I've said this so many times, but I'm going to say it again.

ADAM FUCKING LAMBERT IS FUCKING HIDE REBORN. If that were generationally possible.

Hideto 'hide' Matsumoto: A campy, crazy, neon-hair-colored rock god who had a penchant for performing sexually, fucking with people's heads, and creating party-ready music.

Adam 'Glambert' Lambert: A campy, crazy, neon-hair-colored rock god who has a penchant for performing sexually, fucking with people's heads, and creating party-ready music.

I've spoken about this in a professional article:

Adam’s outrageous performances and spitfire personality give me a feeling of pride that I haven’t had since I first discovered Japan’s Hideto ‘hide’ Matsumoto back in 1999 – not because they sound anything alike, but because they represent similar ideals. People have come up with all sorts of comparisons for Adam – a new Freddie Mercury, a new David Bowie, even the reincarnation of Elvis Presley. But to me, he has always recalled hide, that little pink-haired imp from X Japan, who not only stole the spotlight from everyone else but had a transcendent outlook on life that can only be summed up as, “I’m here, I’m me, I’m outrageous, and fuck it, because that’s okay.”

Adam's album cover really drove it home for me. LOOK AT THESE GLAMOROUS FUCKERS:





I could say so many things here. The space-agey ridiculousness, the 'look at me I'm glam' factor, the 'I make out with men [and women] whenever I want to' statement.

hide was too much for the world and killed himself at age 33, but I have full confidence that Adam is going to carry on hide's 'FUCK YOU, WORLD' legacy with snarky pride.

If you are not yet acquainted with hide, I recommend you watch this video. The song isn't him, but the attitude sure as fuck is. Pink hair FTW.



Oh, and he wrote a song about having sex with Jesus. Your argument is invalid.

There's a cliche that goes with fanfiction - something about all the writers and authors just being sexually repressed losers without the balls to go out and buy real porn.

I am a writer. As in, I get paid. To write. For a living. And I fucking love fanfiction.

I think people who denounce it aren't giving the good stuff a chance. They've just read really awful pornos written by 15 year olds who haven't had sex in their whole lives and assumed that it's all like that. There is some really, really beautiful writing in fandom.

Tonight's revelation: I used be just as bad in the way that I told myself for the longest time not to read AU [alternate universe] fics, because fanfiction needs to feel like it could really happen. But tonight I finally buckled down and made myself read through Apples Are Not the Only Fruit by bexless, and I realized, a bit retardedly, that - oh. Just because something isn't 'authentic' doesn't mean it can't be believable. I feel like I've fucking trolled myself all these years by convincing myself that AU is silly and impossible. It's just as impossible and just as true as ALL fiction - on that beautiful bridge between myth and reality.

I can't believe I was depriving myself of gems like this:

Kris’ stomach dropped into his shoes when he heard Adam’s sleepy, grumpy voice.

“I swear to God, Neil, you better actually be in jail this time or I am going to beat your face in with a butt plug.”

I am not going to LJ-cut this. Be warned. It is long, but it deserves a full viewing.

I’m honestly terrified to write any of this down because the evening was so fucking epic that I know I’m going to forget something. But I have to start somewhere.

I’ve stopped writing ‘timeline’ concert reviews – that is, those that give a blow-by-blow of every event, song, and emotion experienced by the author. Nobody reads those things because they are tedious as all hell. Thus, I always try to find an angle, or several parallels that can be listed in order – ‘points of entry’, as I call them [insert sex joke here].

This past Sunday at the Viper Room was connected by personalities. So many people, so much awesomeness.

First of all, Ron, my concert buddy, who is awesome for many reasons, not the least of which being that he is the kind of straight boy I can drag to an all-out gay party full of queens and spandex without worrying if he’ll feel awkward or uncomfortable. Because he won’t. Because he is just that awesome. [He also manages to cockblock the creepy people and encourage the cute ones to get my number. Have I mentioned that he is awesome? Ron, you rule.]

Second of all, Cheeks, because he was literally the first person I laid eyes on as I walked up the club stairs. He was sashaying across the floor looking incredibly fierce, and as such, it took me at least an hour to grow the balls to say something to him. He said I was like the eighth person to tell him he rocked, so I felt kind of retarded until he said I smelled good, which made everything okay. Then I felt retarded again when I was chatting with him later and gesticulating wildly and managed to knock the straw right out of his cocktail, because I am just THAT awesome. Thankfully, he was a sweetheart about it all, and when he flailed outside the club with us after the show, I think I was gazing at him adoringly.

Thirdly, there were half-naked gogo boys, and every single one of them was made of awesome. I wanted to give them stripper-tips and eventually grabbed some dollar bills and shoved them into their underwear, which earned me an impromptu lap dance. Later on in the evening, I was feeling feisty, and I told the one named Matt [sooo cute] that I would tip him again if they made out like they meant it. So they did. And I tipped him again. And there was a guy there taking multiple pictures. WHERE DO I GET MY HANDS ON THESE?

In the interim, here is a crappy BlackBerry photo of me with one of the boys:



And then… Punk Bunny. Following a pair of identical twin rappers called Elephant, a group of spandex-clad man-things took to the stage, and Ron and I kept exclaiming the same thing afterwards: Never. Seen. Anything. Like. This. They were like some raunchy, transgendered, neon-colored version of the Village People, with a hint of Sex Pistols snark and lyrics borrowed from your local XXX video store. There is nothing quite like watching a quartet of raging queens perform ridiculous choreography while roaring the words to an original song called ‘Glory Hole’. I can’t even begin to describe their sound or performance – the main singer growled like a death metal vocalist over electro-beats while prancing around in a revealing Richard Simmons-like exercise outfit, and his backup band did knee-bends in time to lyrics about being a ‘Nineties Tranny’. I can’t even. Like. Wow. It blew my fucking mind. And Ron described the best part of the night as being the ‘gay mosh pit’ that sprung up during their heavier songs, composed of tall boys in silver belly shirts doing punk-dance bouncing while yelping out the lyrics to wonderfully ironic tracks like ‘Bromance’.

Moving on…

There was a faux-German man wearing white rabbit fur who introduced himself as ‘Das’ and then later confessed that the German thing was an act formulated to feel important and pick up gullible chicks.

There was a very, very cute boy wearing plaid named Jared who bought me a beer, and he seemed reasonably sane and uber-cool, unlike some of the other people invading my personal space that evening. [I must have looked like hot shit, because there were guys and girls hitting on me left and right like I was some kind of celebrity – I don’t pretend to know why.] He even accompanied me and Ron to the Hustler after the show, where I bought a vibrator [Shay Jordan-approved] and a silver and white spandex dress, which is a nice start to my heroin-fairy costume for Halloween. Wings coming later.

There were various glittery residents of WeHo, all who seemed to think I was pretty and worth talking to. Not complaining – just surprised.

And then, of course… Cassidy. Oh, Cassidy. You have linked me onto your fucking charm-chain of childlike awe. You have caused my love to snowball into an extremely inconvenient celebrity crush of the highest order. You are too amazing to be real.

I saw him come in and tried not to freak out, but who the fuck am I kidding? As cool as I might act, as level-headed as I might pretend to be, this was fucking Cassidy Haley, and I was slain. He is amazing. His fashion is amazing. His music is amazing. And he is seriously the most attractive person I have ever laid eyes on. I cannot even properly articulate how ridiculously hot this man is. I might have been salivating in his presence. I could have drowned the entire fucking Viper Room in drool.

So I sauntered up to the bar, all prepared to deliver my stupid speech about being a huge fan but not a scary one, when I was caught off guard. He leaned in and said, “Hey! Holly, right?”

Heart, meet stomach. KABLOOSH.

“… you remember me?”

“Yeah! I remember you from Model Mayhem! I’m glad you made it!”

I was incredulous. We had messaged a few times on modelmayhem.com, and I assumed I had been catalogued into his endless list of ‘freaky fangirls’. But no. He actually remembered my fucking name.

I think I stammered a few things about being stoked for the show, along with something pathetic about the headliners getting free drinks [I totally would have bought him one], and then he excused himself to get ready for his set, and oh. God.

I went over to Ron, and I positively PEELED APART. I was going ‘OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD’ over and over again like some retarded teenager. I kept faceplanting and feigning fainting. I haven’t acted like that since fucking Yoshiki came into my bookstore four years ago. It was that bad. Ron was laughing.

Oh, and the show? Brilliant. I had told everyone there how awesome Cassidy is, and he converted the masses without fail. Opened with ‘Little Boys and Dinosaurs’, then stripped off an army-colored burlap sack [hello, black leather!] and segued straight into ‘Whiskey in Churches’. He played several new songs as well as ‘Daylight Breaks’, and his backup band, the Sunshine Rebels, complemented him perfectly. The guitarist, Jason [who introduced himself to me afterwards] was the kind of dreadlocked, pierced guitar-guru you’d expect to see at a metal show, except he fit in perfectly, and they all wore paper mache masks at one point, adding to the poetic mystery. I sung along to every word. Honestly, if this boy does not get signed, I will lose all faith in the human race.

A crappy BlackBerry photo of me watching Cassidy in awe:



We hung around long enough afterwards to become acquainted with several more fans, all of whom were dressed to the nines and completely courteous. Also, kudos to the chicks who brought Cassidy the guitar-shaped cigarette lighter, as it gave me an excuse to ask Cheeks for a cigarette, though I eventually gacked one from a random German guy. I didn’t even care to smoke all that much; I just needed to partake of the epic that was Cassidy’s new lighter, and it was a total success.

Went to Hustler afterwards, and did I mention that I ended the night with a Halloween costume, a Shay Jordan-brand vibrator, and the phone number of an adorable boy?

Seriously – Best. Night. Ever.

Lots of epiphanies in the past few weeks. One in particular though. It would seem to be a DUH, although it took me ten years to figure it out. Why I obsess over epic love stories even though I think regular relationships are bullshit, why I need to rockstars to understand how close they are even if it takes them ages to realize it, why it always makes sense to me when sex is a result of emotional intensity rather than physical attraction. [Even shallow things, like why I have a thing for redheads. Ding ding!] The story repeats itself in all of my favorite creations/fandoms - Subaru and Seishirou, Steve and Ghost, Nicky and Richey, even Kradam. Why is that?

Well, hello. I have fucking lived this story. Failed miserably to resolve it beyond mutual acceptance, but there you go. It's a good thing I have literature to play these things out in the ideal way. Real life never does that, which is possibly a good thing. I don't even know. I just can't believe it took me so long to figure it out. [Yes, I know that YOU knew long before I did. 'I told you so' is right.]

Oh, and for the nostalgia bit of this entry: recently found a video of Pearl Jam [a nostalgic favorite band of mine] covering 'Crown of Thorns' by Mother Love Bone, which is one of my favorite songs of all fucking time. I had no idea they ever did that cover, although again, it makes PERFECT FUCKING SENSE seeing as Mother Love Bone is essentially just Pearl Jam with a different singer. But still. I can't get over it. And now I'm going to rush out to buy the new PJ album. Makes me wish I had gone to the show, too.



Moral of the story? I need to start fucking figuring things out faster. I hate treating everything as a wish-I-would-have-done.

Oh, Manics. Where to begin?

I’ve spent half my existence having discussions about their lyrics. I’ve based stories and books and poems on them. Their words have gotten me through some of the most difficult times of my life. I never thought I’d be priveleged enough to see them live.

The show at the Avalon was everything I had hoped it would be. After a ten year wait with my nose in lyric sheets and my eyes glued to concert videos, I had certain things I needed out of this experience, and I got each of them, almost without exception.

I needed a halfway decent opening band, and Nico Vega nicely filled the bill, coming across as a kind of kidneythieves-meets-Bjork experiment that I fully enjoyed.

I needed a loud, un-PC Nicky rant, and I got one – featuring ‘fucking Coldplay’, which had me grinning in satisfaction, since I’m pretty sure I hate them as much as he does.

I needed timeless Manics stage antics, and I got them – James twirling in a circle on one leg like he always does, Nicky doing his high-flying scissor kicks with gusto.

I needed ‘No Surface All Feeling’, and I got it – two songs into the set, no less. I don’t think I succeeded in keeping a straight face during the ‘No not blood, just liquid from you’ line, though I sang along like a champ.

I needed to glimpse some hardcore fans, and about halfway through the show, I discovered that I was standing two feet from a boy dressed entirely as Richey from head to foot – velvet jacket and tousled hair included. I told him he looked wonderful, and he looked appreciative, especially because he had seemingly come to the show alone. He was so adorable that I was tempted to invite him out with us afterwards, but my shy nature got the better of me. Perhaps I should take a trip to ‘missed connections’ on craigslist…

I needed to feel young again. Like an obsessed fan again. And every chorus sung – ‘A Design For Life’, ‘Your Love Alone’, ‘Everything Must Go’, ‘Motorcycle Emptiness’ – had me screaming the words so emphatically I woke the next morning with swollen lymph nodes. I wasn’t expecting to bounce up and down the way I did, especially in three-inch wedges, but it was my first time seeing the fucking MANICS, and my first real club show in who knows how many months. Rabid does not begin to describe my behaviour. Had a been a Doberman, I would have been foaming at the mouth.

The set was virtually flawless. They even pulled out some songs I wasn’t expecting, like ‘Let Robeson Sing’ [a charming example of Nicky’s inability to write a political song without mentioning Richey in some capacity]. James did his expected acoustic set, and the oldies abounded, with everything from ‘Faster’ to ‘Motown Junk’.

Somewhere during the bridge of ‘If You Tolerate This’, I got a full-body chill akin to those that occur when you settle into a hot bath after a long day.

It was so fucking surreal to look at these men in 3D. I named a main character in my book after Nicky, for gods’ sake. It’s impossible to describe the effect that his smile has on me, particularly since he’s penned lines like ‘I’ve got to stop smiling / It gives the wrong impression…’ in reference to his huge grins in old videos from the Richey days. Every glimpse of Nicky’s teeth, every rare cheer or thumbs-up look of glee made me feel fuzzy and happy like some kind of proud mother hen. I suppose I relate to him in a slightly unsettling way.

A few songs in, James took to the mic and said, ‘We haven’t been to America in ten years or so, so, uh, thank you for your patience.’

And I wanted to say, oh James. You have no idea. You have no fucking idea.

The only thing I wanted that I didn’t get? Nicky in a skirt. Yellow eyeshadow and rhinestoned cheeks notwithstanding, I really want to see him in drag before I die. But James mentioned their coming back in the near future, so there’s always next time. EEEK for that.

I’m slow & I’m easy & I’m waiting for delivery

And just for fun, here are some links to Manics lyric analyses I've written over the years:
Revol: http://everything2.com/user/morganlight/writeups/Revol
Little Baby Nothing: http://everything2.com/user/morganlight/writeups/Little+Baby+Nothing
The Love of Richard Nixon: http://everything2.com/user/morganlight/writeups/The+Love+of+Richard+Nixon
Intravenous Agnostic: http://everything2.com/user/morganlight/writeups/Intravenous+Agnostic
Mausoleum: http://everything2.com/user/morganlight/writeups/Mausoleum
Love Torn Us Under: http://everything2.com/user/morganlight/writeups/Love+Torn+Us+Under

A t-shirt to wear to the Manics concert on Friday! Thanks to my awesomesauce cousin.





The sentiment is so, so true. And it was penned by the Manics themselves. So huzzah. I am prepared!

WHY THE FUCK AM I WANTING TO CRY OVER TWO PEOPLE I'VE NEVER EVEN MET.

Someone dies and I feel nothing. Traditional 'sad news' does not affect me. It takes a couple of fucking rockstars and their goddamn story.

No wonder I'm so terrified of crying in front of people. I'd have to explain myself, then.

Wow, I've really rediscovered this journal recently. Thanks, ontd_ai.

As usual, I'm sad about the summer ending, but it feels even more pronounced this year. It's been a hazy summer of Adam Lambert and fanfiction, but I don't want it to go anywhere. I don't want to go back to real life. I've gotten lost in tragedy and epic. I feel so fucking helpless in the face of real life.

I talk about stories the way some people discuss their beliefs in God, so bear with me.

I mean, obviously my favourite stories are sad because that's what makes them attractive and brilliant in the first place. Once a couple rides into the sunset [like at the end of Disney's 'Robin Hood', which always depressed the fuck out of me], the story is over. And stories should never end. So the best ones never do. Summer SHOULD be endless, along with stories.

It's poetic to say stuff like 'In order for love to exist, it must elude' - especially when it rings true in my own life [I could go on more about that]. And conflict - i.e., unhappiness, and uncertainty - is what makes a story ring true.

But for once I AM FUCKING SICK OF FUCKING DEATH AND TRAGEDY. If real life comes with September, then having it bring some beginnings, please. Enough change and emotional conflict. LS/Nicky/Drey, I'm talking to you. Once I finish this last revision, you are going into a drawer.

Stupid rockstars and their goddamn epics. I should read a book about murderous aliens with lots of explosions.

Crazy fires last week. The whole world smelled like a barbecue.

I knew the beat cause it matched my own beat...

... and being at work today was like walking through a fog. My mind is so wound up in other people's stories it doesn't even recognize itself. I am going through the motions; I am getting what I deserve. I am mooning over fictions; I am forgetting my own schedule. My chest is bursting with so many words I could write War and Peace, except that love would be war and peace would be live music. I have modeled, flirted several times, made enemies of some friends and new fans of others. But my brain keeps coming back to being in bed, pen in hand, fantasies looming and real life hiding just beyond the window.

Answer: Because once I start making a mix/playlist, I DO NOT STOP until it is done.

I make a lot of mixes. More often than not, they are set to a story. More often than often, that story is a tragic rockstar love story. Because I am lame, and I never get sick of writing about rockstars.

The results this time: 'WHAT IF: A Kradam fanmix.'

( Lots of songs and explanations. I had fun with this. )

And with that... fuck, I have to be up at 6am.