odyssey of destruction. part 1: reflection

She sat cross-legged on the pavement,

Surrounded by intoxicated mimes.

Her hair lay faint on her stubborn shoulders,

Frayed and pathetic.

Her eyes retreated;

the big brother of the mind.

I'm not sure if she smiled when she saw me.

Her muddied expression flickered in a confetti of innate wonder and distant familiarity,

She was like the tattered journal I hid for years under my mattress,

An epiphany that stabbed my mind

Until I bled dry.

She was cobblestones and cigarettes,

The Eiffel Tower and the Anna Livia,

She was Mona Lisa's smile and the shatterproof glass that encased it.

She left me exhausted and stimulated,

In desperate optimism.

Beautiful and free,

Grounded and high,

Once touched,

Once kissed,

Vainly regrettable,

Hopelessly missed.

~

*Edit

Bashed my knee on some corral and swallowed more sea water than is bodily acceptable when surfing at Point Loma this morning. Primary thought running through my head as I lay gasping for breath; bleeding and tattered on the beach : Nothing like getting the living hell beat ouf of you by nature to put things in perspective.

sun comes up and we start again..

Have you ever been frightened by the amount of alcohol you realized you consumed the day after, when you wake up surprisingly not hungover enough to compensate for the empty bottles that surround you on the floor?

You wake in your girlfriend's bed to find her in the same crinkled ball, hood up, hair in face, trying her best, like you, to keep the sun out of your eyes and your brain asleep. Your trembling hands ransack the apartment and then the car looking for spare Advil that will squelch the last remnants of the night before. You joke about the "best water ever" and say you're gonna bottle it from the bath tub and sell it as a hangover remedy to the old hipsters you blatantly made fun of the night before. You scan the apartment and relish that despite making love against anything and everything, NOTHING is broken and for the most part clean. You laugh because there is no other way to deal with it.

The two of you enter the kitchen to see the lineup of empty bottles... A bottle of 100 proof.. gone. A bottle of 70 proof.. gone. And the back of flasks of 70 proof from the week before... gone. We pick through the bottles and laugh at the fact we remember the entire night before, we weren't that teetery, loud, obnoxious or even noticeably drunk.

We laugh because we feel hardcore and deep down somewhat ashamed, although even as lovers, we will never admit that. Then the thought arises inside you...HOW? How did we do it? How will we do it again? That is a ton of alcohol and we just laugh. We laugh because we love each other, we love The Clash (This is Radio Clash calms my panic attack) because we cant think of any other way to live, and mostly because no matter what, it is fun... it is a happy we haven't felt in too long. Together we can conquer anything... even if it is only some liquor and shitty food now, someday, it will be so much more..

It's strange how suddenly you can look at someone you've known for a while and cant help but think how amazing they are. Can't help but want to know everything about them, everything they have to offer, everything they once were and everything they'll become. How emo and obsessive, but hey, I've been listening to The Cure alot. In fact, I even had a dream last night that Robert Smith came to one my classes and sang Pictures of You. It was strangely homo-erotic.

party is over

Scene: Joey sitting at a bar, waiter behind bar with back turned.

Three overturned candleholders line the bar in front of Joey. Wax spills over the edge.

"excuse me?" Joey coughs
"yes....?" the waiter turns
"will ye pass me that candle? These ones went out…"
"what, what's this? Did you turn these candles over?!" the waiter bellows
"no sir," Joey shakes his head with certainty
"it was a guy, I saw him, he came over and turned over the candles"
"but just the ones in front of you?"
"yes'um…." Joey's shifty eyes do that shifty thing
"did you turn these candles over?" the waiter stares
"no, I think it's terrible, it was the guy……
……..Mister?"
"what?" the waiter scores
"will ye pass me that candle?"

A bouncer turned up about fifteen minutes later and politely asked me to leave.

I never got the other candle.

~

Scene: Bus

Time: bout 2 bells in the day

State: Hung over (obviously), eyes closed, headin to snoozeville

Hobo boards bus, sits on front of me and turns round

Hobo: Hi

Me: Ehh...hi?

Hobo: Again...ha ha

Me: (to self) wtf?

Hobo: Rough night yea?

Me: Yea (cunt)

Hobo: Yea ye were goin' mad in temple bar last night

*silence*

Hobo gets off bus

Joey has word with self.

i am a pirate you are a princess

I think we could very well hear poets
filling their drinks and spilling some knowledge
tearing apart and scribbling down
about half more than supposed to.
In chic prada glasses and chloe ballet flats,
and dollface, my dear you never say can't,
so me, me i'm up in the air and my clothing seems bland.

You forget my dark darling, my coquette

my polite sex kitten

my night time demitasse of well-rehearsed eros,
you are not only the seducer but also the seduced

"let's dance in the streetlights!",

you said to me before the falling out and crawling out,
and singing began in seperate bars
and I still don't know how to hail a cab, cause darling
we always forget where they've parked

If I could blush I would till I bled or
spontaneously combusted and
if there is a God I'd take you with me

Then, as if to spurn me to my core, whispers
soft as down tell of urges and
I can taste your mouth just from your breath
and I fell partially in love
and then shudder and then never wanna call her again

You see, sex was our Vegas baby and
you were a one armed bandit gone cold and
lemons stopped paying out

oh dear, my dear, lets get some more beers

and we'll drink like college, poised and finished,
until the bar lights shine

and everybody starts to clear and sour.

and we'll swim through the city
styled pretty and then make our way back to 5th.
and i don't know if i'll ever see you around,
but, pretty darling, i always say arggghhhh
with a patch on my eye and a plank in my chest,
and many have walked it and plunged in a ditch,
so there isn't much hope in a heart
labeled a quest,
but you are a princess
who has not one pink dress, just a tiara for trading
and a pirate who's a mess

man whore

Noun
Singular -manwhore
Plural manwhores
A guy who loves girls and wants to get with every girl he sees. A sexually active, promiscuous, younger man who often wears alot of flashy jewelery, has greased down or spiked hair and keeps a 'chicktionary'. He is well known at most health clinics and may have an STD named after him in his honour. He knows many girls but will often mix it up or forget their names. He will commonly have one or more illegitimate children (though not always, especially in the amateur stage) and his relations with other men is often strained due to past encounters with girlfriends or wives.

Thanks, Wiktionary. One of the most misconstrued outside perspective of me is of being one such man whore. Although I can't deny that pretty girls make me weak (goddamn they smell good), I take great offense to being labeled. To me, a 'man whore', much like defined above, is a guy who's undying thirst for affection can only be quenched by "bumpin uglies". Not making love, such an act would require an emotional connection of some sort, but just straight up fucking without an ounce of intimacy or even a name. Maybe they weren't held enough as babies. Or they're just afraid to get hurt, thinking that all girls are manipulative bitches so they act on an "I'll fuck you before you fuck me" basis. This P.I.M.P attitude may all just be an act, they might really care about and respect girls, they just dont want to seem like they do, in fear that they might seem soft to their fellow man hoes. All these guys should just sit in a circle and have a group jerk-off if thats the case.
As for me, girls are the catalysts of some my broodiest moments, and my most sincere. The girl I recently dated, as heartbreakingly beautiful as she is, I loved most her ability to make me think and just sink into every word that came out of her perfect lips. Maybe its because I am a romantic, that I have all this figured out. But in no way do I imply that I'm less fucked up than the rest. But I do know that a wonderful girl, flaws and all, has the power to change your life. If you could just get your hand out of your pants for a minute.

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."