There's always something to be thankful for

Here's wishing all you hooligans a fulfilling feast of stuffed asses holiday ham, pumpkin spiced pie lattes and what haves. And for all my herbivore friends out their, may you masquerade meats runeth full. In a world where everything has seemingly gone down the proverbial shitter, raise a glass and thank whatever pseudo realistic, anthropomorphic personification that you've survived long enough to stuff your face like a fat kid. Forgetting entirely that we hence break break to commemorate the mass genocide of a native inhabitant, take a drink for the fallen. Enjoy the moment with friends and family. Give your leftovers to those if less fortune in those states where marshal law still permits. And lastly to all those lost souls finding solace under the city lights tonight, may the Boulevard of broken dreams guide you to the Emerald palace, or at least to your favourite pub. Have a jack and coke for me and remember, it's the little things that count. Happy Thanksgiving.

Dear John It's not me It's You. Good bye sweet city of angeles.

PREFACE:

The Cynical Romantic:

  None who has felt the pangs of love and lost, has not felt the grudge of  a cynic. Just as no Cynic is barren from the pangs of love. In this respect every Cynic a romanic is, and every Romantic a cynic Makes.

   And What is love? Is it a noun, a verb, an action or ideal? Is it more than bitter sweet letters? A four letter word, too often rolled off the tongue in passing fancy.  More than an endless pursuit of dreams, wants,  blissful  wishes and tear seared pillows. It is at the heart of all of things, all art, every song, fairytale, pose and expression of man. If found for only a moment; in a dim lit  hotel room, a week long fling or life time romance.      It rests at the core of human existence as certain as death, as inevitable as the last sizzle of my lingering cigarette. This is a story about love. This is a story of the endless pursuit thereof.  Not of true love and happily ever afters, but of the blinding chaos and wild turmoil that comes with with chase, the moment, the  rush and impending heart ache which cascades the lovers heart. An omage to the dreamer who picks up the booze soaked pieces of of dirty shirts and carries on with the hope that THEY are still out there somewhere, waiting to picked like the only ripened fruit left upon a rotting tree. 

   Love that is found in the dredge of bars, and night clubs wrapped in leather, latex, perversions and bondage. Love shared in bathroom stalls and Hollywood mansion parties.  Love that is found through cold computer screens or in sterile text messages in the age of selfies where heart felt letter has been replaced by picture likes and a flirtatious comment. Finally the love that holds on, finding sincerity if only to gasp for for breath long enough before drowning in bullshit and social climbing. 

    This is story with out a happy ending, because this is a story with out an end. Written my way. Raw and flowing with callous disrespect for grammar and form. Emotional and flowing and knowing no laws but passion. No regard for consequence of actions only the desire to do. It  is written as love acts, burning all bridges in its wake and leaving nothing but a city of cinders and missed opportunities. And as the cold moon shimmers upon the cold water of this West Hollywood swimming pool like the chill winds of the mid western town I will soon be in again. I bid fair well once more to the city of angels and write the narrative that I know realize has been playing in my head from the start. Writing what I should have been all along.

It's the little things that count.

It's been quite some time since I've penned by thoughts to paper or in this case, pixels to screen. Newly lost in sea of concrete and bright lights, I am now about to finish my second tour or duty on western coast.  California at best is fun distraction from introspection.  It's all too easy too lose ones self in the constant hustle and endless seductions it has to offer, and while there are no angels in the city  who claims it has built itself to be their home, you can find yourself lying upon the feathers of their fallen wings. Much like the siren of Greek Mythology, they call hear in the night to seduce the artist to crash his dreams upon her cracked shore of painted stars.  Only now upon my resolve to swim up and grab another breath of smog free air, do I now feel inspired to write again at least as long as it takes before the undercurrent takes back down into curdling depths.

  Therefore I say, expect more words from me in the coming months, out about and floating in cyber space upon blind eyes and deaf ears as it may be and to all those I leave behind to love and loath remember this.  Keep your heads up high my fellow warriors in the trenches. May your cigarettes stay lit and  whiskey glasses full. May the cups of coffee cometh and your yoga glasses stretch more than your limber limbs. May lines of white powder keep you marching forward past the mirror in which you see your self at 5am on Saturday nights. After all, when the day is done, its the little things which really count.