Mrs Morrison's Hotel

The 100% personal official blog for Patricia Kennealy Morrison, author, Celtic priestess, retired rock critic, wife of Jim

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Location: New York, New York, United States

I was born..no, wait, sorry, that's "David Copperfield". Anyway, I was born in Brooklyn, grew up on Long Island, went to school in upstate NY and came straight back to Manhattan to live. Never lived anywhere else. Never wanted to. Got a job as a rock journalist, in the course of which I met and married a rock star (yeah, yeah, conflict of interest, who cares). Became a priestess in a Celtic Pagan tradition, and (based on sheer longevity) one of the most senior Witches around. Began writing my Keltiad series. Wrote a memoir of my time with my beloved consort (Strange Days: My Life With and Without Jim Morrison). See Favorite Books below for a big announcement...The Rennie Stride Mysteries. "There is no trick or cunning, no art or recipe, by which you can have in your writing that which you do not possess in yourself." ---Walt Whitman (Also @ pkmorrison.livejournal.com and www.myspace.com/hermajestythelizardqueen)

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

And A Happy New Ear!

Now that my first 2007 entry has been posted, and is appropriately silly, I can get down to retrospective business.

Some reflections on the year gone by:

FORD TO CITY: DROP DEAD!
CITY TO FORD: YOU ARE DEAD!
And we don't particularly care. You stiffed us and pardoned the Milhous and played golf and provided Chevy Chase with some fun moments. You are not our fave Prez. Though at least you could read and talk, unlike the current, also unelected moron. And Betty is cool.

SADDAM SWINGS
Like a pendulum do. And I don't give a rat's how barbaric it is, he was more so and he got exactly what he deserved.

RIP JAMES BROWN
That's "rip", not "R.I.P." The man was a drug abuser and a wife beater, and I never could see any particular musical talent amid the sweat and posing. All he did was screech and preen and posture. I can get that from Al Sharpton any day of the week. Including the sweat.

HILLARACK-O-RAMA
The spirit quails at the thought of the countdown to Election 2008. On the one hand, I don't think Senator Clinton can win, but she certainly has foreign and domestic experience. (Domestic in all senses of the word.) We in NY think she 's a darn good senator, but we're not sure she doesn't have too much baggage. Especially the kind named Bill. (Of whom I'm very fond, btw, but Flyover Country is probably not so much enamored.)
On the other, Senator Obama is cool, but he's a lit-tle too full of himself already, which cannot bode well for the future. Hey, kid, don't buy into your own hype. It will only turn and bite you on the butt.
I foresee a long, grim slog through the Valley of Meanness.

YOU SAY PATAKI, I SAY POTAHTO
And we all say buh-bye, not to mention Good Riddance!, to a tiresome colorless twit of a governor. And all hail new NY State Gov. Elliot Spitzer, from whom we expect much. I don't actually ask for much, and certainly not for myself, not anymore, but the removal from the books of the draconian Rockefeller drug laws would be nice.

METS-A MEZZA
Come on, lads! You came so close last year. This year, all the way! [/same old stuff for the past 21, is it?, years]

TAKE OUT THE TRASH, PLEEEEEEEZ
BritneyLindsayParis. And their little dogs too. And for God's sake and our own, will somebody please buy those girls sandwiches and underwear?

ARRRRT IT BE NOT!
But it sure was fun. Pirates of the Caribbean II: Dead Man's Chest. Johnny Depp should be declared a National Treasure. And, like, Captain Jack is SO not dead...I love that not one person of the millions who watched this actually ever for a nanosecond thought he was.

CAN'T BUY HIM LOVE
The disgraceful behavior of Sir Paulie McCartney toward his wife Heather. Karma's a bitch, man: you marry a younger-than-your-daughter, blond, one-legged starfucker ten minutes after you bury your hero wife (paraphrasing something I read somewhere, but da truth for all that), that's what you get.That's why Paulie was always my least favorite Beatle. In the words of his pal George: Beware of Maya!
On the other hand, I knew Linda Eastman, and you, Heather Mills, are no Linda Eastman. There is wrong on both sides. Out and out. Red card.

NOT-SO-ROCKIN' NEW YEAR'S EVE
I shouldn't be surprised, but I was, when I heard that Dick Clark had a hard time finding entertainers for the big NYE show because so many "entertainers" these days can't perform live. They're all puppets, what with taped tracks and lip synching and studio tricks. Nobody plays anymore, nobody sings anymore...it's pathetic. And, I think, criminal.

ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE...ER, TALENT
On a related note, one of the Sunday magazine supplements had an article about the music of 2006, and talked about "The Beatles: LOVE", the new reworking by the Martins, lamenting, and I quote:

"If you really stopped to think about how vastly the Fabs' body of work outshines anything being created today, you'd cry."

And I did, and I do...

Music today sucks, bites and spits it out. And it's not just the Beatles that the alleged "artists" of today haven't a prayer of matching but the Stones and the Doors and the Airplane and Cream and all the rest. NOBODY, not even Pearl Jam, can measure up. So just roll over, youngsters, and accept.


There, I'm bored now. But not for long!

Best to y'all for 2007.

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