i save my reading for listening

as i drive around this fair city i enjoy having others read to me

Morrissey’s autobiography was a delight mostly because Moz is an exceptional writer

and it makes me feel like i should stop watching so much TV and start reading

you know, actual books

because when you hear someone lie Morrissey explain things or describe things

and every sentence is so descriptive with analogies and metaphors that come from ancient scrolls

and legendary literature and you’re all, wait was that original or a Shakespearian quote

you feel equal parts excited and ignorant.

i also liked that he just wanted England to love him and it didnt. not like LA or Mexico or Scandinavia.

here people would dress like him and scream his lyrics right back at him and fill up this one and that one

theyd damn near riot, but in his beloved UK they’d barely bat their lashes

i also like that his record labels barely supported him and no one knew what to do with his successes.

it is a pattern that i have seen in my own life: some people and organizations are built for mediocrity

they have zero interest in wild success, all they want to do is keep on keeping on.

they don’t want failure, but in an odd way they feel more comfortable with a hiccup or two

than they are huge accomplishments.

they’re terrified of breaking records, leading the pack, or breaking through to the new thing.

here The Smiths and Morrissey were selling hand over fist – even when the group broke up, yet the labels were far more willing to spend endless amounts of time and effort into the unproven and even failed,

than they were to the quirky vegetarian straight edge asexual exception to the rule.

in the book he even says that Michael Stipe has always wanted to go solo.


xbi was all wanna see Morrissey in our suite at Staples?


so me and scott sterling took the subway downtown,

ate chicken sandwiches right after meat is murder

drank beers.

figured out how to take over the world

and agreed that moz really does need to get the smiths back together again. cuz yolo.

Shoplifters Of The World Unite / Irish Blood, English Heart / Alma Matters / You Have Killed Me / You’re The One For Me, Fatty / Action Is My Middle Name / That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore / I’m Throwing My Arms Around Paris / Speedway / Meat Is Murder / Ouija Board, Ouija Board / November Spawned A Monster / To Give (The Reason I Live) / How Soon Is Now? / Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want / Everyday Is Like Sunday / Let Me Kiss You / First Of The Gang To Die // The Boy With The Thorn In His Side

a letter from Morrissey to the fans

morrissey leaving the soundgarden show at the wilternI am terribly sorry that the next three shows have been moved back. The worst is for the best. I am certainly on the road to recovery, but caution and prevention demand further IV blood work lest I keel over and die before your very eyes. I apologize to an almost annoying degree for any trouble I’ve caused to anyone by way of travel plans and dog-sitters and ticket-outlay and re-molded hairstyles. I should be as fit as a ferret for San Diego. Please don’t be too appalled if you see me out and about this week in the Hollywood area. Perversely, it’s all in accordance with doctor’s orders: to have myself re-integrated with the call of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd; the flash of light and the full thrust of mosh-pit sound. Illness turns the body into a complete stranger, and I’ll be testing the capabilities of my strides at the most unlikely music shows this week. The will to get on with it runs strong. Even death can be used as a springboard. For those scholars who are heatedly curious, my ulcer is now under reins, even if neither asleep nor dead, but the continued cause for concern is a slightly embarrassing absence of blood – most of which the bleeding ulcer relieved me of. Anemia sets its own terms with quite obvious biological conclusions, and I have spent these last weeks under expert medical care in Los Angeles with an almost erotic dependency on various IV drips. Sitting around reading indecent books is no substitute for continuing the tour, but my progress holds great promise and Flint shall not escape quite so lightly. We are all at the mercy of biological chance, and I once again beg for your liberal tolerance. If you bump into me this week at a heavy rock show, please understand that I’m lowering myself into the cut and thrust after weeks on ice – horizontal, with sockets empty of eyes. In the midst of the abyss, I’m saved by the news that tickets for the tour continue to sell very well, and my straightjacket twitches with excited gratitude. But the patient must be patient. Our goal, now, is San Diego, by which time my blood-work shall have finally taken its course and I shall be shot from a cannon and might even be equipped with an extra eye. We just never know, do we? Being on life’s danger list, I’ve found, actually prevents you from thinking about how you are, and there’s a bread-like warmth in giving in to whatever was meant for you and whatever wasn’t. The only critical mistake might be to confuse your pre-med with creativity – which is certainly worth the confusion if it renders you not fully present in your own life. Finally, I gorge myself on thanks for the many and varied messages of support that I’ve received over these recent four weeks. They have yanked me out of prolonged mood dips and cured a crisis of spirits. I fully realize that the word ‘cancellation’ in every known dictionary is followed by my own name, but no morale drops as low as my own at the mere suggestion of re-jigging shows. I sincerely ask for your pardon and your understanding. As for those of you who claim to now be officially sick to death of me – if this is really true, then why exactly are you reading this? As a matter of fact, I am even prepared to humble myself to nothing before those who carp; you see, any hospital-stay leaves us in danger of becoming unnecessarily agreeable. Life will right itself.

Whatever happens, I love you.

Los Angeles
16 February 2013