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.

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.

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.

Aww...

"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.

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"

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.

Sad Song.

Edie Sedgwick in Lupe.

Sadness.

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
Alright
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.

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.

Physcadelia

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.

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

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."

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."

---Nico

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.

The Elevator Took Me Up to the 13th Floor Where I Entered Heaven.

The psychedelia, the sounds, the boys, the voices, the illusions, the drugs, everything about the 1960s underground underground music scene, the scenes more underground than Warhol's, are beginning to intrigue me more than anything now.

A certain band in particular is very interesting to me. This band, quietly psychotic, is the 13th Floor Elevators and they amaze me still. Just hear them, you'll be shellshocked.

"You Don't Know (How Young You Are"

People Shouldn't Hate the Products....They Should Hate the Manufacturers

The Jonas Brothers and Miley Cyrus and the rest of those fame whores are just that fame whores. And I'm sick of everyone dwelling on that.

They do what Disney tells them to do. I highly doubt they are ultra-Christian metrosexuals. They are lame, somewhat talented, boring people with rich mommies and daddies that just want face time.

Disney made them. Disney will break them. Disney has the first and last word. Disney is the devil. Disney raped the minds of pubescent girls world wide. Disney is to blame. Disney ruins lives. Disney melts brains. And Disney will continue with this vicious cycle.

DON'T HATE THE PRODUCTS.

HATE THE MANUFACTERERS.

Kurt Cobain Makes Me Smile. A Big, Happy Smile

I just wanted to say that Kurt Cobain is flippin' awesome.

And that I adore this picture.

He looks really cute in it.

And that I'm sad he's dead.

He shouldn't be.

There's a whole new generation of kids that needs Kurt.

Oh well.

Verse. Chorus. Verse.

Kurt's my third sunbeam.

He totally owns.

I like Kurt's hair.

But I've always liked long-haired boys.

It's just a thing.

And I like his smile.

It looks like someone I know's smile.

Kurt's cool.

'Nuff said.

Verse. Chorus. Verse.

I Feel Safe Hearing Them. I Feel Liberated.

"You will always remember your first love," a friend of mine once said to me. She was explaining what I all ready knew about my zodiac sign of Aquarius. I smiled when I heard that as a freshman. I never thought much of that after that day until yesterday. I was listening to Tommy, by the Who on my boyfriend's record player and I couldn't help but notice the smell of the emerging summer wafting through the wide open windows of my boyfriend's apartment.

That smell of fresh summer air always brings me back to the summer before seventh grade, when I didn't even know my boyfriend existed... when I for sure thought that I was going to marry Pete Townshend. I couldn't help but smile when Roger Daltrey then belted out "See Me, Feel Me," I could only remember the months I spent listening only to the Who. Everything else was obsolete back then. Nothing else mattered except Pete Townshend and his guitar, everything else was useless to me.

When I listen to the Who, I feel liberated. I feel like I am back to being twelve and wild and carefree. I still feel flutters when I listen to "Blue, Red, and Grey." I felt liberated that day too. I held onto the record cover as I snuggled with my boyfriend. He was ranting about how everyone teases him about saying Patti Smith was sexy. I rolled my eyes and said, "Excuse me, I agree that Patti Smith is sexy, but I think Tommy and his cure is more important." He made a face and said, "I swear you'll leave me for Pete Townshend." I laughed and started to sing along to the album. All I could remember was Pete's guitar.

I know this is useless, but the Who mean something to me. They always have. I have formed strange little friendships with old men (whom I think are total horndogs) because I love the Who. I had a Pete Townshend look-a-like for a boyfriend at one point. The Who was the first really important band that I obsessed over.They were my first love. They were my first soulder to cry on. They were the first band that thaught me to rebel and to defy expectations. They taught me to be myself, just as every other group has. Yet the Who constantly continue to make me smile. I can't help myself... I always go back to my first love.

...You always go back to your first love...