H U R R A Y  F O R  B E N

The worst crime of any musician is to feel mediocre. It eats away at the soul like a devil, no quarter, no remorse, time stands still. Every time I feel this way I want to do something fucked up, something so heinous as to jolt me out of this tele-colonic stupor I'm in. 

I went to a record company function in New York last nite for the band ORGY. They are all friends of mine from the stupid old L.A. Sunset Strip Kinetiscope Days. I'm happy for them; they have all eaten shit for years, acres of shit. Now they are the so-called "darlings" of the new scene. Hmmm...I was there, years ago. I remember when I was the so-called Flavour of the Month Poster Boy for Braggidacio. 

All the new saints were there at this gig, Korn, Limp Biskit, pomade and gas station t-shirts mandatory. I don't know them personally, any of them, but I do like what they represent, namely, noise. However I wish I could chuck all of their copycats into a flaming caldera and turn up the heat. Take all those low-tuned 7-stringers and blast them all to Hades. Anyway...so I'm at this gig and I meet a girl. Sara...tall, taller than me, wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt. As a joke. She is a model in the jaded "I hate Models" mode. Beautiful but cynical as fuck. We hit it off famously, like two retarded peas in a pod. In spite of being a bit hoarse and hung over from last nite's show, we talked all nite like giggly schoolgirls. 

She wants to move out to L.A. 'cause of dis and dat. What was funny was all the shit she was saying about N.Y. was exactly, exactly the same shit I say when I put down L.A. the shallowness, the crime, the hatred, all we did was substitute place names and we were a perfect match. The problem, I figured out, wasn't in either city but in US, her and I. We're BORED, bored with the mundane, hashing out the same shit with the same people. And nothing ever changes; nobody rises, nobody wins. We drink to somehow elevate us to God status and all we achieve is damage and disillusionment. She asked me if I'd ever done anything outrageous in my life--- 

"Well, once, when I was feeling not so good about myself, I made this cross and crucified myself on the Hollywood Sign..." "Oh yeah," she says, "What kind of wood did you use?" FUCK...you are jaded, aren't you? 

She's a painter, welder, model. She drinks, smokes, dances, she's tall, she doesn't give a shit, she kisses like a man, she laughs at the rite time when I'm on, that's good. I trust her with my life. I want to hold her under the covers of a single mattress on the floor, candles everywhere, a wine bottle next to the bed, the room smells of perfume, heat, electricity. There is no morning, no end to the moment. I don't have to go home, I don't have to be responsible, I don't have to sing or be JIZZY--- 

This...this is a fool's dream. The band finishes, they are flushed with the heat of being  everyone's favourite new band. The singer sits next to me, I congratulate him and I  REALLY MEAN IT. Not my typical pat-on-the-back PC bullshit. Jay, the singer looks at  me, he knows he's on the treadmill, he respects me I think, as one who's been
there, done that, seen visions of grandeur and still rocks on, albeit on a somewhat less grand scale. I wish him well. Off you go now to the vultures, perched and waiting to tear you fucking apart; let's hope you can emerge unscathed.  

As I sat, drunk again, surrounded by fuck-head industry suits and bubbleheaded cunts, I swore another oath not to be MEDIOCRE, to try not to be, "'cause after all you are what you are." I guess my intent was not to sit on the fence and feel sorry that I wasn't still the end-all fuck boy, the all-nite hard-on, every girly's dream date in leather, a cross between Jim Morrison and a randy old dog, passionately panting with slick wet ears and a big red dick.  

Sara and I parted. I didn't go the fantasy route with her that nite, not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't wake up and try to negotiate three trains from Manhattan to Queens hungover and looking like a bad Iggy Pop. I...I just can't carry that cross anymore. I can't face the bright piercing rays of the morning sun and the shake-of-the-head realization that you fucked up again. The dog has won over the man. Underneath it all I'm just a good singer. That's it. Not some Bitch Funky Sex Machine. It's not that I'm too old but that IT'S too old. The thrill, the chase, the conquest. The awkward moments, so many, the life and the death of the relationship celebrated at Warp Speed and both of us plummeting off a short cliff into nothingness. Another dance, another attempt to shake off the everyday and make a stab for Olympus, but, inevitably, there is no gold, no silver...Hurray for Ben.