I just found this letter inside the tiny Rumi: In A Nutshell paperback that I bought in July of '98 whilst chasing a muse. That was the first such book of its kind to find me. Took about six months for my emotions to stop quivering after I was sent packing by Clive Davis having failed to bring him the next Bon Jovi. And this chick appeared. And these words, and long walks and staring at clouds. The specifics are in the Artist Way morning pages, writ in blood as it happened, never read.

"All of my plans, compromised/All of my dreams, sacrificed."

Porcupine Tree's "Arriving Somewhere But Not Here," provides the synchronous backdrop for the moment I am attempting to relate but because of my inability to focus I'm probably confusing things. Please be patient. This is the reason why I'm in this predicament, you know the one where people are waiting for you to speak English again and get with the program and start earning a decent wage. Synchronicity. Before Sting got the message, Carl Jung got it. From a deep, spiritual place. Beyond belief. A knowing. The letter is coming but a bit more preamble.

My first job in publishing was at Gambling Times Magazine inside the ancient and massive Television Center Building on Cole in Hollywood. Where I used to open mail and take orders for Stanley Sludikof's 'Winning Blackjack' at a hundred bucks a pop. He was a huge, pasty, enamel skinned Jabba the Hut kinda character, Sludikoff. Had to be some sort of shyster but our front was cool. And legit. We were a fucking magazine. The editorial staff was cool even though I didn't have intimate daily contact. Until the day this odd, bearded man walked in and was directed to my small desk in the middle of a large, drafty room.

"Hello, I hope you can assist me. I wrote a piece of fiction for your magazine, having a bit of trouble finding out its status. My name is George Clayton Johnson." I was 25 years old and a Twilight Zone freak since grade school. My brain stem felt a tweak, like a spark of mini-lighting. It fired my jaw off. "You wrote Kick the Can!" I chortled like a nerd. "And A Penny for Your Thoughts; two of my favorites Zones. It's an honor to meet you, sir."

A conversation ensues, he tells me a couple stories about Logan's Run and Ocean's Eleven -- the original screenplay he co-authored when Steven Soderberg was still an astral projection in his mommy's soul. I can't remember details, just vibrations. He gave me his address, I sent him one letter, recalling the day he guest spoke at my high school, Grant, in Van Nuys. I tracked down Vanesa, the chocolate-skinned goddess managing editor and inquired about the Clayton story. She said she'd call him. But she didn't get it. She wasn't a nerd.

It's dated February 12, 1982. The paper is sepia-faded but still crisp to the touch. Red ink, words hammered with gentle urgency, old school Smith Carona manual. That's how the avatars of fantastical tale wrote back then. Twelve years later, I'm banking the big advance from Arista and moving into a new 'hood with wife and child, around the corner from Ray Bradbury, trick or treating on Halloween and dropping notes of inquiry about life and art into his huge silver mail box. "Ray, should I write fact or fiction?" I asked one afternoon in the spring of 2003, this time face to face, sitting in the Martian Chronicler's family room off the back patio. He let me sift around the junk shop/museum-like basement that day, foraging about the plastic models, toys, piles of mags, books and newspapers, visual tokens of an imaginative kingdom the man upstairs himself helped build. "Fact, fiction, it's all the same, son," he barked with a massive grin. "Just write!!"

"Dear Lonn: Thanks for the heartwarming letter. There were so few copies of the book of Twilight Zone scripts that it is rare to hear from someone who has one. I saw a copy in The American Comic Book Company store priced at $25.00. I heard Vanesa who was willing to publish the 'Dealer's Choice' story near the end of the year but we couldn't work out term, perhaps an illustration of what I was saying at Grant High. Being a freelance writer for a living presents many obstacles. I am always surprised to encounter someone who has crossed my path before. Sometimes these things defy coincidence -- what Jung calls 'confluential events.' Perhaps we will meet again. Good luck. George Clayton Johnson"

I get the blues when I look for excuses not to sit down in front of this laptop and just spill out what's going on, inside, outside, don't matter. Long as its the truth. The conscious choice to leave the mainstream does not come without obstacles. People are for the most part well intentioned. They want you as you were. When you decide to leave behind what you were for who you are, all bets are off. You're coming out again, brand new, looking for 15 to 1 odds on that e-oh eleven! One roll. It's velvet zen. 2 and 9 equals 11. Johnson was born one week after my dad in 1929. It is no coincidence that I see 11s every day, have since that spring of '98. It's all coming together now because it all fell apart then. The synchronicity is blinding. You with me?

A penny for your thoughts.

He's six weeks younger than me. Roommate Rob interviewed him a few years ago when he down. Really down. Like homeless down. I've had some down time but being in debt is not homeless. Far from it. It's American. In the early 80s, I was deep into three films: Albert Brooks' Lost in America, Ridley Scott's Bladerunner and Coppola's Rumblefrish. It's been years since I've seen any of these pictures but I will never forget the Motorcycle Boy. The way he cruised and bruised in black and white to Stewart Copeland's technicolor soundtrack. Mickey Roarke was the soft spoken archetype of two wheel cool. He owned Rumblefish. He owned us.

When you identify with a character on the screen, however removed his fictional life is from your reality, it has an impact. It's more than entertainment. It's intimate. Then if you're slightly tweaked like me, caught up in the symbolism of numbers, an '11' person, it's gets even more personal. Synchronicity, the connections only you can see that somehow make sense only to you. Follow me if you can. Because sometimes, I can't.

His name is RAM, the initials of the original title of my memoir, Rock A Mile, and the VH1 TV show demo I did with Bon Jovi in 2001. I know, that's a reach but when you sees 'signs,' every clue exists within soul's length. There were two visible addresses in the movie. 11 was the first, where the landlord who made The Wrestler sleep in his van until the rent was paid. And 29, the number above his daughter's door. Those are my numbers. But there's more. There's blood. DNA, parental prophecy, and that music. That loud, bombastic music. Father/daughter/metal. There it is. The holy trinity, the message in the movie, the glory in the groovy.

"Bang your head! Metal health will drive you mad! Bang your head! Metal health will drive you mad!"

Darren Aronofsky's masterpiece opens with beautiful brutality and it never wavers from that too far. We don't watch the wrestler during his last mile, we are the wrestler. We feel his pain, physical and emotional. Whatever blood and humanity he leaves in the ring, no wound bores deeper than his failure as a father. I can't describe how things unfold between Roarke and Evan Rachel Wood who plays Stephanie, the offspring gone lesbian, sent running from man-kind by a dad who disappeared and is desperately trying to repair the irreparable before he hits the mat for the last time. But Ram is hopeless, if not completely heartless. The stripper, played with Oscar brilliance by Marisa Tomey, his only prayer at egalitarian love, is as out of reach as his own flesh and blood. Ram is completely, utterly, tragically alone.

I never really knew Kevin DuBrow during the RIP era save a handshake here and there at an event. It was in Las Vegas, my exiled home for 29 months (you see?), where the DuBrow visitations became a regular, enjoyable occurance. He was always in a good mood, usually in the company of rock DJ, Lark. They were a very tall, Replicant like pair. Me and Kevin had some great raps about L.A. back in the day. The Sunset Strip 80s metal scene that VH1 and E! cannot document enough, was born with Quiet Riot and 'Bang Your Head.' The following ten years -- the decade of decadence -- flying V'd Hollywood right out into space. A zillion records, ubiquitous hairy heads, it was a free for all. At 2 am, the parking lot of the Rainbow Bar & Grill resembled a swap meet in Hell. Freak millionaires in foreign cars with buckets of blow in the back seat would whisk away the sexiest damsels and fill them with illusion.

Kevin drank red wine. Rumor has it one night in the 11 month of 2007 he revisited some old school contraband and something happened. And this animated, famous, networking, happy desert rat dropped dead and no one found his body for four days. He was alone. The story has not been told. I have no idea why. I received several emails after Kevin's funeral from folks close to him that alluded to some serious chick drama. In the world of rock, that alone can be downright fatal.

Mickey was professionally left for dead. Kevin was literally left for dead. And here I sit meandering twixt them both trying to connect the dots if there are any to connect. When Aronofsky went spiritual with The Fountain, I was with him, the storyteller, not so much with the actors or characters in the film. The metaphors were familiar to me after years of Kundalini, self examination and personal deconstruction. Like Richard Linklater's A Waking Life, The Fountain spoke to me. I'm pretty sure I was in the minority because the picture was not well received by audience or critics. It wasn't supposed to be. It did what it intended. It raised the filmmaker's consciousness which manifested in The Wrestler, a career altering cinematic accomplishment.

Resurrection IS sweet. Mickey Roarke will get his Oscar, the Motorcycle boy in triumphant return. Kevin Dubrow's metal is alive and well. As for your humble narrator, well I'm still on the mat. Can't do yoga on a hard wood floor without some padding.

Megan called me six times from the concert. Her blackberry is not the finest sonic delivery device. The riffs have to be instantly distinguishable or it sounds like cats fighting in the alley. "Salvation." I could hear the gentle stoned poet clearly. The memory of that evening in San Francisco at that venerable Fine Arts enclave resonates. Clarance Greenwood revealed to me his authenticity. Another track. Another groovy psalm swaddled in infectious beat stuff. I wrote a column for Relix magazine titled, The Audacity of Cope about a daughter introducing her father to an artist that moves her. What else can a dad like me, lost in time and space, in chord and clang, ask for? I text her partner the year older than Meg insufferably gorgeous Sigma Ki sister Annabell from Boston the following response after she told me how amazing I was for arranging this magic evening. "Well, it it makes you and my daughter happy, it can't be that baaaaaaddddddd." A moment later, with my psychic eye in laser focus on the miracle, my crackberry rings again. And I can hear her, scratchy, distant but definitely her. "if it MAKES you happy..." But there's something else. Background singers. Real close to the phone. And that made me so fucking happy. Me and Facebook had an instant understanding. Minimal structure, simple in essence. I just throw the shit out there, walls, comments, notes, I don't know. I was at the Wolves/Clippers game today and that Kardashian girl from TV was there with her Entourage looking, uh, entourage. Now I took the Metro today which is rare from Hollywood to Staples and it was so enjoyable. Dean Cooper, man of metal and basketball genius, assistant head coach of the Wolves, hooks me up but no one can go so I go alone. And the first dude I see when I leave the box office is a black fellow with a Clippers hat and sightly damaged right eye. "You need a ticket, brother?" I did say brother. I know. It just came out. Felt right cause that is how I feel. So you can see why the No Drama Obama era has me more inspired than ever to lose the illusion. Meg's photos from D.C. yesterday were so random. Random is Meg's favorite word. That and 'awkward.' Friday night, I was on E! channel. I consulted and was interviewed for the 90 minute forward thinking documentary of rockers and their gals. Wearing the George Washington University hat, I'm getting piped into the Sorority house. "Annabell worships you! haahaa." I've directed Scott Ian and Pearl Aday to three or four different such programs for no other reason than they represent one of the healthiest, top to bottom groovy couples in the history of modern music. Least that's how I see it. I could be wrong. Probably not. I text Megan the following note: "She beat cancer and a dozen failed relationships; she's a true artist, a channel who sings her truth, our truth." A couple minutes later, I get this response. "I showed that to a random guy next to me and he put his hand over his heart." That's when I turned into a milkshake. Dean Cooper defines most of reality what is or is not METAL. When he introduced me to Wolves coach Kevin McHale, former Celtic forward and part of the greatest ten year rivalry hoops will ever know, Coop says, "Lonn's born and raised here he shouted against you on many occasions," and before the man never misses a Queensryche or Transiberian Orchestra tour could complete his intro, I interrupted while grabbing the coach's massive right hand. "You were part of the legendary decade and that was then. This is the No Drama Obama era. I'm a uniter!" That last line draws a massive grin. Coop orders a beer at my friend Chuck Colby's Marina Del Rey experiment, The Organic Panaficio, and says, "Now THAT was METAL." We're on the eve of the affirmation. Nightfalls, machines stall, we turn our senses, follow the breath and mediate on exactly where we right now as a civilization. Satan needs a second yellow pad. The list of grievances to humanity is long and complex. Which is the most celestial irony of all because the answer is so simple. "All the you need is love." Let them tease you, wish you to the cornfield. They're powerless. We're coming together. We have to. There is no choice. None. No judge will even hear the argument. Fear. Love. Two choices. Every moment. Fear is not metal. Love is metal. The way Dave Grohl writes about love and connection. That's metal. He took a lot of us, over a hundred, to dinner for his 40th birthday last weekend at the Medieval Times in Buena Park, a place my mom says has been there 'forever.' "That's where they joust while you're eating dinner." The audience gets downright arena loud and animated, waving flags and light savers. Jerry and Sean from AIC, Josh Homme, Fee Waybill, Juliet Lewis -- all the faces I saw at the New Year's Eve party. Dave gives back. He loves Jordhan, being a dad, playing rock with every last ounce of jizz left in his nutsack. Dave is metal. Did you see Keith Olbermann's Special Comment tonight, on the eve? His last cry of heinous 'foul' to the most unconscious administration in American History. We should prosecute those who tortured. Life is not 24 and there is no Jack Bauer. We must be more human than human as the brilliant Rob Zombie would say. Wars must end and never be fought again. No argument. Race, creed, color, nationality, religion, wealth -- NOTHING makes you any better than anyone else who is marching across this planet. "Be the change you want to see in the world." Pray for our new President. Protect him. You all can do it. We can do it. Yes we can. Because Barak Obama is metal.

I've admired David Fincher since visiting the Aerosmith 'Janie's Got a Gun' set in the early 90s. From all the MTV bred video directors, Fincher has evolved into the most conscious and accomplished filmmaker of the lot. Michael Bay cannot touch his sense of left field quirk or sociocultural relevance. Pearl Harbor? Please. I'll take Fight Club. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button may be the master director's first romantic masterpiece.

The premise is so paradoxical -- to be born old and near death and grow younger each year as those around you inevitably head toward their respective ends -- presents a fascinating and frustrating scenario. Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett consummate their union at each others' life mid points. The parables of time and tide are plenty. Button is short on words, long on wisdom, a glorious misfit and pure cinematic soul, like Tim Burton's fragile Edward Scissorhands or Robert Zemeckis' ubiquitous Forrest Gump. The screenplay was written by Gump author, Eric Roth, based on a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, one that definitely escaped me even during my literary college years.
Close to three hours, the film moves along like a soft meditation, filling our senses with precisely crafted characters and stunning visuals. It never plods mainly because the story is so completely bizarre. We cannot leave the narrative for a moment. We must know how it play out. Fincher tweaks us with a running joke, snapping our senses of humor, with a freaky old fellow who repeats his tale, 'You know, I've been hit by lightning seven times,' articulating each random near death event. In the end, Benjamin Button is about life and death and how it doesn't matter where or when one begins their journey, we all arrive at the same destination. It's the Taoist space between that matters, in other words, how did you spend those days while your heart was beating and your lungs were breathing? Did you live? And more importantly, did you love?

This is a genuine, old school epic. No modern media pandering, product placement or shameless sellout like say the last Indiana Jones travesty. I still refuse to believe that my one-time hero, Steven Spielberg, personally directed that train wreck. If a film sacrifices its heart, it does not deserve our attention or patronage. Not in this End Times day and age. The movie theater is still a sacred place. David Fincher knows that and I for one applaud his body of work, culminating with the brave and beautiful Benjamin Button. And that's all I have to say about that.

Those of you still within the sound of my voice who're looking for a book to give a friend or family member for the holidays, please consider an odd yet fascinating memoir titled I Found All the Parts by a lady named Laura Faeth. Since I hit the road less traveled more than a decade ago (okay, 11 years, you know me and that number), I've been through more ch-ch-ch changes than I care to recall right now. But right now, I'd like you to take a glimpse of Laura's book because it's a journey and nothing in our lives stays the same and you fill in the parable that works for you -- I'm just happy I was able to be part of this first time author's creative process. And I'm pretty sure many of you will connect (perhaps not fully understand but connect) with her tale. Or at the least, be entertained by a real life rock n' roll freaky fairy tale. Start here: http://myspace.com/talltrickster. The published words I contributed to her literary cause follow. Thanks, one and all. And keep the ... Faeth. xL.

SING-CHRONICITY

I was in Iron Maiden's hospitality hang post their L.A. Forum performance last winter chatting it up with guests and friends of the iconic British band. After drummer Lars Ulrich – who authored the foreword to my memoir, Life on Planet Rock, made sure I was 'doing okay, man,' I drifted over to engage Metallica bassist Robert Trujillo. Within sixty seconds, we were discussing the cosmos, astrology and numerology, specifically, the number 11.

"Dude, you see 'em, too?" he smiled widely. "I've been getting into this whole 11:11 thing. The gateway. Are you hip to that stuff? Its wild!" The bass-ass banger of the four-string I'd known since his Suicidal Tendencies days had found a kindred spirit. While the rest of the room discussed professional machinations through the prism of 100 proof old school decadence, two pilgrims on a similar path pondered the infinite. "I see 11s every days, dude," I responded. "We're blessed. Those who see 11s have reached a unique level of consciousness. My Kundalini yogi Guru Singh says the two 'ones' reflect one another, putting you on equal footing with the divine."

Slayer's Kerry King – lead guitarist for trash metal's most devilish heroes who released their LP, God Hates Us All, on September 11, 2001 – entered the frame to say hello and celestial conversation gave way to two veteran warriors of rock doing their 'bro' thing as I drifted off, enamored by the dark/light synchronicity of the moment.

Which brings us to the here, now and 'wow' of this moment where a writer named Friend lends a few introductory words to an angel named Faeth. Over the past several months since the Universe brought us together, that is what Laura Faeth has become to me. An angel. Reading I Found All the Parts was nothing short of a mystical experience. Page after page, epigram after epigram, revelation after revelation, synchronicity after synchronicity, I saw myself and in that reflection and meditated on the lessons. Her personal narrative – self -realization and soul healing through lifelong obsession with an 'anonymous' rock group (yes I know the mysterious minstrels for almost 20 years) – transcends an original, quirky and fun read. Laura Faeth has given us a tome; an Eat Pray Love meets Almost Famous melding of the mystical and the musical that courageously asks the question, "Can we really heal the soul through rock n' roll?" The answer is a Marshall Stack 'this one goes to 11' yes!

I'm not a critic. Never have been. It pains me to sit in judgment of another artist's work. Only those who choose to skate this slippery slope of expression know from whence their creativity comes. I possess an almost pathological empathy for the brave ones that can't sit by and let the world decompose without composing themselves. I'm in my 11th year of 'the shift.' Yes, that number again. It has become ubiquitous to my being since I was so lovingly bitch-slapped by the Universe in the spring of 1998 after four Faustian years as the highly paid, creatively strangled VP of A&R for Clive Davis' now defunct, Arista Records. My first career failure and life pause sent me inward. Everything fell apart, my marriage, my life. I exiled myself to the desert, wrote my book, returned to L.A. in the spring of '06 and a day does not go by where I do not both condemn and bless the struggle. I am afloat on a river of constant change. Just like my angel, Laura Faeth.

"Friends are all souls that we've known in other lives. We're drawn to each other. Even if I have only known them a day, it doesn't matter. I'm not going to wait 'till I have known them for two years, because anyway, we must have met somewhere before, you know." – George Harrison

The epigram introducing part two of I Found All the Parts synthesizes the synchronicity for why I'm here on these pages. In my memoir, I open the chapter titled, "Chicken Soup for the Rubber Soul," with the sentence, "I emerged from my mother's womb on July 29, 1956 but I was born on February 9, 1964, the day the Beatles first performed on the Ed Sullivan show." The Fab Four sparked my musical consciousness. George Harrison shares the same birthday with my friend, veteran scribe, Harvey Kubernik, who read Laura's book yesterday and offered a quote for the sleeve. As for the numbers,; 29th, two and nine, 11. '56, five and six, 11. Feb 9th, two and nine, 11.

This book hit stores on 11/11/08. Beyond the numbers, the words and the riffs, get into the meditation. Sit cross-legged on the floor for a moment, close your eyes, and simply behold the wonder of what can happen when you do, indeed, finally find all the parts. Then open your mouth and SING.

I know I will.

Lonn Friend
September 11, 2008
Hollywood, California

Beyond the terrorist attacks in India, this may be the most disturbing news item of the holiday weekend. http://money.aol.com/news/articles/_a/bbdp/wal-mart-worker-trampled-to-death/262342

So they can get their Emerson plasma for under $400 or a new Chinese-made kitchen appliance for less than it cost to feed a family of six sweat shoppers in Shanghai, Black Friday bargain hunters stormed the front door of a Long island Wal-Mart like Who fans in Cincinnati, and trampled a store worker TO DEATH. Mob mentality, primate, voracious, like wolverines en quest for elk dinner, this single act of collective idiocy points to how far we still are as a civilization from being truly evolved. I have long loathed this holiday, the commercialization of Christ originated by the temple money changers. But over the past few years, where my gold turned to copper and I've come to appreciate a simple life of baubles few. a clarity and reverence for what held real value in this life experience emerged.

As Morgan Freeman suggested in his role of post modern deity in Evan Almighty, it comes down to 'a single act of human kindness.' How does mom break this tragic, department store news to their child? "Your daddy was killed at work today, in battle, a hero of capitalism and the American way." It's not a satirical indictment of our materialistic culture but rather a statement on our ebbing humanity. In the midst of a global economic crisis, we should all be examining what makes us human -- love, compassion, the core values of what separates us from the wolverines -- and not what we own or the illusion attached to the ownership of such things.

Say a prayer tonight for the fallen Wal-Mart employee. He deserves that. And then, send out a bigger meditative message. "Attention Shoppers of Planet Earth! Today in aisle 4, please check out the peace, love and understanding display. No need to rush. There's plenty in stock for everyone!" xL.

The set list was random but precise, sweeping yet exact, ancient yet modern, all worlds in perfect collision under the six string windmill aegis of the immortal Townshend and his pipes, Roger D. It's an eminent front, yeah, a fucking put on, the greed and idiocy that's run rampant since the 80s and now we're crashing, thrashing and dashing for the exists, the evil doers with nothing left to do but lick their wounds from the grand mall ass kicking they were handed last Tuesday night. When the 6k roared, "We don't get fooled again!" tonight it was not an idle chant. There was conviction in the chorus, method in the madness. When's the last time you saw "Naked Eye" and "Relay" performed live?

And how the fuck does Perry Farrell dare to leave half way though the 2 1/2 hour set? The 30 minute Tommy jam encore was one for the ages. It was Pete's energy, the unbridled joy and freedom he emanated. He is one of the most lovable and laudable narcissists rock n' roll has ever known, earning his mythical bravado from sage like opuses that other egomaniacs like the guy with the long tongue and the Jersey cowboy couldn't touch if their songbooks were dipped in sacred waters. 5:15 and Love Reign o'er me from the double LP that altered my teenage life, Quadrophenia, were absolutely seismic. Leslie took me, Meatloaf's ex, Pearl's mom, Roger's pal of 30 years. The anecdote is in the Amazing Journey chapter of the memoir. If you need quick link to my book because each day I discover how anemic the marketing of my tome has been, here ya go.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0767922085/ref=s9sims_c1_14_img1-rfc_p-frt_g1-3237_g1_si1?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=center-7&pf_rd_r=0WPE0FGHBJ22850JQ4MX&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=461886601&pf_rd_i=507846

I shall now retire to the kitchen for a midnight cup of tea and toast the heroes o' Portsmouth. Long live The Who. Long live rock. Be it dead or alive...

The pots melts with technicolor humanity, wide smiles, national flags, thousands of the world's most exceptional athletes flutter about the Bird's Nest in Beijing, together. One. it is celebration of humanity, an affirmation of miracles, an eyeful for the soulful. I've watched on and off, beheld amazing moments of both victory and defeat, because on this road we travel, both are amazing. We win, we lose. We wake up. We snooze. And hopefully, we wake up again. And we stay awake. If I had a last dream before being taken to my mythological reward, I would pray to have one instant. one moment, one ineffable sensation like what Michael Phelps must have experienced when he hit the wall 1/100th of a second ahead of his watery rivals. Right after that, drop me off on the sands of a far away beach smack in the middle of the naked women's volleyball team. And when they can't revive me, send in that aquatic MILF Dara Torres to mouth to mouth me back to life.

"I don't know where I'm going/But I know where I've been"

Meg and I were on Melrose today finding a pair of tall leather boots for her snowy D.C. college campaign ahead. And that song, those smokey, wonderful pipes of a man with whom I've had some great exchanges, filled the small but lively store. And of course, I start singing which has bugged Meg since she was five or six. Where it lost its cool to be a fool and a dad at the same time. But we've come full circle you see and she's not miffed anymore. Friday afternoon the Rejects were wrapping their LP at the Hollywood studio I've had some exceptional times at of late; observing the creative process as intimately as I ever have in my long and winding career. "Come for the gang vocal at 5 pm!" read the text from guitarist Nick Wheeler.

Seven mikes set up in the middle of the room where Stevie Wonder recorded Songs in the Key of Life with seven sets of headphones hanging from seven metal stands. Tyson Ritter writes out the lyrics to the chorus we're shouting and places them on a chair in front of the visiting pipes.

"If you find a man that's worth a damn and treats you well
He's a fool, you're just as well, (I) Hope it Gives You Hell!"

I'm roaring at the top of the lungs, in sync with the brothers, half dozen strong, Eric V behind the glass, rolling. Tape. Yeah. Tape. Old school marries the new. And off to my right, my kid, my miracle, my Olympian, is taking photos of pop being himself, grinning ear to ear. And she's not complaining about my singing! The final stages of recording a piece of musical art, the last pages of the opening chapter of a young girl's life journal, the closing ceremony of the 2008 Olympic Games, the swan song march across the shadowlands for a pilgrim.

"Here I go again on my own/Walking down the only road I've ever known."

We walk alone yet we walk together. We are finite in body and mind, infinite in heart and soul. We are all winners and all losers. We are blood droplets congealing, wounds ever healing, our choice is the floor or the ceiling or somewhere in between. We will vote for the man who tells us the truth and cast out the liar with the rest of the dark matter. We will choose peace over war, love over fear. We will praise art and condemn greed. We will whisper and not shout, unless laying down a gang vocal for an All American Rejects song. We will give before we take, think before we fake. We will acknowledge that there are more things in heaven and Earth, Nastia Liukin, than are dreamt of in this lifetime.

It's closing time in Beijing.

Wake up and smell the possibilities.

I am not in Vancouver. I never went to Vancouver. If I had booked a flight to Vancouver, both Jordan and Heather would be figuring what to whip up for dinner when the pilgrim lands. In fact, if I wanted to go to Vancouver tomorrow I couldn't because my passport expired three years ago and since the age of fear, lies and corruption kicked into high gear shortly after the turn of millennium, you can't just cruise across the border anymore to visit our wonderful, musical, whimsical, peace loving Canadian neighbors. "May I see your papers?" Here, I got your papers, Dick Cheney!

I was flummoxed when John Edwards pulled out (sorry) of the race when he was still very much a viable Democratic candidate. Now I understand. John's third leg got the best of his third eye. The vetting was just a matter of time. We cannot hide anymore. None of us. The ramp up to 2012 demands, above all, truth. Watch carefully as the Olympic Games unfold over the coming two weeks. See if the Chinese government and can really squash the dissemination of content, beyond the fireworks, medals and athletic miracles. My mom just told me someone connected to an American team coach was knifed by (consult Walter from Big Lebowski for proper nomenclature) 'an Asian American.' Bring on the darkness. Bring it on from far and wide. Cause when it arrives, we got the light to send its ass back to the abyss from whence it came.

The Republicans probably sprung major wood from the Edwards revelation but they can't act, they can't gloat, they can fire sticks and stones because that would expose them and their once nobel leader, Newt Gingrich, who had an affair while HIS wife was dying of cancer. The saddest thing here is the hypocrisy. We want to march Edwards into the town square, strip him naked, rub peanut butter on his nuts and let loose the rats. But that pervert from Utah is still casting votes in the Senate after looking for man love in an airport toilet stall. What's worse? A man and woman sharing a loving embrace or an aging misanthrope trying to get a hummer where men dispose their waste?

The closer we get to completely insanity, the closer I believe we're getting to full exposure. And exposure leads directly or indirectly to enlightenment and an ultimate encore for mankind on Planet Rock. I was informed last week by a photographer friend deeply connected in the ways of the 'secret' society that the U.S. government is beginning to every so deliberately, reveal UFO materials that have been gathering in clandestine office files for half a century. Now whether this is related to the up click in sightings (did you see that hovercraft over Texas? Cool, but who knows with today's manipulative technology), that's for individual assessment. We're going to start seeing things that don't make sense under normal conditions because the definition of normal is about to undergo a face lift that would send both Joan Rivers and Morgan Fairchild running for Bruce Dickinson's hills.

There is a rationale for keeping secrets. Not everything should be laid on the table for public examination or private contemplation. We are living in an accelerated, blog happy culture, where social networking and online dating have become the normal avenues of communication. For shits, giggles and curiosity, a few weeks ago I filled out a profile for chemistry.com. But the minute they asked for coin, I abandoned it. And yet these messages keep appearing in my in box, but when I try to open up and see who this lady is that so curious about me, I'm asked for cash or no enter. Last Thursday, Rick Levine at Tarot.com who 'reads' my stars like no other, laid out in no uncertain terms that the wave of good energy and opportunity currently starting to break on my broken glass laden beach, is NOT complete. There's something missing. SHE is missing. Rick doesn't read my My Space messages. He knows not of the love I experience in this wordy wonderland each day. But I took the cue and headed another $99 in debt for a three month peek behind the curtain.

I am loathe to get overly excited about this adventure because I'm getting busy again and new fascinating creatures are appearing organically but all that being said, I will not easily abandon my alone again naturally Gilbert o' Sullivan drama-less lifestyle. It took a lot of sweat blood loss words and tears to achieve my own state of exposure. Rome is about to burn and I'm inviting Lili Haydn to fiddle. "Healing the Soul through Rock n' Roll" is the subtitle to my friend. Laura Faeth's new book, I Found All the Parts. It's coming out this fall and I'm going to help her get the word out because it took courage to compose a new age homage to the power of music. I've just begun reading so I can't offer much more right now but I certainly will later. The mere Synchronicity that delivered this Colorado wife/mother/rocker/space traveler to my virtual doorstep demanded my attention. Follow the universal bread crumbs and you will not only be led out of the forest but fed along the way.

"Rome is burning/me I'm watching/men are learning." That Springsteen lyric just soared off the Shuffle and into this blog. What did I say about the messages? Don't fear the exposure as you did not fear BOC's reaper. Bernie Mac is dead but he made us laugh while he was here. I'm spending hours with a bunch of Rejects from Oklahoma. Getting paid to observe the creative process again while the creators are still likable, human...exposed. Stop by later. I've got a tupperware full of breadcrumbs in the fridge. And what's mine is yours. You know, I think I posted a blog by the name Expose a couple years ago but I'm too lazy (or in the moment) to trace the archive. That was then, anyway, and this is now. Hope you dig the new version and its updated features.