes just yelp "Deustchland, Deustchland uber alles!" with less effective results. My boyfriend, descendant of those affected during WWII, pretends to care greatly.

I wanted to learn bass because of Dee Dee! But my dad said, "No, you want to learn guitar." But I'm milling around with my cousin's bass. I'm horrible at it, but I do it for Dee Dee.

See ya, Dee Dee.
"I'd like to congratulate myself, and thank myself, and give myself a big pat on the back."
--Dee Dee Ramone from his Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame acceptance speech

Monday, June 15, 2009

I'd Like to Try and Read Your Palm --You Know It Makes Sense

Just look at him.
What's not to worship?
John Cale = Uber sexy.
And I don't care if he is 50 years older than me.
"I’m sorry, but I’m much too young for this I’ll come back again next year."
John Cale from the song, "Hello, There."

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

I'd Like to Try and Read Your Palm -- New York Lower East Side [Fairy] Tale...

Some things are only fairy tales... some things once were, but now are gone. Some lived, some were vivacious, some were the reasons other people lived, but then those few died. They floated away into their big Silver Factory in the sky. Some became secluded, living only with the memories of Sunday mornings past, with the distant sounds of Maria Callas ringing in their newly deaf ears. Those times, the speed-fueled times at parties, the inflation of floating silver pillows, the painting of paper dresses, the sounds of mallets pounding drums, the sound of screeching violas, the deep, beautiful droan of an even more beautiful German chantuese... those are all just memories of fairy tales lived.

This beautiful chantuese, this tall, blonde, immaculate thing, is the ledgendarily tragic Nico. She is the fairy tale that once was. She is my personal fairy tale, a favorite story loved to be heard over and over, a picture book that can be gazed at endlessly. She is my Cinderella, she is Andy's Cinderella. I don't know what attracted me to her, but I am. Maybe it was her voice that is totally unique to herself. Her voice is a voice that cannot be mimiced, even by the best of impersonators. Maybe it is her undeniable beauty. The ice blue eyes, the ash blonde hair, that willowy build, the full mouth, square jaw, all just scream beauty. Maybe it was the fairy dust that lines all the stories about her. The sprinkles of fairy dust that falls from the sky when people talk about her. When she is called immaculate, fairy dust appears. Nico is sparkles, Nico is magic, Nico is the fairy tale that once was. A fairy tale that lived. A fairy tale that fell and died 21 years ago.

Nico was born Krista Paffgen in Cologne, Germany on 16 October 1938. She grew up with her mother and grandmother. Her father was killed in a concentration camp. Growing up in Berlin during WWI, she remembered hearing the bombs go off and hiding in a bathtub. She lost part of her hearing due to the bombs. She ended up tone deaf. At 13, she left school and began to sell lingarie. Years later, she became a model in Berlin. After that, she worked for Chanel and moved to Paris. Then she became an actress and had a small role in Fellini's La Dolce Vita. After that, she arrived in New York, where she met the grand master daddy of pop art, Andy Warhol.

After Edie, Nico became Andy's new superstar. She was beautiful, femine yet masculine in a wardrobe of suits and riding boots, and knew a ton of European languages. Around this time, she developed an interest in singing. She left a demo of "I'm Not Sayin'" with Andy and he just brushed it off. Then he met the Velvet Underground and Andy didn't think Lou Reed was strong enough to be a frontman. Andy's righthand man Gerard Malanga reminded Andy about Nico and her demo. Andy introduced the group to Nico and then began the whirlwind romances of Nico and the two power houses of the group John Cale and Lou Reed.

Lou wasn't happy with Nico joining the group, she wanted to sing all of the songs. She wanted to sing "I'm Waiting for the Man" and "Heroin" both songs about subjects the two singers knew all too well about. Lou instead gave Nico "physcological love songs" to sing instead. Lou also tried to act like the big macho man with Nico. He was snippy with her. He would snub her and try to hurt her with cold remarks but she would wait, and bite back with a meaner remark, such as "I am no longer sleeping with Jews." John was much nicer to Nico (Because John is so totally cool and gallant).

Anyway, Nico was a horrible drug addict. Heroin made the whimsical girl a mean person. She supplied heroin ot her son and made him an addict. Yet, though she did that, Nico still fascinates me.

As I said, Nico was beautiful, she had a beautiful voice, her personality was enigmatic. Nico kind of made everything all right when I heard her voice. She inspired the "Femme Fatal" stuff I'm so totally into. I dress like her, I try to look like her, I admire her. Nico is beauty. Nico is my fairy tale. Nico is my regretless Joan of Arc. Nico is the fairy tale that once was.

"Regrets? I have no regrets... only that I was born a woman and not a man."

Sunday, June 7, 2009

I Kind Of Like Sappy Love Songs...

So I've been jammin' lately. I've been jammin' to the Beatles. Memories memories.... But I haven't been jammin' to just any Beatles songs, but love songs. Sappy love songs. Happy love songs. Songs that make me feel mushy and fluttery. Those songs and I am not at all guilty. I love silly love songs.

Admit, you love to swing early 60s London love songs preformed cute guys from Liverpool in matching suits too. And you wish you had a cute guitarist that would sing "Her Majesty" to you like I do.
I like sappy love songs like "I've Just Seen a Face." And Paul McCarthney isn't even my favorite Beatle, it's a tie between Ringo and George, but I connect with Paul and all of his silly love songs.
Silly love songs make the world go round.
Silly love songs make me happy.
Silly love songs make the world joyous.
Silly love songs make me high.
Silly love songs make the world sing.