He knows not that he is royalty. We know not what this form of royalty means.

This is the beginning of the pursuit for his truth:

By the four opposing coigns
Which the world together joins,
Is made with all due diligence
That horse and sail and high expense
Can stead the quest. //
The mutiny he there hastes t’ oppress; //
Come not home in twice six moons,
He, obedient to their dooms,
Will take the crown. The sum of this,
Y-ravished the regions round,
And every one with claps can sound,
‘Our heir-apparent is a king!
Who dream’d, who thought of such a thing?’

Sumptously vibrant, occasionally ominous

With its sumptuously vibrant, occasionally ominous Technicolor tones courtesy of George J Folsey (who also shot Million Dollar Mermaid and The Harvey Girls), its American songbook classics, including Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas and The Trolley Song, and its evocation of an idyllic, untroubled fin-de-siecle St Louis that surely never existed until Vincente Minnelli dreamed it up, Meet Me in St Louis was the bona fide smash of the 1944-5 box office, and the personal favourite of its legendary producer Arthur Freed, whose musicals unit at MGM was and remains unsurpassed in its utter mastery of the genre.

This is also the movie on which Minnelli met his future wife, Judy Garland, who was initially not enthusiastic about the project. She recanted later, of course, and songs from the book remained staples of her night club act for decades afterwards.

And here’s how the story goes…

How did we get here?

-We have backtracked, hit 1969 into 1970 and now in 1971 Thelonius drives across the middle of the country and something he finds there sets the stage for what is happening right now.

This confederate flag, he is listening to “California” from “Blue” and leaving the ER NYC woman (and his Gena Rowlands, Jackie O mother, with her lies about his progenitors to protect him) and heading towards Heather (leaving Susan? Janet? Cam??) in between the Haight and Sunset Strip, she’s a mix of Joni maybe but not as crazy coz he’s fringe, she’ll end up working a record label, marrying well not becoming recluse crazy artist (Joni), ride the rails downtown and back (Rickie) or elsewhere scatter, single mom or somehow having tragedy earn our stripes, carry our song, there’s truth in it, but it’s never what you thought it would be — when you were young looking old, now that you’re older looking back and thinking on — no more time to waste, cut to the chase, how did this madness foment, who are the people who walk the earth now controlling our pain and suffering, allowing us to survive, thrive, serve, attract, renew, vampires and werewolves, basically. Now, it’s all just zombie this and zombie that.

this related to the zombies running gov’t and getting all moral about sodomy — and not being practical and certainly not being men and women of the faith the profess to be in defense of and actually completely and utterly defy the principles of–why is that? How are we. they, all of us so blind?

The red moon (sun eclipse last night this morning which I could have seen because I didn’t sleep a wink) seems to be inspiring an extended focal length of time to consider and there are two pieces about Indiana that I don’t feel like reading I’d rather try to find planets and go through butterfly photographs; those seem to be the far more productive use of my brainpower, unknown remaining time left on earth, priorities and jam (not my jam, doll face–huh? do i have a jam? it’s tool meets miles meets the pretenders/police/pink floyd meets stan getz meets Don Draper all day every day for the next 7 weeks would be awesome if I could write that winning some-thin somethin script (is it a pilot? is it pilot and finale? I wish I could hire a team of 4-5 experienced writers and start shipping out stories that they can show me how to write, efficiently without too much angst, but when I told the agent who supposedly was so impressed by my unique and authentic talent this, she seemed overwhelmed by what to me is just another uber-out=of=-the-box-paradigm-shape-shifting line of logic from a genius brain. So Mick Jagger (who’s been getting a lot of shitty social media fuckstick press showing him in particularly unflattering expressions promoting the ‘ugly’ factor of rock stars with big mister ya-yas out — teaming up with Scorsese to collective unconscious my show right out from under me–not really coz I can now leave NYC freely leave Mick Studio 54 and take Keith west to Laurel Canyon with Gram Parsons and Hunter S. Thompson and topical writers and beat poets ending and whatever Burroughs the endless junky was up to at the time in Tangiers.

1970 spring this time of year or later he drives to UCLA maybe (not USC I don’t think) for spring break with Rebecca (biblical and uptight bulimic in the social making, she will have some sort of 1970s meltdown, and he will meet Heather as a result of this–still gotta figure out mother, she’s part Ghani in Harlem, and part those record-listening women in Jimi Hendrix’s bio – the yin and the yang, that will get full story coverage–5 women surround him his mother, the ER doc best friend should have loved would have married if they’d been a generation earlier–i want to play with that fragility, that tear in the fabric of space between time and the gestalt of the zeitgeist — the subtleties — each should have driving social historical contextual event (gas crisis, Shah of Iran, Detroit cars, big movies, pop culture, launch with ‘tell’ of a brash Hunter S — maybe hell’s angels time — backstory to sons of anarchy and breaking bad–borrow those writers and actors. Oh I have a subliminal plan.

And who could turn down Don Draper, Jack/Sawyer, Russell Crow/Christian Bale both in 3:10 to Yuma but not for those roles instead Gladiator and exodus body I suppose, can’t recall the one where not emaciated or brooding bat boy.

The other article evades me and I want to read about running out of water instead.

On law and intolerance and why Indiana is just wasting our time

I didn’t like them much, but I didn’t doubt their sincerity.

The Love You Stole

and in the end, the love you take
is equal to
the love you make

Now it sounds catchy coz it’s the gets-insufferable-the-more-you-get-to-know-them Beatles, bugs chameleons and creepy crawlies, but it really makes no sense. It’s marketing for propaganda that sold records from 1968 to just last Saturday. Imagine that.

I can still hear the jingle in my head but have managed, through the newly renovated electro-shock therapy treatment which can be found via your smartphone app upside the head, to block out the actual name of the song. I just remember the end of the song and the lilting melody which always leads me to the beginning of the next song with begins with “This is the end, beautiful friend the end…”


Pre-cursor to a moment

Truth be told, I wish Mad Men season whatever starts next week episode 1 (is it season 6, 7, 7A or just give up numbering them already because just like Cher’s retirement, there may be a finale to the finale after these final 6 episodes) started off with that song. I don’t know why but that’s the vision I have in my head for DD walking (we just see his pants leg and shoes, somehow entering the building in a way we haven’t seen before — remember we last saw him, gleefully almost, putting his head down to work.

Inspired by the redemption he received in the most unlikely of places, he had been humbled and had regained some sense of dignity in knowing who he was and what he was destined to do, no matter what his legal name was–this was a man of wrenching soul-twisting dimension and the identity suffering that was stuck to his generation like a fly to sticky paper hanging from the rafters was crumbling before our eyes as he outed himself, self-imploded for it, sobered up, got lucky, got smart, had a fucking character arc where he realizes what he ‘owes’ protege Peggy and why he needed to change or die, and went to work.

As Burt, who became a bit of a curmudgeon old fuck who was way too harsh when the chips were down, tap dances and sings with dancing girls, “..the best things in life are free…”

After seemingly developing a comprehensive amnesia for what fuck-ups bring to the creative empire, choosing instead to harp only on the misdeeds’ cost to ‘his’ bottom line, preferring to coast which is the one thing you can never do in that business, the work of advertising which marries the muses to the mercantile, and that alchemy requires that the crazies will always have a desk somewhere, even if it ends up being under the fire escape in the alley peddling roses from a card table in 1996, to cover for the downfall of the American Dream.

People need to dream, not a dream. They need poets and fixers and men to tell them pretty lies so they can get up the next day and go on with the majority of the mundane things that add up to a collection of lives not worth living if itemized.

Yet liltingly beautiful when left to its own messy devices and corroborating on stories no one ever told to imagine a new world order where nothing manages to matter, the meaning devours the method and the cacophony controls the chaos.

The Anxiety of Influence is not covered by your plan

I don’t even know who I am replicating but it’s definitely someone, Hunter S. Thompson was more measured and pointed — before he wrote the word, the thought, more like a voracious essay with novel-like cadence (if the novel happens to be on peyote, coke, ludes, bennies, benzoes, harlequinn romance novels and sedate, pretty toed princesses about to be in for the shock of their lives when they wake up in a Malaysian prison (of future scripts, capturing an over-arching theme of what it means to brave this new world as we see the world of a girl reading Rolling Stone and reading Vogue in isolation in a by now, not-so-gallant South.

That was some paragraph of rolling rambling synapse crushing logic-craving creative chaos thinking that really was just about the end of a Beatles song cutting to the beginning of a Doors song, which to me somehow would represent the next chapter for Don Draper, who is so well-crafted as archetype and character that it’s scary-genius and I want to keep that kind of story going.

So I guess I will go across the universe to ask for a ticket to the resurrection, perhaps there’s a way to tie into the anniversary of the crucifixion coming soon to a parish, pulpit, platform near you.

That’s Easter. Three days, like detox, rising again. Lazarus testament to re-birth, a concept that will come back to haunt every man thereafter, like a badge of inferiority, worse than Moses’ parting the Red Sea, Noah navigating 40 days and 40 nights of raging flood waters, Job managing not to scratch his skin off and jump out the window screaming, or Judas’ taking the hit for some conspiracy that needed to give man someone to blame, it was the perfect set-up, the perfect narrative that man could accept whole-heartedly, for the most part, until we got past the Middle Ages, into the Enlightenment, then back and forth between advance and barbarism for the rest of our time as stretched out amoebas of misery on this glorious place called Urth. Who named it Earth? What is up with planets’ names? Where did they come from? Definitely aliens. And if that’s the case–why are they not talking to us en masse now? Why would an enlightened being deal with the human elite propaganda machine in place? Unless the alien race is evil and manipulating mankind but for what? An awful M. Night Shamalamadingdong movie staring Mad Maxx or Marky Mark chasing down bad CGI monsters who are allergic to water or eat all the trees and air. I prefer the slimy Morgellons’ Medusa-like algae mermaid monster who rises out of the pool at a cheap motel on the California coast and then eats her way back to Long Beach where she stars in an X-Files sequel.

All these thoughts actually have context but not as put fully put forth in aforementioned connectivity of thoughts. I have had a stressful day of highs and lows and am just ready for something steady and a place where I can re-group, restitute and move into phase 3 [or 4 or 5 or 5c or III] or my life.

So this I will revise or delete if I can find no merit here, but this was automatic, unedited, backspaced (unless for spelling errors, but never for grammar, syntax, sense or meaning — that can be whittled out once the brain has spewed forth enough fragmented thought to mellow out and chime in on things that matter not chew on other people’s problems with someone who just needs a break, not a bashing–that’s gonna take therapy, I figure now, to bring to a complete end).

and in the end

the love you



equal to

the love

you make

i always want to reverse it

that’s a post in and of itself

for next time

this is the end

the only end

my friend


SHE THINKS: I can’t believe you think that I fucking care.

After all that you have done, not done and are right now not growing up a child not a man.




we open with where she was but don’t stay there
she writes her way
into her future

“Harry’s Bar”