media whore

Saturday began like every other day -me lying in bed at 7 a.m, cursing my body clock for its stubborn refusal to allow me to sleep in. I pulled my laptop onto my chest (noting the word 'chestop' while giggling at my innate geniosity and boyish charm) and checked my mails:

From: Celina. Subject: I have Press Passes.. Media whores? Should we start tonight?

With a subject line as vague as that I knew it was going to be a smashing evening so I got out of bed and wrestled on my Sunday best.

With all the excitment of leaving my flat to join real-life insane people (or, as my ex girlfriend calls them The Others), I forgot to check what time I was meeting the boys and left three hours too early. So, like any self-respecting wannabe media whore I ventured into the gentlemen's club with Jack* to wet my whistle. The Guinness went down well but I was unimpressed with the girl from the PR company who insisted on GETTING THE LIST in order to detemine WHO SHE ACTUALLY WANTS AT THE PARTY, her boyfriend also seemed a bit peeved that she was more interested in eating her pink motorola razor-phone and not his orange moisturized razor-face.

After three or four my crew escorted me out and we made our merry way (my merry way anyways) to the shindig. We got in the door, jotted our names down on the guestbook and made a bee-line to the bath of corona in the back garden. Peter* threw me a joint I never asked for and told me about his ploy to introduce hardcore gaming into the lives of naive teens. Assuming I had just come into contact with the spawn of Satan, I went through the obvious emotions: shock, curiosity, understanding, acceptance and finally encouragement. I advised him the best way to go about it (I was young relatively recently) and went to see how the nouveaux beer-swilling fiend that is Celina Murphy was doing.
Celina was doing good.

After drinking our fair share (cause we had to be fair of course) and keeping the crowd entertained we took a bathroom break. I think it was the outter-body experience of hearing myself utter the phrase 'Celina, wait until I'm finished before you shake it' coupled with the sight of a certain daytime TV presenter chowing down a piece of half-eaten chocolate cake he found on a table that told me it was about time to go. Peter and his mate Paul* suggested we Bond in a Casino (see what I did there?). We whole-heartedly agreed. The casino was 25 bucks in. We went elsewhere.

So as to avoid the frankly outrageous concept of buying drinks, we etched around the ladies for about twenty minutes trying to find a bottle opener for the bath beer we fleeced. I got bored and decided to revert to the only way I know how to deal with problems; by smashing them off a sink.

He's definitely a cross between Vic Mackey and that dude from Crystal Maze, I thought as the bouncer bandaged my slashed up hand, although I'm not sure if he has the badass look down well enough to take on a natter of Siberian druglords, or if he could do it in a pair of fishnet holdups and a multi-coloured moc croc headpiece....

Around 5 a.m we took my bruised ego home and fed it chocolate pudding. We watched House and fell asleep. I dreamt about Barack Obama again. This time I was the girl.
(The following two days are vague and filled with beer, explicit nudity, two young blonde girls with a penchant for over staying welcomes and swan-kicking...I probably wouldn't get in to it even if I could...)

*names have been changed so as to protect the identity of Hitler's sons.

tbs

All right imaginary audience, those of you who read my blogs with any regularity realize I rarely wax auto-biographical but I'm breaking that rule this time.

I live in San Diego California. Beautiful place, if you like that kind of stuff. I've always felt that the only thing that's stopping me from packing up all my stuff, strapping my guitar to my back and catching the first bus to New York is a dose of superior common sense.

I've taken enough college courses to have realized that money can always be earned, if you're willing and able, but your reason for being, well, that's more of a matter of courage and heart... How easy would it be to empty my bank account tomorrow, and find a slum in Soho, or in the East Village where I could seclude myself for a bit, become a hermit of sorts, rugged beard and all, and finish my book, which at the rate I'm writing, should be finished sometime around the Fall of 2097. (Look out for it, it will be the shit!)

Too easy almost. I toy with the idea everyday..

Yet I digress from my main point. After all, the title of this blog is titled after Taking Back Sunday, a funny little band I was fortunate to see live a few days ago. Now I've been to tons of concerts, and seen TBS twice before but few shows have had the extraordinary vigor and imagination that this one captured.

Lead singer Adam Lazzara, in all his flailing, spastic glory, would've ripped out his heart, just to hear the roar of approval. Never missing a beat, he twirled his microphone by the cord, tossing it into the air, falling over backwards in exaggerated tortured angst, only to catch it in mid air, screaming words of love and lost. Clichéd? Perhaps. But we all knew the words, so we sang along. We laugh because we feel silly, but with 10,000 people singing along to "Make Damn Sure" the goosebumps take on a whole other meaning.

This from a rugged, concert veteran. "You can be anything you want to be! Fuck the war!" Adam screamed once between songs, to deafening madness. And afterwards, leaving the venue, looking into the starry, dazed eyes of kids, some young enough to have this been their first concert, I truly think they believed him.

You can be anything you want to be. Fuck the war.

And this one moment, this loud glorious night, tops any previous one in their young lives, for now. How nice to be that young and naive. Outside of hope and rockstars, there's a world filled with anger and regret. World War 3, Great Depression 2 and a president that answers to no "man", except for the one he hears in his head. But let's leave God out of it, shall we Mr. Bush? All of it. Your God is one with whom I am not familiar, and I'd prefer to keep it that way.

Just for a moment, I allow myself to forget it all, my eyes smile along with theirs. Maybe, just maybe.. its gonna be alright.

But then again you might ask, why title this blog after a rock band, and what the hell is my point? The simple answer? I can do what I'd like, this is my blog beeotch. Got a problem? Tell it to my AK, clack clack clack!

Seriously now, the long answer, is simple. In a world gone to pot, we should never be too jaded to be starry eyed like a kid after a concert. Everything you do, do it with passion, do it with heart, even if its seems insane, get up there and pour your blood, sweat and tears on that proverbial "stage", whatever it may be to you. And just when you think you're done, we'll scream for an encore.

~
"Here's to the Crazy Ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, disbelieve them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing that you can't do, is ignore them. Because they change things. They invent. They imagine. They heal. They explore. They create. They inspire. They push the human race forward.While some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do."