March 1st, 2007


"Thank god he can play guitar," Rome Girl said while watching Pete Townsend windmill on Won't Get Fooled Again, "Otherwise he'd just be a dog-on-a-string person."

Anyone who has ever read about Pete's drinking (or Keith Moon's for that matter) would be hard pressed to argue the point. Most people who down bottle after bottle of Jack Daniels day in and day out end up sitting on street corners asking you for spare change and cigs.

But, if you are Pete Townsend or Keith Richards or rock's Gretta Garbo, Axl Rose, you can do all that and more as long as the doctors can keep you vaguely upright for the show. Hell, if you are in Babyshambles, you aparently don't even have to stay upright!

This led La Bella Roma and I to discussing what is it about a fairly large perecentage of the best rock dudes that draws them so often and so deeply into the black and towards the big sleep?

I've never bought the romantic "Being fucked up loosens their souls and brings them closer to true art" bullshit. That's just an easy excuse and proven wrong by all the guys who got better when they got somewhat sober (Steve Tyler, Billy Joe Armstrong, etc..)

But I do wonder if psychologically, or genetically, there is a link between the impulse to create great art in the world that triggers a drive to self destruct. Like, in some way the energy used up to bring beautiful things to the outside world sucks the life out of the inside world. Or if the genes that allow you to write well, play guitar well, etc... might be linked to genes that make you more prone to addiction.

Rome Girl thinks that the answer is more simple. That these guys, when they are very young and have little judgement, suddenly have access to lots and lots of booze, drugs, groupies, teenage boys (sorry Pete!), etc... that they get started on a road to excess and then a few years later when they realize they are fucked up they have no clue how to stop.

Your thoughts?

Good Day Sunshine!

I had all my current jobs wrapped up by last night so I took the day off. Rome Girl wrapped up her current jobs around 2 p.m. and took the afternoon off.

I started out in the place de la comedie reading a trashy paperback and sipping fresh squeezed lemonade in 66 degree weather and watching girls go by.

Then after a couple of hours I went to Fitzpatrick's Irish Pub where Rome Girl met up with me and I drank Guinness and she drank rose and we sat on the outside terrace and read books and joked around.

In front of the Fitzpatrick's terrace is a giant sign that says in perfect French "You have to come inside to the bar to order your drinks." But if you sit out there in the afternoon all of the French people who show up pretend like the sign does not apply to them and sit there waiting for waiters to show up.

I like to time them and see when they will give up and finally go in and ask for a drink. Today the record was 22 minutes.

We then went off to O'Carolan's. Along the way Rome Girl pointed out a pair of ear rings in a shop window that she thought were cute. I bought them for her on the spot because I thought they were cute as well.

She then went off to buy paper products while I hit an ATM. We met up at O'Carolan's and she surprised me with a DVD of "Bride of Chucky" which I have wanted to own for years! Rock on Jennifer Tilly!

We had a couple shots and a few drinks and talked with The Iceman for a bit.

Earlier this week a blog reader sent me a DVD with the first three episodes of SEason Three of Lost on it (I'm not sure who because the customs people fucked up the envelope - but whomever it was THANK YOU VERY MUCH WE LOVE IT!)

After we watched the first three episodes we downloaded from Itunes a few more and HOLY FUCK CHEECH MARIN IS ON LOST. If Tommy Chong turns up soon it might redeem the show in my mind.

I still think that J.J. Abrams needs to tell us something about the fucking island soon or I'm going to lose my patience. The fact that he did wrap up Alias fairly well last year gives me hope

But that's all beside the point which is HOLY FUCK CHEECH MARIN WAS ON LOST.