That's What I Want

It won't always be such a struggle. Will it?

I can imagine it being different. I can certainly see this blog in a better format, with a better font (I like Cheap Trick's), with color, and pictures of me somewhere so the ladies have something to look at. That requires some sort of knowledge and probably an upgrade from the Commodore 64 I'm working with, so for now, y'all have to settle for this, and ignore the random apostrophe by the timestamp.

But I'm talking about the BIGGER picture of where I'd like to be, and I can put on a Who CD and light a candle and see it all, like William in "Almost Famous," and, I can see for miles and miles.

I will move from the Valley to somewhere much closer to the ocean, ideally the bohemian beaches of Venice. I'm not a hippie, but I certainly have that artsy side that'd appreciate being able to stroll on down to the sands where Mr. Mojo Risin incanted "Moonlight Drive." Having nature to walk in would probably lose me some pasty pallor and some paunch as well.

My apartment now has about the vibe of a doctor's waiting office. Well, without the fun of "Highlights" magazine. Goofus, where are you when I need you? It's beige-with-tan throughout, and the furnishings were all here when I landed here, courtesy of my white-collar, self-admitted yuppie, pharmaceutical sales rep roommate. There's a brown couch and a brown loveseat and several framed paintings by classic artists, all chosen for their inoffensiveness rather than for any real love of the pieces. Hey, I don't know art, but I know Van Gogh's "Irises" wouldn't be on my wall if I had my druthers, brother. It's all pretty-like, but Cream's "Disraeli Gears" album cover holds its aesthetic own and would actually speak about me.

My next place will have a red, black, and white living room, the colors of Eddie's guitar and of the Stones' tongue and of White Stripe CD covers. Three walls of red, and the fourth would be wall-to-wall flyposters, like an alleyway under construction sans scaffolding. Adorning the walls would be album covers framed like the artwork they are. There'd be little string lights, maybe little red-and-white guitars or little red and white paper lanterns. There'd be thrift store furniture with loose slipcovers, but a minimal amount. Maybe some beanbag chairs. There'd be some funky rugs, maybe faux fur, over a warped hardwood floor. For sure, there would be a low table in a corner with a turntable on it hooked into the DJ system I'll sooner-or-later rebuild. And there'd be candles and incense, and a right groovy feel. My one "luxury" would be a fireplace. And somewhere in the room there'd have to be a surface for visitors to scrawl graffiti on, which I'd kick off with a "Clapton Is God."

The hallway'd be black, with a wall marked with a mural of a Jack Daniels label, and it'd lead to a kitchenette with a New Orleans voodoo vibe, with Mardi Gras colors and more eclecticism, and my jambalaya on the stove.

My bedroom would be a Hefner-inspired type of place, with leopard prints and pin-ups (including the coolest souvenir I have thus far of my Hollywood life, an autographed Jenny McCarthy Playboy cover) and a hi-fi and a mini-Grotto, like one of those Zen fountains or something. The room would declare, "Abandon all hang-ups, ye who enter here." But minimalism, in guests' clothing and in decor, would be key.

The closet would be jeans, Vans, kick-ass belt buckles, and some vintage-type band t-shirts, like a Billy Squier ringer tee. Stuff that when I wore it, you’d be able to look at me and knew that I rocked.

And the bathroom would be light and childlike with the blue, yellow, and orange of rubber duckies. It can't all be so...dirty. Oh, I'd still nail girls in the shower, but...
Which brings me to the thing that I probably most long for, which is someone to share it all with, some sort of cool, hip-hugger chick to give me my propers when I get home.

Here's why as of late I've really been able to start realistically visualizing all this, and what adds an odd irony to all this: I've pretty much had it all before. Growing up, I had my basement room with wood-paneled walls and James Brown posters, and the twin-turntables... I had the cinder-blocks-and-boards bookcases and hardwood floors of a bohemian Back Bay Boston apartment... I've shared a house that hosted after hours parties at least every other Saturday night... And although my self-deprecating side wouldn't admit it, I've had some ideal girls that kind of rocked. There was an incident I remember that involved the "Back In Black" album and some down-and-dirty f***ing. There was a girl named Cher who was a single mom with a daughter named after an iconic musician, and she had this real bohemian pad and I'd drive her home from our community college and she had an old stereo with a turntable, and we listened to some old Atlantic soul while she sat on my lap.

It’s like Davies and Diamond Dave ask: "Where have all the good times gone?" But it’s not a melancholy, nostalgic thing. It’s not Simon and Garfunkel’s "Bookends." There’s a hope to it. As The Kinks said in "…Good Times Gone," "Let it be like yesterday/Please let me have my happy days." I don’t wanna go back; I wanna go full circle. I’ve evolved to realize I want to revolve.