Friday, February 26, 2010

Blog Roll

The price of playing a muse does not come cheap. There are long hours of posing for portraits, carpel tunnel from autograph signing, indigestion from all the gratis bottles of Moet, and of course the stitches that cramp my side after narrow escapes dodging mobs of rabid fans. Have you ever seen the Beatles classic A Hard Day's Night? Or tried to get down the FDR when the president is visiting the UN? Well, my life on any given day vaguely resembles either of these eminent scenarios, just with more glamor, pancakes, and falling.

Of course, being a muse to wannabes and the masses does have its pratfalls. Like the time a "musician" composed a song about being rejected by me entitled "You Made Me Hate Music." Oops. I mean, I guess those hours sitting on his floor, giving his best community theater- inspired imitation of Van Morrisons' "Astral Weeks" recording session might be considered an artistic endeavor by some subcultures, namely fanboys and Bears. Probably just saving him time and involvement in a pyramid scheme in the long run.

Or there was the time I posed nude for some "tasteful, artistic" photographs. Imagine my chagrin when riding the subway just a few weeks later I saw my own foot as the BEFORE shot for a Dr. Zizmor ad! Well, I never! Well, I always...

But when my muse powers realize their combust into their highest potential and burns burns burns like a fabulous yellow roman candle exploding like spiders across the stars, one can just stand back in awe. I do it for the little people really. Drumroll please....

Ok, white people, calling a lady your "wife" or "wifey" is urban shorthand indicating a close affinity to said lady. I'll let you conspire over whether that affinity is amorous or not. Really, my wife and I are more like the Monkees wherein we sleep in a big bed in nightcaps and nightgowns then spend our waking hours engaging in subterfuges of mistaken identity, saving the day, and running from throngs of admirers. In our wife/ Monkees dynamic, she is definitely the Mike Nesmith because she's effortlessly whimsical and adorable and I am the Mickey Dolenz because I'm bossy and wear ponchos.

Isn't she a scream?

And then there's this new publication
to which I am contributing in my "serious" persona. That one rears its head on the days between "Jesus" and "martian."

Ok, adoring public, happy reading. I have fans and people harboring crushes on me to ignore now.

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