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, 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 @ and

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Bad Rap

I see where some person calling himself 50 Cent is having a pissing contest with some other person called Kanye West as to whose album (they're rappers, whom I do not consider to be musicians...or even humans, really) will sell more. Cent says his will sell more and West's will be left to languish on the shelf. Fine, whatevuh, who cares.


This 50 creature then goes on to say that their feud is a good thing, apparently, for journalism: "What's the point of even having magazines without us? We're the fucking Jim Morrisons, we're the fucking Kurt Cobains of this. Yeah, I said it. Listen to the fucking album---I am."

Uh, no, you squalid little thug, you're NOT. You're not even close. You're not a musician. You're not an artist. You're not a singer. You're not a poet. You're barely literate. You're involved in fistfights and/or gunfights on a regular basis. You're a brainless talentless pissant piece of garbage who isn't even worthy to say Jim's or Kurt's name. Not unless your mouth's been washed out with soap first.

And, oh, if you want to get into a pissing contest, it helps to have a cock (and a talent) that's set for distance.


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