Thursday, 1 April 2004

apolla: (OTP)
If I ever try to post about anything not involving movies, rock and roll or myself, shut me the fuck up. I'm an impulsive little fool who knows nothing.

*

I had the freakiest dream ever last night/this morning. I went to a concert with some people from my class. Not that unusual really. Except, well...

It was Thin Lizzy. Philip Lynott and all. Philip Lynott was in my dream. Not only was he in my dream, but at one point I seemed to have become a girlfriend/groupie/something else bizarre. While I was asleep, I went out with Phil Lynott from Thin Lizzy. While I was asleep, I walked in on him in his tourbus with two other girls and I don't remember exactly, but I didn't tell him off. I didn't tell him he was a wanker and the other stuff I would actually say if this were 1976 and he were alive. And when I woke up I was so freaked. More so than the time I had a baby called Clarabella (especially since Anne told me it was more likely to do with a part of me than a literal child). More so than the time I put Jim Morrison through rehab (I'd do that if I had the chance). I adore Thin Lizzy and I think Philip Lynott was quite frankly, the greatest Irish rock poet (possibly tied with Van Morrison, but definitely better than twatty little Bono) ever. But I don't want to dream about him. I don't want to dream I'm in love with him. I don't want to dream of my heroes letting me down. They already have by dying on me (Phil managed to avoid detection that he was still on heroin by injecting himself in the foot and by 1986 his body gave out). I don't want it! I don't want my boys to fucking let me down any more than they already have! I already know Jim Morrison could be a drunken fucker capable of saying and doing horrible things! I know Errol Flynn liked his girls slightly under legal and liked his drink by the gallon! I know John Lennon hit Cynthia! I know George Harrison had an affair with Ringo's wife then spent the first half of the 80s off his head on coke! I know that while Led Zeppelin's wives stayed at home with their young children, they did groupies by the busload and cocaine by the kilo! I know Dean Martin was a drunken adulterous lech! I don't need to be reminded of it when I'm asleep. I love it when I dream, very occasionally, about these guys. It feels, just for a little while, that they're with me, that they're not totally gone. It feels, just for an even shorter while, that perhaps they're there because they want to be.

And for the love of God and all that is good and holy, I don't need to be reminded that they're dead. I love Philip Lynott, I really do, but I don't want dreams of him to linger in my head all day. I don't need to be reminded that under the afro and Dublin charm was a rock star who took advantage of the sex and drugs part of the equation.

I know a lot of people seem to think I blindly idolise rock stars, that I don't realise, don't know, that they're almost uniformly arrogant fuckers who care little for anyone but themselves. Don't be ridiculous! Of course I know. Their humanity and imperfections bring them down off their pedestals and that is why I love them. I'm not a member of the cult of St. Lennon. I don't believe that Jim Morrison was a dark god. I don't believe that Led Zeppelin were golden gods, either. These were men, deeply flawed, deeply human men. Sometimes though, they touched greatness. That's what I concentrate on. That's what I love about them. You don't need to tell me that rock stars are arrogant fuckers who care little for anyone but themselves because like attracts like.

And please, I don't need reminders when I'm asleep- dreams are the only good place I have in this darkly beautiful world. If I dream like that again, I'll be back down the slippery slope to madness. God love you Lynott, and so do I, but I don't want to dream of you. At least bring your good self next time.

*

On the plus side, I just got done watching my new West Wing DVDs and earlier I passed my mock Shorthand exam at 100 (only just, I'm sure). This is a considerable achievement when you realise that I've been thinking about the above all day.
apolla: (OTP)
If I ever try to post about anything not involving movies, rock and roll or myself, shut me the fuck up. I'm an impulsive little fool who knows nothing.

*

I had the freakiest dream ever last night/this morning. I went to a concert with some people from my class. Not that unusual really. Except, well...

It was Thin Lizzy. Philip Lynott and all. Philip Lynott was in my dream. Not only was he in my dream, but at one point I seemed to have become a girlfriend/groupie/something else bizarre. While I was asleep, I went out with Phil Lynott from Thin Lizzy. While I was asleep, I walked in on him in his tourbus with two other girls and I don't remember exactly, but I didn't tell him off. I didn't tell him he was a wanker and the other stuff I would actually say if this were 1976 and he were alive. And when I woke up I was so freaked. More so than the time I had a baby called Clarabella (especially since Anne told me it was more likely to do with a part of me than a literal child). More so than the time I put Jim Morrison through rehab (I'd do that if I had the chance). I adore Thin Lizzy and I think Philip Lynott was quite frankly, the greatest Irish rock poet (possibly tied with Van Morrison, but definitely better than twatty little Bono) ever. But I don't want to dream about him. I don't want to dream I'm in love with him. I don't want to dream of my heroes letting me down. They already have by dying on me (Phil managed to avoid detection that he was still on heroin by injecting himself in the foot and by 1986 his body gave out). I don't want it! I don't want my boys to fucking let me down any more than they already have! I already know Jim Morrison could be a drunken fucker capable of saying and doing horrible things! I know Errol Flynn liked his girls slightly under legal and liked his drink by the gallon! I know John Lennon hit Cynthia! I know George Harrison had an affair with Ringo's wife then spent the first half of the 80s off his head on coke! I know that while Led Zeppelin's wives stayed at home with their young children, they did groupies by the busload and cocaine by the kilo! I know Dean Martin was a drunken adulterous lech! I don't need to be reminded of it when I'm asleep. I love it when I dream, very occasionally, about these guys. It feels, just for a little while, that they're with me, that they're not totally gone. It feels, just for an even shorter while, that perhaps they're there because they want to be.

And for the love of God and all that is good and holy, I don't need to be reminded that they're dead. I love Philip Lynott, I really do, but I don't want dreams of him to linger in my head all day. I don't need to be reminded that under the afro and Dublin charm was a rock star who took advantage of the sex and drugs part of the equation.

I know a lot of people seem to think I blindly idolise rock stars, that I don't realise, don't know, that they're almost uniformly arrogant fuckers who care little for anyone but themselves. Don't be ridiculous! Of course I know. Their humanity and imperfections bring them down off their pedestals and that is why I love them. I'm not a member of the cult of St. Lennon. I don't believe that Jim Morrison was a dark god. I don't believe that Led Zeppelin were golden gods, either. These were men, deeply flawed, deeply human men. Sometimes though, they touched greatness. That's what I concentrate on. That's what I love about them. You don't need to tell me that rock stars are arrogant fuckers who care little for anyone but themselves because like attracts like.

And please, I don't need reminders when I'm asleep- dreams are the only good place I have in this darkly beautiful world. If I dream like that again, I'll be back down the slippery slope to madness. God love you Lynott, and so do I, but I don't want to dream of you. At least bring your good self next time.

*

On the plus side, I just got done watching my new West Wing DVDs and earlier I passed my mock Shorthand exam at 100 (only just, I'm sure). This is a considerable achievement when you realise that I've been thinking about the above all day.
apolla: (Savvy?)
I would very much like to see this bonkers Dylan/Victoria's Secret ad. Does anyone know if I can find it online and if so, where?

The mere idea of Bob Dylan selling knickers is making me laugh. That it should be a nearly elderly Bob Dylan just makes it funnier.
apolla: (Savvy?)
I would very much like to see this bonkers Dylan/Victoria's Secret ad. Does anyone know if I can find it online and if so, where?

The mere idea of Bob Dylan selling knickers is making me laugh. That it should be a nearly elderly Bob Dylan just makes it funnier.

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