dear raymi in the mix

hi.

do you know i love you?

its true.

anti knows, so it’s cool.

and it’s not dirty love anyway, it’s sweet bloggy love. partially dirty. i cant lie. but not really cuz im olde.

i envy you rameee you and your man. you two can do anything

and everything you type is funny and cool and not as canadian as i thought it would be, except the weed.

in so many ways you are the epitome of canada.

you get away with murder. you parlez francios when you think we’re listening. you smoke. how youre not the biggest thing in rock is beyond me. you take off your clothes and write better than most of them and still theyre all oh shit my boss might see and they go back to being stupid.

when can we have our tv talk show?

when will you blog again?

when will canada forgive us?

what school will we send our kids to?

its people like you raymi, and anti, that make me want to go back to the suburbs.

i want you two to live next door and our kids to get in fights with each other and then make up as they build a halfpipe with wood they stole by the lake.

i want to tell my kids not to eat your brownies.

i want to enter a dozen failed businesses with anti

funded by our one real success

the strip club

laundramat

discoteque

magic store.

even after david blane and david copperfield got those hot chicks the kids still didnt learn their magic tricks

until the magic store showed up.

oh raymi.

this time last year you had four five blogs rolling.

is that a wedding band?

i hope so.

i miss you.

thanks for not bringing sars to hollywood but why am i coughing so much?

yours in Christ,

blunty

ray me + az anti + which rhymes with jay me

karisa tells me that connecticuit girls are crazy.

karisa, though, is one of the craziest girls i ever met.

Adrienne T. Samen (pictured) got married saturday night in South Windsor, Conn.

when the restaurant that she was having her reception in closed the bar, the 18 year old newly wed got beligerant and started throwing shit.

all sorts of shit.

vases, plates, glasses, even her own wedding cake.

i dont see any problem with that.

does that make me crazy?

i think that a woman on her wedding night, in her wedding dress, should be allowed to trash her reception area all she wants. especially if they cut her off from the pink champagne.

whats a cuter sight than a drunken teen in a strapless dress hurling a wedding cake across a bennigans?

two drunk teenage brides going rockstar on a reception.

weddings are so special that i would go as far as to say that if a bride wants to break everything in the place she should be allowed to, as long as the only person that she harms is herself.

everyone knows her old man is going to have to pay a bundle to get her hitched, why not keep the tab going?

and what sort of weasly establishment wouldnt want to get a few new vases and mirrors and lamps and mooseheads on account of the feisty young lady.

but more importantly, since when do you cut off the bridal party on her big night?!!?

booze should flow until the morning.

thats the america that i believe in.

adrienne, you can marry me anytime you want baby.

i want to be the name across your tattoed heart as soon as they let you out of the pokey.

love always,

marc brown

leah + seliot + oliver

i dont know why good things happen to me.

have we discussed this before? i think we have.

lets just say that good things happen to me and keep happening and then some bad things happen and then a lot of good things happen to make me forget about the bad things, and then other good things happen and then the ladies knock on the back door and then they come in and then they dont leave and then there they are in the morning and then more good things happen and then they drive me to the busstop.

before the busstop i was standing there naked dripping wet from a nice morning show. its hot in la and so my showers have toggled to the colder just so as to cool off. and a ridiculously well built girl was drying her hair with my snoopy towel and i was thinking how i wanted to just stand around my house dripping wet and naked for the rest of the day.

how could i call in sick and make this happen?

ive found that i think of a lot more things than i actually do these days.

i think about all the letters i want to write people, and all the things i want to fix up around my house.

i think about all the photo essays i want to write and all the cds i want to download and burn.

i think about all the jobs i want to have and all the traveling i want to do.

i think about how differently my life would be if i could only stop time and get unshackled from the responsibilities that i have and actually go do a study on the best taco in east la or the best place to get a burger on the beach.

ive never actually hiked to the hollywood sign.

ive never been to catalina.

or the playboy mansion.

theres so many things that i need to do here in hollywood.

and yet i could have stayed in my christmas light lit room all morning today, taken a nap with that hot girl, ordered in some chinese and drank sake with her until the sunset.

but that wouldnt ever happen.

my life is good, not perfect.

gastbook + knives out + perfect gallows

well it was bound to happen.

no, not getting linked by the instapundit.

getting a phone call from mr. bruce springsteen.

collect.

i tried to tell him that nothing on here was true, but he knew it was true.

he knew he had lost it, hit the wall, become stale and unimportant.

when he looked at himself he didn’t see the man he wanted to be.

and he wanted to know from me if i was just a guy who kicked another guy when he was down, or did i have a solution for his lost ass.

62. o. lawless

63. shannon

and i told him that i was a guy who would kick another guy when he was down, but only to wake him up and remind him that he didn’t need to stay down, unless he wanted to stay down.

with the dust.

and yesterdays news.

i told him that if he wanted to know how to get out of it he would have to do a little something from the past and do a little something from the present.

but he would have to trust it and believe in it and just let it happen and not be afraid, but ultimately do what he has been doing since he was just a scrawny little guy from nowhere.

he would have to pretend he was elvis.

everyone thinks that young bruce springsteen was super into bob dylan, but no little kids are into dylan, bruce and his mom were super into elvis, the king.

bruce even tells a story about hopping the fence at graceland in the middle of the night and knocking on the door in hopes to meet his idol.

this was the same week in ’78 when bruce graced both time and newsweek.

elvis isn’t home, he was told, he’s in lake tahoe.

bruce needs to go to nevada too, but not tahoe, vegas.

las vegas.

and that’s where he will regain his mojo.

laugh all you want and bring up celine dion but you know what, fuck celine dion.

bruce needs to remember that what was good for sammy, dean, frank, and the king of rock and roll is definitely good enough for the boss. might even be perfect.

best thing he does is perform live. that’s taking nothing away from his songwriting. he has a gift.

there’s no doubting his onstage charisma, his instant connection to a crowd.

he stood in the middle of a baseball park last night for three and a half hours. no opening band. no hit record. 30k fans paying a total of more than $2.2 million for tickets and no one is complaining.

even though he played 9 songs off the new record

that nobody really bought.

bruce needs to go to vegas to regain his soul, to hold court and tell stories, and rock the roof off the mother every night like he still can.

and he should take his time writing his next record called nevada

and he should dress up in the second encore

in an elvis suit that lights up

and after hes done singing burning love and all shook up and viva las vegas he needs to sing cant help falling in love with you.

lights dim.

applause applause

and then bruce springsteen emerges in the all black leather comeback special outfit

cuz it is a comeback

and he rocks us all harder and better than ever and ever.

then the curtain falls,

then he needs to take about a half hour of requests

and after about six months of that if he doesn’t have a record that kicks way more ass than fucking lucky town

then nothing in this shit is true.

shellen + sutter + the best article about the biggest u.s. blackout was written by a brit

ernie the attorney questioned the brilliance

of mr. tom waits in a comment today.

he said that the song “franks wild years” from the 1983 classic “swordfishtrombones” was sexist or… i don’t remember. i don’t want to fight today. i don’t want to argue with ernie the attorney today.

i just want to make it through this manic monday and forget the fact that im (almost) three-times older than the 35 yr old standard by which we made our completely unscientific study of yesterday.

im just stoked that i have a date tonight.

im also stoked that i didn’t go to the xgames this weekend because i would have felt like a complete loser.

those guys are flipping their motorcycles across football fields, skateboarding while on fire, riding bikes while standing on their banana seats.

it makes me wonder how one could do the same in the blog world and i see that there’s very little that we can do in creative writing that hasn’t been done before.

i can tell you about the dull work i do here flying thousands of feet above this great city, i can tell you about the lovely ladies who roll up in their mercedes, who tick tock don’t stop, arriving in all ages.

but that’s all been done. everythings been done.

the xgames showed me that pretty much nothings been done before in the world of hurling ones body around and i like that. no fear. no worry. no doubt. rock out.

my buddy steve noticed something at the busblog friday that he had never seen before.

he saw a caption this please picture that i took down after it got no comments.

that will happen.

what he didn’t mention was the fact that someone actually won the auction to sponsor the busblog for a year and that person hasn’t paid or revealed him/herself.

very interesting.

high bidder, reveal yourself and pay up.

else suffer the curse of the unpaid bidder.

mwhwhahahahahahaha

i should kid, i feel like im paying the price of something bad ive done.

i had terrible heartburn earlier today and now my legs are ridiculously sore.

how on earth can i entertain a fair damsel in this condition!

ernie the attorney

Tom Waits

Swordfishtrombones

Island Records

“Franks Wild Years”

(Waits, 1983)

Well Frank settled down in the Valley

and hung his wild years

on a nail that he drove through

his wife’s forehead.

He sold used office furniture

out there on San Fernando Road

and assumed a $30,000 loan

at 15 1/4 % and put down payment

on a little two bedroom place.

His wife was a spent piece of used jet trash,

made good bloody marys,

kept her mouth shut most of the time.

Had a little Chihuahua named Carlos

that had some kind of skin disease

and was totally blind.

They had a thoroughly modern kitchen,

self-cleaning oven (the whole bit).

Frank drove a little sedan.

They were so happy

One night Frank was on his way home from work,

stopped at the liquor store,

picked up a couple Mickey’s Big Mouths,

drank ’em in the car on his way

to the Shell station.

He got a gallon of gas in a can,

drove home, doused everything in the house,

torched it.

Parked across the street, laughing,

watching it burn, all Halloween orange

and chimney red

then Frank put on a top forty station

got on the Hollywood Freeway,

headed north.

Never could stand that dog.

in the last 24 hours at least 3,000 swedes

have made it through the recall impeachment photo essay which is pretty good numbers for a sunday, but considering its probably monday in stockholm maybe this is what one can expect when one is linked on Buzz.

how ever you say thank you and welcome and thanks for checking it out in Swedish here’s me saying it: _________, Swedes.

a few weeks after turning 21 i found myself in sweeden and i had a marvelous time. the people were warm hearted and generous, beautiful and friendly. most american travelers head south to Greece, i chose the northern route of Sweeden and Denmark and i think i made the better choice.

danke, amigos. je t’aime.

last night in glendale, the best band in america played a top secret undercover friends and family-only show in the quaint and empty bar called The Scene on colorado blvd.

it was a show booked earlier in the week by local faves Psoma, who apparently kept it a secret show too as maybe a dozen of the bands’ closest friends were in attendence to hear psoma rock harder than this blogger has ever heard them rock.

it was pretty impressive.

“yeah, i like to play guitar,” blue eyed front man Justin admitted, visably beaming, sweaty, and proud after his bands performance.

then tsar climbed on stage and carved rock a new a-hole blazing through a dozen new songs that made it impossible to ignore.

these are your new princeses, sweden. these are the vikings youve left behind. theyve grown up strong and mighty and have a message from another time.

the energy was so good that my old girlfriend wanted to start a fight with an armenian man who was playing pool. he looked at her like she was crazy. she is crazy. fortunately when i extended my hand she furiously took it and sat on my lap and then realized who i was, her sweetheart, and sat on my lap and told me how happy she was to be watching tsar with me, and i told her that i was happy to be watching tsar with her.

then we kissed several times.

then we stood outside with the kids as we should on a hot summer night in southern california as the stars became jealous as has become normal for them on nights when tsar plays indoors.

i didnt see my old hero springsteen last night.

and today i dont regret a damn thing.

instapundit + splink is swedish for warm fuzzy + dumb monkey

for about ten years during and after college this poster of bruce springsteen was tacked over my bed

now i don’t even know where it is.

i may have sold it, lost it, torn it, stored it or stained it.

and the reason frightens me.

one of the classic cliches in rock conversations is “i like his old stuff better.”

in a way it says that the artist has lost his mojo, but in another way it identifies the critic as either being 1) stuck in the past 2) unable to flow with change or 3) a lazy snob.

i plead guilty to all of the above, but that doesn’t mean that the boss hasn’t hit the wall.

tell me one album that he put out since born in the usa that isn’t full of shit.

tunnel of love, maybe.

but human touch, lucky town, the ghost of tom joad and the rising are far from fulfilling the prophesy of bruce springsteen being the future of rock and roll.

for if they are the future, rock is dead.

simple as that.

since hindsight is 20/20 one could say that the boss probably stopped wanting to be the future of rock n roll about 20 years ago when he released the river, a double album whose best moments were its dark creepy violent and regretful tales of woe captured perfectly in the title track.

springsteen hit critical and artistic homers later with the all-acoustic nebraska and born in the usa, but take two critical songs off of each record, and you have what he has now: hum drum dreck from the jersey boy who we thought would be bob dylan and the rolling stones all wrapped up in one.

take two songs off of any of his first six records and you still have solid albums.

my fear is that age hit springsteen and wiped out his young man’s desire for fast cars fast women and fast times and no longer was he interested in idealistic notions of being born to run, but more concerned with being a family man and a good citizen – both noble goals, for bankers, and bartenders, but i thought he made a deal with us, to never retreat, to never surrender.

springsteen was 35 when born in the usa, his last good album came out.

bob dylan was 34 when he came out with his last great album, blood on the tracks. when he was 35 he seemed incredibly confused with ’76s “desire” and the downright failure of ’78s “street legal”.

near the end of 1978, when bob dylan was 37, he proclaimed that he was a born again christian and subsequently whipped out four totally solid records within 5 years (slow train coming (’79), saved (’80), shot of love (’81), and infidels (’83).

from the time springsteen was 37-46 he’s given us tunnel of love, lucky town, human touch, and the ghost of tom joad.

i cant even think of four great songs from that era, and it worries me because it doesn’t look like there’s any sign of a comeback.

but there rarely is.

when neil young turned 35, he too freaked out.

when he was 34 he came out with the classic Rust Never Sleeps and Live Rust, only to follow with 8 really bad records in a row, 5 of whom were with the totally unlucky Geffen who had no idea that they were financing a ten-year creative slump.

but when neil turned 44 he released a mighty one-two punch of a comeback with ’89 “freedom” and ’90 “ragged glory.” which was then followed up with the gnarly wild live records of “arc” and “weld” proving you could still Rock well into your 40s.

bruce.

and not only Rock, but inspire the kids, like sonic youth and nirvana.

sonic youth would end up opening for young in the mid 90s.

now its understandable that not everyone wants to be smashing guitars and fronting the likes of crazy horse while in their 40s and 50s.

tom petty has definitely taken off what little edge he had in his younger days.

when he was 34 he released his most creatively diverse lp “southern accents” which featured the sitar-flavored “don’t come around here no more.” two years later he would rock for the last time with “let me up (ive had enough.)”

and even though he mellowed, as on his first solo record “full moon fever” (’89) tunes like free fallin and i wont back down didn’t completely suck despite turning 40.

if anything that record was a precursor for the subtlety that we would enjoy in his next three cds “learning to fly” “wild flowers” and the best of the bunch “Songs and Music From ‘She’s the One’“.

but the artist that springsteen should pay the most attention to, if he even cares any more, is the man who wrote the first song that springsteen ever covered on vinyl: tom waits.

bruce released a live version of waits’ jersey girl as the b-side of the born in the usa single “cover me.” both good songs. the year was 1985, both men were 36 (waits is just two months older than springsteen).

springsteen had just released his most successful record, and waits was about to do the same with the 1985 classic “rain dogs.”

where the boss had peaked at 35, waits was just beginning, starring in the ’86 jarmush film “down by law”, and in ’87 busted with the bad ass “franks wild years” (a musical play he wrote with his wife).

in the 90s when springsteen was still floundering, waits came out with bone machine, the black rider, and mule variations. those first two right there: totally amazing.

what tom waits and neil young and bob dylan did was continue to experiment.

petty just aged gracely, but the boss didn’t seem to know what exactly to do, or what it was that he wanted to do.

he seemed too afraid to make the embarrassing mistakes that neil young was unconscious about, and therefore hopeless to deliver forgettable middle of the road mush that is so fat and satiated that even dramatic topics like aids (“streets of philadelphia”) and the attacks on 9/11 (“the rising”) sound more like mumbles than thunders.

when i pay $85 for a rock show, i don’t want to be mumbled at.

which is why i wont be at dodger stadium tonight, reliving past memories with a fallen idol.

instead i’ll be seeing a band who tonight will be calling themselves steve garveys moustache.

at a secret location.

in glendale.

before they grow up and turn 35.

and die.

virginia + layne + ziboy + sean’s blog + one day in the usa

today is charles bukowski’s birthday.

my hero. one of the reasons that i moved and have stayed in hollywood.

one of the reasons that many of you read this blog.

charles bukowski was poor, ugly, mean-spirited, tenacious and for most of his life ridiculously unsuccessful.

he was also an unabashed alcoholic who said that alcoholics were amateurs, that he was a good heavy drinker.

he lived into his 70s and when i say lived i mean lived. he fought he fucked he wrote and he wrote. he went to his stinky job year after year and he bitched but he didn’t whine. big difference.

read any of his dozens and dozens of books and if you took a shot every time you read him whine you’d barely get a buzz.

i adore that.

bukowski was also an accomplished poet. something his idol, hemingway, was terrible at. one day i will show you a poem from hemingway and you’ll be sad for him.

no need to cry for bukowski about anything. in my opinion he was the most important poet of the twentieth century. important because his poems were regularly rejected for decades by the big magazines and yet he didn’t slice his ear off or change his style or write his congressman, instead he kept to his guns and wrote more poems. he produced. and eventually the morons running the asylum died and eventually the poems that had been rejected were suddenly brilliant and the lit world opened its arms to bukowski and bukowski shook them down and went back to la and drank his cheap beer and slept with his cheap women and laughed and laughed.

as he should.

because his poems were good.

as were his stories and his novels and his american life.

if you want to read about los angeles or hollywood or california start with bukowski and you’ll be happy you did. there wont be many fables about malibu or bel air or the sunset strip which is good because that’s not la anymore than the hollywood sign isn’t hollywood.

the ghost of bukowski still stumbles down the dirty streets of hollywood. he lived very close to where i live now and when i think about the two and a half years that ive lived here i think about how ive never been more prolific, how ive never been luckier with the ladies, and how ive never made less money.

just like my hero.

minus the alcohol abuse.

here’s to you charles bukowski, the biggest influence of the busblog, next to the Bible.

my old bukowski photo essay +the faith fools