Tuesday, September 14, 2010

I was born to be a dancer, i was born a white swan.

Feel my silky moves as I glide across the floor, see my white heat surround Diana's beautiful ebony as we make onlookers just say "oh my, there goes that man, don't they look pretty". Ya, that is me. Sometimes that feels like a million dazzling glittery miles away, sometimes it feels rude and harsh like yesterday's cocaine hangover. This was a time before I knew Critter, the joys of the wilderness , whole grain pancakes, family dinners and 8 hour sleeps. This was NYC, this was LA, this was the Concorde with Truman Capote and Bianca. This was Champagne and fondue, Swiss alps and apres ski.
Journey with me as I took a look at what I was and could never really be. A fancy dancer, a macho man, a swashing buckling bon vivant trotting across your globe. I had it all, the city, the women, lobster dinners and 4 day weekends. I traded all my tomorrows for these yesterdays but these tears are not of regret but an age I no longer hace.

Monday, September 13, 2010

woke up this morning with wild berries in my hair.

not every day will be full of the joy communicated in this tattoo. in fact, most won't. most will fall into dark well of a stacks of days gone by. piled high like faded dollar bills, the bottom promisary notes losing their value in your memory, falling victim to the inflation of growing old. falling apart with the damp mildew of time.
so when grey of of the monotony of everyday backs you into a wall, corners you like a red eyed possum, you have two choices. you look straight and back at the fanged animal of lethargy and boredom, it lips hungry, it's appetite never wavering as it looks to feast on the unsatisfied of the world. or you dream. you turn your back on the earthly monday and tuesdays of this world and drift into a world of hot summer saturday nights strung together like white and red lights down sunset blvd.

i woke up with my wild berries in my hair cos Critter came by again after way too long. he left them there to remind me my Monday was the real dream and I could wake up to him whenever i wanted.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

hot tramp, i love you so.

We all grow old with our own personal mythology, the way we see the world, how we became who we are, why we do the shit we do. It's our history, it may be full of lies and fantasy but it doesn't fucking matter because it's ours. What we do know, in a way no one else can possibly imagine, are those moments where things felt amazing, the little bolts that strike us dead and hot, blow us over and raise us up. They may getting an A in math, seeing a girls boobs for the first time or doing something your parents don't know about. whatever. exhiliration. power. promise. hope. love. or just fucking feeling good. it might be something we do, or something that someone else does that opens the door to a new world of possibility.
for me, seeing david live in 1983 in Paris, the opening night of the let's dance tour, was just that. My guitar teacher had turned me on the ultimate Bowie starter, ChangesOne. and like many, my first response was to RebelRebel. Fuck Bob Dylan, The Monkees and Aerosmith. He twisted every convention I knew and with it began my own hero worship, my own myth, the Zeus of my twenty first century.
innocently i asked John, my teacher, "hey at the end there, what is a "fuel line and a handful of loose"??
he said "it's a few lines, and a handful of ludes."
i said, "and?'
and he said "oh, you will find out some day"
Amen motherfucker.
enjoy, i do every day.

Monday, August 9, 2010

hello, is it me you're looking for?

Hello my children. It has been too long. First I need to ask you, do you find me sexy? I have had my hair done and, I blush as I say, some other work as well. I don't do this for me, I do it for you, my adoring fans. Gather close and touch my burning hot soul. All night long. That's right Lionel , all mother fucking night long. Sigh. Alas, that's not me captured in that picture. That's the ever striking Lionel Richie, lead singer of the Commodores, the author of the drop dead disco track Machine Gun and a great lover of the ladies . I felt like I had to come out of the gate strong, with a riveting masculine image. BAM. I am back. And as we know, Lionel never left. And so is Critter, Dan Blocker and the whole cast of California Culture miscreants who wonder PCH in search of sunsets, tequila, Steel Dan bootlegs and non habit forming cocaine. Where did I go? That's a good fucking question. I won't bore you with all of it now, it will come out in pieces, a trail of tiny myths. But it is good to be back, that other place can be so sallow and dull, like being the chair prop in a Sartre play. And for the love of god, please watch this video. It will free every part of your big ass, and everything else is sure to follow. Lionel, be my sexy beast tonight!

Sunday, October 25, 2009

then i saw a strange and handsome fellow...

when i saw critter's shadow, played long by the low sun long against the hill next to pch, i got that good, warm, cognac stomach feeling--The one you remember as a kid when you finally became conscious christmas morning. I arrived home, and momentarily disappointed not seeing him camoflaged in my brown couch, i set down my bag and began fixing a salad. I knew it was him, there was no way to confuse what i saw there.
it was just a a matter of when.
as i was cutting my celery, a treasured part of my salad, i heard someone humming deep in the canyon. the music ran between the houses, gaining momentum as it richocheted off the unsuspecting houses, relaying words of magik and quark and strangeness and it think i finally smiled since the first fog in june. it was critter telling me he was home for a while, hummign hawking and making light.

dig it


Wednesday, October 14, 2009

an eye opened, long since sleep shut

as the rain fell. It seems like the heavy orange that follows summer like sharks do a cruise ship, got stuck up in my eyes, keeping me from seeing anything other than what i thought i should see. Any average reader, listener or successful citizen of life knows what that is: sun in the morning, cream in coffee, walking people that wave and people pretending. This is really our life. However, today as I squinted through the flapping wiper blades that droned on like the shiny bright dark days of my summer, and out of the corner of my eye, i saw something move in the tree line above PCH. Brown, quick and enormously sized yet small to the eye. I would have never see this thing had it not wanted to be seen. I smiled as I saw him wink as a few tree branches fell back into place.

Critter had come home, i would see him soon.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

summer flight

Tell me it is time


to move
to ride


i am hot

for the final summer ride
mount our white steeds

illustrated with teenaged Heavy Metal

and long

and ache our way

back east
to the sweaty palm of the lower east side
and feel the walls shake of foot stomping house
to smell cocaine and swallow cool mimosa

lets roll
one last hurrah
and then hang up our cups
and return to earth

the night
opening a yellow cab door
spilling in and out all night like loose jelly bellies
laughing to the edge of every bar
colliding like lips to a glass
and then like a dawn that fits in your wallet

we will unfold across the eastern board
like sand falling from a shoe
and when dusk drops like a light curtain call on edges of miami
we will ride into town
there are few who can make this journey
we will break open the night with the fine edges of our wit and the keen control of our hearts

wouldn't you want to see how close we could get to the sunset and if we could sit at twilight's table
maybe drink from the night's cup as it overflows with the cool darkness that makes the heat of all of your monday stutter, trip and fall in the alleys of your pleasure
throw it around like pollacks paint, dousing anyone who dares stand near

darker still we swim at the fading edge of days last light
reaching at it with the pleasure and abandon of knowing it will never happen
bathing in the folly and futility of your own life as it passes with same speed as this paltry day
it counts as you count
breathes as you do
but when the day comes that worms eat out your eyes
it will laugh and turn its immortal attention to the next you

will be
trying to dodge the last day