Forget about being cool, honey

Singing the song Hotel California this morning, I listened to the lyrics for the first time.   The song isn’t about a hotel.   Don Henley of the Eagles said it’s “…about the dark underbelly of the American Dream and excess in America.”   Talking about the 70’s.

I found a 2009 interview, where music critic John Soeder asked Don Henley about the words So I called up the captain / ‘Please bring me my wine’ / He said, ‘We haven’t had that spirit here since 1969.’ Soeder said, “I realize I’m probably not the first to bring this to your attention, but wine isn’t a spirit.   Wine is fermented; spirits are distilled.   Do you regret that lyric?

Henley’s reply?   “Thanks for the tutorial and, no, you’re not the first to bring this to my attention—and you’re not the first to…miss the metaphor.   Believe me, I’ve consumed enough alcoholic beverages in my time to know how they are made and what the proper nomenclature is.

But that line in the song has little or nothing to do with alcoholic beverages.   It’s a sociopolitical statement.   My only regret would be having to explain it in detail to you, which would defeat the purpose of using literary devices in songwriting and lower the discussion to some silly and irrelevant argument about chemical processes.” (The Plain Dealer March 20, 2009)

Ouch.   Glad I wasn’t interviewing him.   I didn’t understand the metaphor either at first.   Probably not cool enough, which is fine by me.   I’m glad that era is over.   It did seem to me as if the early 60’s opened a door to self expression and independence of mind but it bled into something dark and destructive.

And the cool people were the ones who took indulgence to extremes.   I stood on the edge of that group, believing I was longing to be admitted, but actually, I never did.   I was longing for somebody to say to me “it’s okay if you don’t think it’s very cool.”   Because actually?   I didn’t.

That cool thing?   It happens among some jazz musicians here in Cape Town.   And I don’t like it now any more than I liked it then.   So I say it to myself today.   It’s okay. I feel that small child in me, who’s still so alive, relax and say phew.

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Searchwarp, Bridget Jones, Marc D’Arcy, Google, Paris Hilton, Robert de Niro, Oprah and I

Very few people leave comments on my blog and/or use the rating thing.    They look nice, those red stars, especially the 5 stars.    Confession?    I’m the only one doing it at the moment.   Oh God, am becoming self-congratulatory like Paris Hilton.   Hope Google doesn’t punish me.   Sometimes they do.   Have to remember Google isn’t God.

I digress.   Traffic to my blog has gone from 12 to 750 a month.    Whoopee.   Altogether, 2,600 page views of 300 blogs, in 11 months.   But on Searchwarp, in 5 months I’ve had over 22,000 page views of 65 articles and probably 600 very bloody nice comments and generally good ratings.

Hmmm.   Well I’m not giving my blog up, because it’s mine sweet mine and I love a challenge.   That’s not totally true, I like it when it’s conquered and down on the ground v. dead and I stand with one foot on its belly, my sword raised triumphantly in the air.

Always wanted to be noticed, discovered and applauded but was so damn uncool.   Plus I hadn’t done anything that was discoverable.   You see the difficulty.   Now, with Searchwarp?   Heaven, I’m in heaven.   I might even be making it into the cool group.   My experience is a bit like Mark D’Arcy telling Bridget Jones he loved her just the way she was.

Notwithstanding which, this morning I woke up to the thought Gaaahhhh!   What if I never break through?   Time is marching, what if there isn’t enough time?    Panic.   Dooom.

Then I remembered.   Hang on, I’ve got a completed script and I got it to Robert de Niro.   Granted it could be in his toilet, but perhaps I could send him a reminder to take a dump more often.    Oh that’s disgusting.    Plus, I’ve got a visible blog which Oprah or any publisher or film producer could see any day.   And all sorts of other writing projects.   It’s fine, I’ve got that all covered.

It’s the flipping singing.  that’s.  not.  flowing.   She said with gritted teeth.

‘”Well, it’s probably not meant to be, so stop feeling sorry for yourself and just focus on your writing.”
“No, I don’t want to, I want both” she said petulantly, sulking, thoroughly bothered, a bit flushed – probably menopausally.
“Well, you’ll never get anywhere really with either one unless you focus.”
“Mind your own business.   I’m a woman, I can multi-task.”

Probably the problem is just gritted teeth.    Need to ungrit them.

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