domingo, 27 de setiembre de 2009

Arctic Monkeys lead Q Awards

Sheffield band the Arctic Monkeys lead this year's Q Awards with four nominations, while Oasis, who recently announced their split, are up for two prizes. Skip related content
Among other artists with multiple nominations for the music publication's annual awards were U2, Florence & The Machine, The Prodigy, Kasabian and Dizzee Rascal. The prizes are handed out on October 26.

Arctic Monkeys, who have just released their third album, appear on the shortlist for best track ("Crying Lightning"), best live act, best album ("Humbug") and best act in the world.

Manchester's Oasis have been nominated for best live act and best act in the world, despite songwriter and guitarist Noel Gallagher announcing last month that he had quit the band due to a bust up with his brother and frontman Liam.

"The nominations are compiled from votes cast in their thousands by Q's readers, listeners, viewers and online users, so they reflect the choice of the nation's music fans," said Q Magazine editor-in-chief Paul Rees.

Following are the nominations:

Best New Act:

- White Lies; Friendly Fires; Empire Of The Sun; Passion Pit; The Dead Weather

Breakthrough Artist

- Florence & The Machine; Lady GaGa; La Roux; Mr. Hudson; Pixie Lott

Best Track

- Kasabian/Fire; Muse/Uprising; Arctic Monkeys/Crying Lightning; Dizzee Rascal/Bonkers; Noisettes/Never Forget You; Lily Allen/The Fear

Best Video

- The Dead Weather/Treat Me Like Your Mother; Dizzee Rascal/Holiday; Florence & The Machine/Drumming Song; Mika/We Are Golden; Lady GaGa/Just Dance

Best Live Act

- The Prodigy; U2; Oasis; Kasabian; Arctic Monkeys; Blur; Take That

Best Album

Arctic Monkeys/Humbug; U2/No Line On The Horizon; Florence & The Machine/Lungs; The Prodigy/Invaders Must Die; Kasabian/West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum

Best Act In The World Today

- Kings Of Leon; Arctic Monkeys; Oasis; Coldplay; Muse


(Reporting by Mike Collett-White, editing by Paul Casciato)


Fuente: Yahoo Uk&Ireland News

Noel Gallagher joins Kasabian on tour



The rock legend - who quit Oasis last month after a furious row with brother, and the group's frontman, Liam - will appear with the band on their forthcoming UK tour.

Frontman Tom Meighan said: "We've got our arena tour in November. Noel will be calling us up nearer the time for sure saying, 'Lads, I'm going to come perform with you on tour.'

"He's a performing machine, and loves playing live so he jumps at the opportunity whenever he can join us."

Tom also revealed the band may also record a track with Noel in the future.

He said: "We'd love to do a track with him. Never say never. But at the moment he's concentrating on his solo stuff and we're busy as ever."

Kasabian supported Oasis on their recent UK tour before the 'Wonderwall' rockers cancelled a number of shows after splitting in August.

However, Tom admits he didn't see any signs they were going to split.

He said: "Oasis were at the pinnacle of the music world for 16 years and despite touring with them this year, we didn't see any signs that they were falling apart."


Fuente: Yahoo Uk & Irland News

jueves, 24 de setiembre de 2009

Youssou Ndour: I Bring What I Love

Una mirada vibrante, conmovedora y profunda a uno de los músicos más inspiradores y populares del mundo, el heroe senegalés Youssou N'dour.

"YOUSSOU N'DOUR: I BRING WHAT I LOVE" fue filmada durante 2 años y en 3 continentes, siguiendo al músico africano, ganador de un Grammy, durante el lanzamiento de su álbum más ambicioso, EGYPT, un best seller en el cual, por primera vez, N'dour canta sobre el Islam, demostrando que no es una religión únicamente para los árabes sino que también es la religión de muchos asiáticos y africanos.

Este documental se estrenó en Europa a finales de noviembre en el International Documentary Film Festival Amsterdam.

A partir de su lanzamiento en Senegal, el album fue considerado blasfemo, poniendo a N'dour, probablemente el artista musulman más popular actualmente, cara a cara con las contradicciones de su propia religión.



Este es el trailer del film

martes, 22 de setiembre de 2009

Algunas frases...

... que he publicado en FB ^^


Solo se trata de vivir esa es la historia con la sonrisa en el ojal con la idiotez y la locura de todos los dias a lo mejor resulta bien. LA VIDA ES UNA MONEDA.- Juan Carlos Baglietto

See a penny, pick it up and all day long you’ll have good luck

Recuerda siempre que eres único... exactamente igual que los demás.

Quieres ser feliz un instante? Véngate. Quieres ser feliz para siempre? Perdona -. Tertuliano .-

La felicidad es el trayecto, no el destino...

Empieza el día con una sonrisa, vas a ver que divertido es andar por ahí desentonando con los demás .-Libertad

Cuando el hombre se apiade de todas las criaturas vivientes, solo entonces será noble. .- Buda

Think twice, act wise

Los espejos se emplean para verse la cara; el arte para verse el alma. - George Bernard Shaw

No man is exempt from saying silly things; the mischief is to say them deliberately. - Michel de Montaigne

Dios los cría y el viento los amontona

"No estoy loco, ahora lo entiendo. Soy mentalmente divergente".- James Cole - 12 monkeys

"Las lechuzas no son lo que parecen" .- Twin Peaks

lunes, 21 de setiembre de 2009

Cosas de chicos

Al autor y orador Leo Buscaglia, se le solicitó que fuera parte del jurado
de un concurso. El propósito del concurso era, encontrar al niño más
cariñoso. El ganador fue un niño de 4 años cuyo vecino era un anciano, a
quien recientemente se le había muerto la esposa. El niño, al ver al hombre
sentado en una banca del patio y llorando, se metió al patio del anciano, se
subió a su regazo y se sentó. Cuando su mamá le preguntó que le había dicho
al vecino, el pequeño niño le contestó: * "Nada... sólo le ayudé a llorar".

________________

Debbie Moons, maestra de primer grado, estaba discutiendo con su grupo la
pintura de una familia. En la pintura había un niño que tenía el cabello de
diferente color al resto de los miembros de la familia. Uno de los niños del
grupo sugirió que el niño de la pintura era adoptado y una niña compañera de
él le dijo:
"Yo sé todo acerca de las adopciones, porque yo soy adoptada". * "¿Qué
significa ser adoptada?"- preguntó el niño y la niña le contestó:
* "Significa que uno no crece en el vientre de su mamá sino que crece en Su
corazón".

________________

Una niña de 4 años estaba con su pediatra. Mientras el doctor le revisaba
los oídos con el otoscopio, le preguntó: - "¿Crees que adentro me encontraré
al Pájaro Abelardo?" La niña permaneció en silencio.
Enseguida el doctor tomó el abatelenguas y mientras revisaba su garganta le
preguntó: - "¿Crees que ahí dentro me encontraré al monstruo galletero?"...
Y de nuevo la niña no contestó nada.
El doctor puso el estetoscopio en el pecho de la niña y mientras escuchaba
su corazón le preguntó:
- "¿Crees que escucharé a Barney ahí adentro?" "Oh, no"- contestó la niña,
"Barney está pintado en mis zapatos. En mi corazón está Dios".

________________

Siempre que estoy decepcionado de mi vida, me detengo a pensar en el pequeño
Jaime Scout.
Jaime estaba intentando conseguir una parte en una obra de la escuela. Su
mamá me dijo que había puesto su corazón en ello pero aún así, temía que no
fuera elegido. El día que fueron repartidas las partes de la obra, yo
estuve en la escuela.. Jaime salió corriendo con los ojos brillantes de
orgullo y una gran emoción. *"Adivina qué mamá" me dijo gritando las
palabras que permanecerán como una lección para mi: "He sido elegido para
aplaudir y animar"
( sencillamente :MARAVILLOSO).

________________

En Nueva York un niño de 10 años estaba parado, descalzo, frente a una
tienda de zapatos apuntando a través de la ventana y temblando de frío. Una
señora se acercó al niño y le dijo: "Mi pequeño amigo ¿qué estás mirando con
tanto interés en esa ventana?". La respuesta fue: - "'Le estaba pidiendo a
Dios que me diera un par de zapatos".
La señora lo tomó de la mano y lo llevó adentro de la tienda, le pidió al
empleado que le diera media docena de pares de calcetines para el niño.
Preguntó si podría prestarle una palangana con agua y una toalla. El
Empleado rápidamente le trajo lo que pidió. La señora se llevó al niño a la
parte trasera de la tienda, se quitó los guantes, le lavó los pies al niño y
se los secó con la toalla. Para entonces el empleado llegó con los
calcetines, la señora le puso un par de ellos al niño y le compró un par de
zapatos. Juntó el resto de los calcetines y se los dió al niño. Ella
acarició al niño en la cabeza y le dijo:
-"¡No hay duda pequeño amigo que te sientes más cómodo ahora!" Mientras ella
daba la vuelta para marcharse, el niño la alcanzó, la tomó de la mano y
mirándola con lágrimas en los ojos le preguntó:
- "¿Es usted la esposa de Dios?"

domingo, 20 de setiembre de 2009

PIEL - Ted Dekker




"Dekker es un maestro del suspenso" . - Publicación Bibliotecaria


PIEL, no confíes en tus ojos

Una extraña tormenta ha proyectado tres tornados que se están abalanzando sobre el pueblo de Summerville.

Pero bajo el pretexto de la tormenta surge una amenaza de peor augurio: Un vengativo asesino conocido como Red, quien ha dejado a su paso una serie de víctimas, y que ahora está empeñado en llevar a cabo su venganza final sobre el desprevenido pueblo.

Pero a Red lo rodea un misterio que el FBI no está dispuesto a admitir: secretos muy bien guardados de algo terriblemente perverso debajo de la piel de Summerville. Secretos que destruirán mucho más que el pueblo.

Wendy Davidson está atrapada en el medio. Ella es una sobreviviente en recuperación de una secta, y se refugia en Summerville en su camino a visitar a su madre, de quien está separada. Con ella están cuatro extraños, cualquiera de los cuales podría ser la próxima víctima...

... o el asesino.



"[PIEL es] ficción absorbente, reflexiva, especulativa, está totalmente fuera de lo común, y destroza esquemas... otorga a los lectores una narración de horror y suspenso, además de una alucinante realidad". -TITLE TRAKK



TED DEKKER es conocido por sus novelas que combinan narraciones repletas de terror con inesperadas maquinaciones, personajes inolvidables, e increíbles confrontaciones entre el bien y el mal. Ted vive en las montañas de Colorado con su esposa y sus hijos.

Web oficial: Ted Dekker - the official author site

Cody McFadyen - EL ROSTRO DE LA MUERTE







Segunda novela del autor que le dio una nueva dimensión al suspense.



La agente especial Smoky Barret está acostumbrada a lidiar con el lado más espantoso del alma humana: ella misma lleva en su cuerpo y en su espíritu horribles cicatrices, resultado de sus encuentros con los asesinos en serie a los que ha dado caza. Pero esta vez se encuentra con un horror envuelto en un enigma: Sarah, una adolescente, aparece empapada en sangre en medio de los cadáveres mutilados de su familia adoptiva. Entre balbuceos, asegura que el extraño los ha matado... y que no es la primera vez que sucede. A medida que trata de acercarse al corazón de la joven, Smoky descubre una historia de increíble crueldad. La historia de una venganza que se remonta a los primeros años de la vida de Sarah, y que incluye la muerte de todos aquellos a los que, en algún momento, la muchacha ha llegado a querer en la vida. Smoky y su equipo del FBI se enfrentan a su peor reto, una mente calculadora y despiadada, un ángel convertido en demonio.



Con El hombre sombra, Cody McFadyen llevó el género del thriller de asesinos en serie más allá de lo que ningún autor se había atrevido a hacer. El rostro de la muerte nos devuelve a su protagonista, Smoky Barret, envuelta en una espiral de tensión que nos obliga a contener el aliento hasta el brutal desenlace.




Cody McFadyen irrumpió en el mundo literario con su impactante debut El hombre sombra. Nacido en Texas, desempeñó diversos oficios hasta que, pasados los treinta años decidió retomar el sueño de su infancia y convertirse en escritor. Actualmente vive en California, está casado y tiene una hija.



Web oficial Cody McFadyen

La familia Telerín

Ya alguna vez había posteado esta canción con la que crecí yo y que desde siempre le canto a mis chiquitos... pero la que había posteado antes era la versión más nueva en colores ... esta es la original, en blanco y negro...

Una anécdota: hoy cuando les mostré a las nenas este video les dije "miren, así veía la tele mamá cuando era chiquita" y Martina muy seria me dice "pobre mamá" jajaja ^^

Acá el video original, en blanco y negro, de la Familia Telerín




y ACÁ el video más "nuevo" que ya era en colores ^^

viernes, 18 de setiembre de 2009

Celebrity Roommate Challenge

Bret harrison and Adam Brody... que problemas de coordinación!!!

martes, 15 de setiembre de 2009

Living legend gong for Iggy Pop

Punk pioneer Iggy Pop will collect a living legend gong at this year's Marshall Classic Rock Roll Of Honour Awards. Skip related content
The 62-year-old extrovert, who was the lead singer of The Stooges, will collect the trophy in London on November 2.

The star said: "I feel now that all those years of banging away in the dives and palaces of the weird universe of rock are finally adding up to something. "

The singer, whose hits include Lust For Life, Real Wild Child and The Passenger, will join an esteemed list of previous recipients, including Ozzy Osbourne, Jimmy Page, Alice Cooper and Lemmy.

"The other people who have received this award are absolutely awesome, and I feel very lucky to be included," Iggy said.

The nominations for the 2009 Marshall Classic Rock Roll of Honour Awards were announced earlier this year.

To cast your vote pick up a copy of Classic Rock Magazine or visit www.classicrockmagazine.co.uk.


Fuente: Yahoo Uk & Ireland News

No-asis for Liam Gallagher



The future of the band is in doubt following the departure of guitarist Noel Gallagher and despite the singer's intentions to continue, the rest of the group - guitarist Gem Archer, bassist Andy Bell and drummer Chris Sharrock - are unsure they can cope with the frontman's moods.

A source told Britain's Daily Mirror newspaper: "It was always on the cards that Noel was to quit - the other band members saw it coming the night before he walked out.

"Some have already started to look for pastures new - as they have no idea how the new format of Oasis would work.

"Now that Noel has gone, no one else knows how they'll put up with Liam's big mouth. They saw how Liam treated Noel and don't know what will happen if he does the same to them. They have their doubts it can survive without Noel."

Noel quit the band last Friday (28.08.09) following a fist fight with his brother shortly before they were due to perform at the Rock en Seine festival in Paris.

During the altercation - in which one of Liam's treasured guitars was smashed - the frontman is said to have shouted: "You're no brother of mine."

After leaving the group, Noel, 42, issued a statement saying he could no longer continue working with Liam, 36.

The musician said: "The details are not important and of too great a number to list. But I feel you have the right to know that the level of verbal and violent intimidation towards me, my family, friends and comrades has become intolerable. And the lack of support and understanding from my management and bandmates has left me with no other option than to get me cape and seek pastures new."

Despite the acrimonious split, Liam and Noel's mother Peggy is hopeful they will reunite.

She said: "Liam adores Noel. They do love each other, but they've always been very different. I hope this isn't the end of Oasis. I don't think it is. They're just tired at the end of the tour. They've had fights before and got over it."

(C) BANG Media International

Original news:
Yahoo Uk & Ireland News

Noel Gallagher to tell all


The guitarist quit the group last week following an explosive row with his brother, the band's frontman Liam Gallagher, and Noel is in talks to reveal the events leading up to the split to UK TV host Piers Morgan.

A source told Britain's Daily Star newspaper: "Noel and Liam haven't been shy in having a public rift, but there is much more happening behind-the-scenes than anyone can even imagine.

"Piers is the perfect interviewer to get to the heart of what's been going on."

The interview is expected to be broadcast in the UK when his TV Show 'Piers Morgan's Life Stories' - in which he speaks to celebrities about key moments in their lives - returns later this year.

In the months leading up to the split, Noel and Liam had both spoken less-than-favourably about one another, with the guitarist even revealing his sibling has not yet met his two-year-old son Donovan.

Despite their problems, the brothers' mother Peggy Gallagher believes they will reconcile.

She said: "Liam adores Noel. They do love each other, but they've always been very different. The funny thing is, they didn't fight as children. They didn't fight until they started the band.

"I hope this isn't the end of Oasis. I don't think it is. They're just tired at the end of the tour. They've had fights before and got over it."

Songwriter Noel, 42, quit the band last Friday (28.08.09), minutes before the group was due on stage at Paris' Rock en Seine festival.

Liam, 36, reportedly smashed Noel's guitar while screaming, "You're no brother of mine!"

Noel later released a statement announcing he had left the band and repeated his intention never to return in a second statement.

It read: "The details are not important and of too great a number to list. But I feel you have the right to know that the level of verbal and violent intimidation towards me, my family, friends and comrades has become intolerable.

"And the lack of support and understanding from my management and band mates has left me with no other option than to seek new pastures."

Noel is now expected to embark on a solo career, while Liam wants to continue the band.

(C) BANG Media International

Origial news: Yahoo Uk & Ireland News

lunes, 14 de setiembre de 2009

sábado, 12 de setiembre de 2009

Evan Dando y Oasis


Excerpt from "Oasis and Friends" article
by Ted Kessler from the NME Glastonbury Special June 2003

Glastonbury 1995 was played out under clear blue skies and balmy sunshine, yet it will always be remembered as the year the gathering storm of Britpop broke forcefully over its green and mental valley. Oasis may have been headlining Glastonbury for the first time that Friday, but Liam Gallagher and co reserved their best performance for the backstage area.

Noel, meanwhile, was characeristically relaxed about his big show. He even paid the VIP section a brief visit and stood at its entrance with a glass and greeted those entering as if welcoming them to his own private fete, It was here that he ran into his pal Evan Dando.

Dando had spent the previous couple of years on a trajectory into outer rock-star space on the back of The Lemonheads' worldwide grunge-pop hit 'It's A Shame About Ray', and was now hurtling back to earth at a startling rate. The closer he got to reentering out atmosphere, however, the more frazzled he became and this weekend he was pretty frazzled. Certainly frazzled enough to miss his slot on the main stage and be forced on before Portishead, whose enraged fans bottled him off (imagine!), but that humiliation was still hours away.

Until then, he had drinking to indulge in with Oasis, Robbie Williams and an ever-expanding entourage that included Elastica, Pulp, the Boo Radleys and just every Britpop star in the making.




After Oasis' headline set, Noel was pleased to bump once more into Evan Dando. Dando had become tight with Oasis the year before when he bonded with the band on tour. When The Lemonheads' tour ended, Dando - who loved touring nearly as much as he loved getting high - just jumped in the back of Oasis' van and became their unofficial roadie. It seemed strange behaviour for an internation rock star, but Dando was an unusual rock star - he was a cool, handsome dude who seemed intent on destroying any credibility he had. Having missed his slot on the mage stage, and having been roundly abused when he did step up to the mic ("damn stupid hippies," he mumbled at the audience. "Bit rich," said the audience), he'd spent the rest of the evening performing for free. He'd played on the top of his van for a while. He'd played through the fence to passing kids. And now, at the end of the day, he sat around a campfire and played songs with his old buddy Noel Gallagher.



For those two dozen or so in the backstage area who happened to chance upon this duo, it will remain the indelible highlight of the weekend. Two of the greatest young songwriters of their generation trying to remember the words to Bob Dylan songs... well, it worked round that particular campfire anyhow. Eventually, though, Noel was called to his berth on the bus and he bade Evan a fond farewell. The Oasis bus was heading off-site, to a destination known simply as "Supernova". Evan Dando was heading in the opposite direction.







Artículo orginal en la página oficial de Evan Dando

martes, 8 de setiembre de 2009

Wizard of Id


- Oh! Hay una mosca en mi sopa.
- Slurp
- Exactamente cuánto tiempo estuviste en el pantano antes de que mi beso te restableciera?

MUROS ALTISONANTES Y MUROS MUDOS

Berlín, noviembre de 1989. Ferdinando Scianna fotografía a un hombre que empuja una carretilla. A duras penas carga una enorme cabeza de Stalin. La cabeza de bronce ha sido decapitada mientras la furia popular volteaba a martillazos el muro que partía en dos la ciudad de Berlín.

El muro no cae solo. Con el muro se derrumban los régimen que empezaron anunciando la dictadura de los proletarios y terminaron ejerciendo la dictadura de los funcionarios. Se viene abajo la conciencia política reducida a fe religiosa por los partidos que invocaban a Marx, pero actuaban como iglesias inspiradas por aquel dictamen del papa Gregorio VII: La iglesia nunca se ha equivocado y, según los testimonios de la Escritura, no se equivocará jamás.

Sin derramar una lágrima, y ni una sola gota de sangre, en todo el este de Europa el pueblo asiste, cruzado de brazos, a la agonía del poder que actuaba en su nombre.

Mientras tanto, en China, Deng Xiao-ping, el heredero de Mao, lanza la consigna Hacerse rico es glorioso. Y al servicio del glorioso enriquecimiento de sus dirigentes, China ofrece al mercado mundial sus millones de brazos muy baratos y muy obedientes, y su aire, su tierra y su agua, su naturaleza dispuesta a la inmolación en los altares del éxito.

Los burócratas comunistas se convierten en hombres de negocios. Para eso habían estudiado “El Capital”: para vivir de sus intereses.





MUROS

El Muro de Berlín era la noticia cada día. De la mañana a la noche leíamos, veíamos, escuchábamos: el Muro de la Vergüenza, el Muro de la Infamia, la Cortina de Hierro... Por fin, ese muro, que merecía caer, cayó. Pero otros muros brotaron, y siguen brotando, en el mundo. Aunque son mucho más grandes que el de Berlín, de ellos se habla poco o nada.

Poco se habla el muro que los Estados Unidos están alzando en la frontera mexicana, y poco se habla de las alambradas de Ceuta y Melilla.

Casi nada se habla del Muro de Cisjordania, que perpetúa la ocupación israelí de tierras palestinas y será quince veces más largo que el Muro de Berlín, y nada, nada de nada, se habla del Muro de Marruecos, que perpetúa el robo de la patria saharaui por el reino marroquí y mide sesenta veces más que el Muro de Berlín.

¿Por qué será que hay muros tan altisonantes y muros tan mudos?

Eduardo Galeano, Espejos


lunes, 7 de setiembre de 2009

For better or for worst


Hacer click para agrandar la imagen.

___

La casa está tranquila sin Michael. Todo el lugar parece extraño!

La vida es diferente con él en la escuela... más fácil... pacífica...

Por cuánto tiempo voy a sentirme culpable por disfrutarlo?

___

domingo, 6 de setiembre de 2009

Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen

Official Movie Trailer

La 1 me encantó, veremos qué tal la 2º parte (sí, sí, resabios de la infancia =))

martes, 1 de setiembre de 2009

Without you by Del James

Without You
A short story by Del James


Although he wanted to share the dance, Mayne could not bring himself to interrupt such beauty. Her well-toned body swayed childlike, peacefully, slowly moving to the rhythm. Her innocence was enchanting, her beauty breathtaking. Mayne knew she’d be angry at him for sneaking about, watching without letting her know, but the teenage voyeur inside his adult body encouraged him and didn’t care about the consequences. Besides, this was for his eyes only. Her eyes sparkled, reminding him of the ocean, vast with beauty and mystery. A slight breeze danced through her lion’s mane. A full-length see-through dress covered her shapely body and a light glaze of sweat made her glisten. She seemed too beautiful to be real. During this split second of visual euphoria, Mayne conceded that she was the only woman he ever truly loved. Her eyes flickered. She must have heard me, he thought as she turned toward him. He didn’t want to ruin the beauty, only to enjoy it. Her thick lips smiled sympathetically. Then the song started growing in volume.

A sharp twinge of panic shot through him when he realized which of his songs it was. Cold sweat seeped out of his pores and dread consumed him. His vision spiraled as reality distorted. Breathing became difficult, complicated. Desperation attacked and twisted every muscle in his thin body. Much worse than the pain was his fear. Unsuppressable anxiety swept through him as he started toward the stereo. Everything lost its natural texture; the walls, the floor, the air became surreal. The louder the music, the more difficult he found it to move. He had to remove the compact disc but his feet felt like large concrete blocks. He couldn’t move fast enough. She already had the pistol’s barrel against her temple.

BLAMM!

Mayne awoke covered in sweat, a mute shriek still lodged in his throat. The past six hours had been spent in a drug-and-alcohol-induced coma that he put over as sleep. Sleep was a rare commodity and was impossible to achieve without some assistance. It didn’t matter whether he slept six hours or six minutes, the nightmare always managed to creep in. No sleeping pill or antidepressant could spare him. He had written the song and was forever damned by it. With unsteady hands, he wiped sweat from his brow and rubbed his fingers against the satin sheets. His silver and gold bracelets clinked together. Rolling onto his side, he stared at the digital alarm clock on top of the black night table that had a built -in refrigerator as its base. On top of the clock was a half-empty pack of Marlboros. He stared at the green digital numbers but they made no sense. It really didn’t matter what time it was anyway, his time was other people’s money. Next to the clock was something more important than cash or time. Slowly he sat up. Tortured eyes scanned the black marble tabletop, searching for any leftover precious brown powder. There were burned matches, bent cigarettes, and empty bindles, but no dope. It didn’t matter. He could always have more delivered. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mayne reached down and opened the night table’s refrigerator door. Inside were several Budweiser’s, baking soda, and a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon. He grabbed a cold can, killing half of it in one sip. He did this every morning. Instantly, his aching head began to feel better. Although he didn’t want to admit it, the time had arrived to rejoin the living. He knew he had to be at the studio soon but didn’t feel up to it. Besides, the recording of his latest album, Alone, had been finished over a month ago. The album was now in the final mixing stages. If Mayne liked what he heard, he’d approve it and the record would be released on schedule. If not, it would have to be remixed until he did approve. So then, what the fuck did they need him for? He procrastinated for as long as he possibly could before finally standing up.

Much like his bedroom, the bathroom was a disaster area. Discarded clothes, creams, trash, cassettes, and towels dominated the view. Using radar to locate the bowl, he found the porcelain, fought off the urge to puke, and relieved himself. He reentered the bedroom, not really feeling human, more like a robot dressed in rented flesh. There was a dull pain in his abdomen that he’d grown accustomed to. It, like many other flaws in his health, could be attributed to his excessive life-style. Besides hi jewelry, Mayne only wore Jockey briefs. He stumbled over to his dresser, removed a pair of custom-tailored black leather pants, and changed. He found a dark purple silk kimono hanging in a walk in closet and put it on. In a dresser drawer was a gram vial of cocaine. Scooping with the long fingernail on his right pinkie, the tattered musician snorted eight blasts of rock ‘n’ roll aspirin. The kimono felt cool against his warm flesh. He wondered if he was feverish and concluded he probably was. He was always run down, as if with a perpetual fever. That is, of course, until he got his chip. He finished his beer, tossing the empty can in the general direction of a wastebasket that was already crammed with empties. Staring into a full-length mirror, the run-down recluse didn’t recognize the reflection. Sure, the long blond hair and tattoos gave him away, but he looked so frail. Mayne looked like someone who was ready for hospital pajamas. His once attractive face was blue, taut, and expressionless. A scraggly beard covered his chin and his emerald eyes were no longer authentic gems, but rather costume jewelry. He needed a drink.

For the past fourteen of his twenty-eight years, he’d spent the majority of his time inside a bottle. Teenage beer and wine parties turned to vodka and rum at nightclubs, which in turn evolved into straight whiskey. Exiting the bedroom, he said a silent prayer to his patron saint, Jim Beam, asking that there be some in the liquor cabinet. An illuminating golden glow surrounded the thick blackout curtains. A small war had gone down in the living room the previous evening. Full ashtrays, assorted liquor bottles, empty and half-empty packs of cigarettes, and beer cans were strewn everywhere. Several CD covers were caked in cocaine residue. Mayne tried remembering who had been partying there and couldn’t. An empty pack of Kool cigarettes meant that one of his many dealers, Jamie Jazz had delivered something. It didn’t take very long before he made the connection between the empty bindles in the bedroom and Jamie. Jamie (pronounced Jay-mee) was typical Hollywood trash who hand delivered coke, toke, crack, or smack to troubled celebrities, exploiting their vulnerabilities. Mayne searched for more clues as to who else had been over partying but came up blank. He slid behind the bar that was adjacent to the kitchen and opened a cabinet. There were several unopened bottles of assorted white liquors. A nervous surge shot through his small stomach. What if there was no whiskey? He shuffled the bottles around until he found the proper one. A sigh of relief escaped him as he twisted the cap off and made a mental note that he needed to restock. The whiskey’s aroma was his equivalent of fresh brewed coffee. "Here’s looking at you, love," Mayne said aloud, raising the bottle to his lips.

Like every day, one sip led to another. After several sips, he started feeling right. He put the bottle on the counter and made it to the refrigerator. If he was lucky, he’d be drunk before the day started. He removed another Budweiser and went back into the messy living room. There was a dull hum inside his cranium. He couldn’t differentiate whether it was cocaine-induced or the central air-conditioning. If only he could remember what day today was, then he’d know if a maid was scheduled to come by. She could bring booze. The musician sat on the couch, picked up the phone, and dialed 411.

"Operator. What city, please?"

"L.A."

"Yes?"

"What day is it? Mayne asked sincerely, lighting a Marlboro.

"What?"

"What day is it?"

"Sir, I’m an operator."

"Ma’am, you’re Information and I asked you a question," Mayne corrected her. A snide laugh escaped him. After a silent moment, she answered his question.

"It’s Wednesday, sir."

"Thanks," he said, and hung up. There would be no maid service today. This was not the way he wanted to start the day. He polished off the beer, finished his cigarette, and snorted more cocaine. After several confusing seconds, he remembered where he kept the large green garbage bags and began straightening up the mess. Moving around the large one-bedroom condominium, he picked up anything that wasn’t bolted down and threw it out. Bottles and empty food containers stretched the garbage bag to a point where it threatened to rip open. After ten minutes of straightening up, the apartment began taking shape. Besides this condominium, he also owned one in Manhattan and another in Houston. He rarely frequented his Hollywood Hills mansion, or for that matter, his house in Maui. Both brought back too many memories of her. It was in the Hollywood Hills house where he and Elizabeth Aston had spent most of their quality time. As his thoughts began betraying him, thinking more about her, Mayne instinctively went to the bar and retrieved the whiskey bottle. He could think of her as long as he had a safety net. With all the money, fame, and success he had attained, it was the simple things like friendship and love that were the hardest to keep. He never meant to hurt anyone, especially those closest to him, but for some reason that’s who he usually hurt the worst. He never set out to be malicious, but by living under a microscope with the world scrutinizing him, any wrongdoing, public or private, tended to blow up in his face and often wound up as Nightly News. Personal flaws and fuck-ups are not allowed of the elite. He often suffered silently, trapped by his own fame, until he needed out of his cage. But the cage was as wide as his eyes could perceive. All Mayne had ever tried to be, right or wrong, was himself. With all the doctors, specialists, therapists, fans, and everyone in his organization trying to help him, he just sank further into his cocoon, alienating himself even more. He often wondered who he really was. Was he another regenerated social security number automatically inherited at birth or a genuine reflection of society? Was he a phenomenon or just a facade? Was he a product of his own imagination or just another brick? Would he ever understand his own destiny?

Inside his mind, he analyzed why his relationship with Elizabeth had failed more times than were countable. Like the scholar he wasn’t, he dissected situations, pondered things he should’ve said and shouldn’t have been caught doing. When it came to sex, why couldn’t Elizabeth understand that just because he occasionally strayed from their bedroom didn’t mean he didn’t love her? Sex was like role-playing. He never forced her to be monogamous but deep down he knew that if he found out she was fucking someone else it would have hurt. A lot! Even with that knowledge, he couldn’t confine himself to only one woman. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too. He tried being open with her but concluded that certain things should’ve remained secret. Sex was an ego addiction similar to the one felt onstage. Different audiences, like different partners, were more challenging and made him work harder for the applause. Like drugs, he was addicted to the rush. Even with an empire at his disposal, money couldn’t buy him love, nor happiness, nor peace of mind. Nor Elizabeth. Looking around the large living room, a very disenchanted artist absorbed the modern decor. None of these possessions except a few token items had ever meant anything to Mayne. None of this shit was real. He was surrounded by trophies of a game that had no meaning. And he was tired of playing games.

A sharp pain in his left ear sent him back to the dark corridor that led from stage to dressing room. Inside his ringing head, speakers feeding back ignited and exploded. He was experiencing another rock ‘n’ roll side effect, ear damage. The dull hum lasted only seconds but the memories of his final show with his former band, Suicide Shift, would never fade. For reasons he couldn’t remember, Elizabeth had been unable to attend the tour’s final show. The band had been on the road for the better part of fourteen months, over 285 concerts. Every few weeks Mayne had flown her to whatever city he was performing in and she’d stay for a few nights. The final concert of any tour is an important night. It was Suicide Shift’s first headlining tour and Mayne wanted to share the experience with her. It was the culmination of many miles traveled, many hours worked, and the celebration that went on afterward was well deserved. He called her several times to offer her plane tickets, trying to persuade her, but she couldn’t make it.

The gig was well over two hours of electric ferocity. Of course Mayne consumed plenty of drugs and alcohol before and during the show (he did every gig), but it was the Florida crowd’s enthusiasm and knowing that he’d be able to sleep for a month that gave him extra spark. Every time he took a solo, he tried to best any previous soloing effort. Every time he approached his microphone to sing backups, his voice surged with whiskey vigor. For him, this was rock ‘n’ roll at its best. The 4,000-plus crowd acknowledged this with deafening applause.

After the final encore, it was time to celebrate. Mayne wound up with two eager females in his hotel room. In the privacy of his bathroom he injected a little heroin. Not enough to make him nod out but enough to get him good and high. The two nubile females would only make him feel better. After struggling to get his wet brown suede pants off, he joined the nude women, and thus the revelry began. The dope clouded his not-so-good memory but Mayne remembered a very drunk Peter Terrance walking into the room. The band’s drummer had mistaken Mayne’s room for his own. In the spirit of celebration, Mayne offered him a girl. Terrance declined saying he’d find his own and left. The menage-a-trois continued. Shortly afterward there was a knock on the door. Thinking it was Terrance taking up the offer, Mayne called out, telling whoever was at the door to enter. Standing at the door with an overnight bag was Elizabeth. On the spur of the moment she’d flown from L.A. to Miami to be with him. A very bad scene played itself out. Elizabeth left broken and hysterical. That was the beginning of the end for their relationship.

Mayne snapped out of the past. His left knee popped loudly as he straightened his legs and headed for the phone. He pushed a button. Elizabeth’s number was still programmed and every now and then he pushed it just to hear her phone ring. Also in the phone’s memory was his record label, his manager, the three members of his current band, the Mayne Mann Group, and several drug dealers. After receiving no answer at Elizabeth’s, he pushed another button. His many bracelets clinked together and a few seconds later there was a reply.

"Yeah?" spat an unenthusiastic voice from a car phone.

"It’s me," Mayne said, swallowing, cocaine dripping down his throat.

"My main man," Jamie’s voice declared like a cash register ringing. "What can I do ya for?"

"Uptown and downtown." Cocaine and heroin.

"No problem. You remember what I did for ya last night, right?"

"Yeah." He didn’t.

"You owe me three bills from that shit, brother man," the dealer explained just in case memory failed. I’m sure I got some change floatin’ around. If I can’t find some I’ll five ya my Versateller card and you can get what I owe."

"Bet. I’ll be right up," Jamie said as if he was doing Mayne a favor and hung up.

"Fuckin’ prick," Mayne mumbled to himself.

He lit up a cigarette and got himself another beer. The lid popped loudly and foam rose to the mouth hole. He watched, amused, then walked over to the black-out curtains and pulled the lever, letting bright sunlight invade his living room. "Fuck you very much," he loudly announced, squinting, and raising his middle finger to the sky. The view from his balcony was vast, displaying the City of Angels below, yet more often than not Mayne kept the curtains shut, preferring not to be a part of the world outside. It was safe inside his apartment. Against a far wall, tucked in the corner so that the ivory keys faced out toward the living room, was a vintage Steinway. He spent many pleasure-filled hours on the instrument, and even when he wasn’t playing, the piano gave him visual stimulation. It was an instrument of precision and grace. Next to the piano, resting comfortably on stands were half a dozen vintage guitars: Les Pauls, Stratocasters, and Telecasters. The guitars he kept in the apartment were the ones that meant the most to him.

The buzzer sounded, waking Mayne from his drifting thoughts. He went to the intercom and pressed the button that unlocked the front door. A few minutes later, Jamie Jazz was inside his apartment. Dozens of platinum and gold records adorned the walls. Hours upon years of planning, writing, recording, and struggling had reaped these round rewards. His songwriting stemmed from inner pains and his slower, more blues-influenced songs often dealt with personal hardships. Those were the songs he was most proud of and believed might stand the test of time. The faster, more hard-rock-oriented songs often had little significance or wore their meanings on their sleeve. Unfortunately, the awards were no longer awards without Elizabeth. Mayne excused himself and went into the bedroom. Hidden behind yet another platinum disc was a safe. He removed the disc from the wall, twisted the combination, and opened the safe. Inside were jewelry, documents, over four thousand dollars cash, a freebase pipe, and a loaded .357 Magnum. He grabbed a few C-notes and went back into the living room, leaving the safe shut but unlocked. Jamie was seated on the black leather couch, feet up on the marble coffee table, looking casual in Suicide Shift sweatpants (that he’d gotten from Mayne) and a matching sweatshirt. He’d helped himself to a beer.

"What’s the total?"

"Including last night? Six," Jamie replied, fidgeting with the beeper on his waist.

Mayne handed him six bills and put the rest in his pants pocket. Judging by the look on his face, the dealer understood he wanted to be alone and took the hint.

"Call me if you need anything else," Jamie offered, exiting the apartment.

The moment the front door clicked shut, Mayne’s mind rushed into overdrive but his body refused to move. He had drugs in hand, but instead of finding a syringe, he went back into the bedroom. Something in the wall safe more powerful than his addiction had caught his eye. He walked to the safe and pulled the door open. Inside was a photo album containing precious Kodachrome memories. Placing the drugs on top of the messy night table, he fell on the bed, and began flipping through the leather-bound book. Captured in photos were images and feelings so intense that it made him warm as well as suicidal. Elizabeth had challenged him intellectually while stimulating him sexually. She’d mothered him when he was sick, which was quite often. She’d set free inner feelings that he’d often tried avoiding. Her beauty, both inner and physical, was something he wanted; yet when she was his, he did everything conceivable to lose her.

He turned to the second page. He had no idea how many times he’d masturbated to this photo. Every other day perhaps. It was just a snapshot he’d taken of her while on vacation in Las Vegas. In photo form, the wind blew her long hair away from her face and she was smiling. Behind her was the Caesar’s Palace hotel where they’d spent the better part of two weeks in the penthouse suite. It was a typical tourist photo but it was her smile that turned him on. It was so free from pain. Mayne would do anything to have her smile for him like she had in the photograph. He’d do anything to have her lips, her body again.

He unbuttoned his leather pants. Before beginning his self-stimulation, he pulled himself over to the night-table refrigerator and removed an unopened bottle of Dom Perignon champagne. The bottle opened with a loud pop and smoke billowed from the top, but no liquid spilled.

Sipping deeply from the bottle, he flipped through the photo album that was all too short, carefully avoiding the final page. He rarely looked at the last page. As always, he wound up back on page two. With the bottle two-thirds empty, he pulled his pants and briefs down to his knees and poured the remaining champagne onto his palms. This was part of the ritual. Fine champagne was something he and Elizabeth enjoyed sharing. He could still share it with her. As he took hold of his wet erection, his thoughts began to slip. It was during one of their final dinner dates that she had said something that inspired him to write the most beautiful song of his career. "I can’t live with you and I can’t live without you," he could hear her saying as if it were just yesterday. Words flowed from pen to paper faster than he could write. Mayne concluded that this was his private way of explaining all that had happened between them. The song "Without You," was not an apology, it was his side of the story. It was rock ‘n’ roll sincerity that sold over three million copies in the U.S., topping the record sales charts and putting the Mayne Mann Group on top of the rock world. He offered Elizabeth half of the royalties from the song because without her there would be no song. She politely declined. A sold-out Mayne Mann Group tour ensued. When the tour arrived in Los Angeles, Mayne desperately wanted to see her. No matter how many women he had, no matter how over her he told everyone he was, he’d do anything for her except let her permanently slip out of his life.

He’d called her a dozen times over the course of two days, leaving message after message on her answering machine. Even though she never responded, he’d left her ten All-Access passes at Will Call. She never showed.

After the show, Mayne vowed he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He quickly showered, changed into dry clothing, and left, avoiding all the backstage hoopla. He and his driver headed for Elizabeth’s apartment. Using the phone in the limousine, he dialed her from the street below her apartment. Again he was greeted by a recorded message.

"Elizabeth, I know–I hope you’re there. I’m downstairs and even if I have to break down the door to see you, I’m willing. If you’re gonna call the cops, well, call ‘em now. . . I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t deserve anything . . . Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say other than I still care about you. Words can’t heal what I’ve done but, fuck, the past is done . . . I really need to see your face again," Mayne softly explained after the beep. The words still echoed in his mind as he wondered if he could’ve possibly phrased things differently. It was too late now, he thought, already inside the building. This was one of the rare occasions after a gig that Mayne was sober. As he arrived by way of elevator at her floor, he heard familiar music. The closer he got to her door the louder the volume grew. Then his world began to spin uncontrollably as a loud gunshot echoed through the hallway. He ran toward her apartment, lowered his shoulder, and with reckless abandon crashed through the wooden door. He’d found Elizabeth on the couch, bleeding profusely, most of her head splattered on the wall behind her. On the blood-sprayed coffee table in front of her was the answering machine, a ballpoint pen, and several crumpled balls of writing paper. He stood destroyed before her corpse. How could this have happened? All he had ever done was lover her. Devastated, he slowly walked over to the blaring stereo. A CD single of "Without You" was programmed to repeat. He wondered how many times she’d listened to the same song and shut the power off. Then he noticed that next to the answering machine was a note.

Number one with a bullet, the red-speckled note read.

Shaking and convulsing, his tears falling freely, Mayne began screaming at the top of his lungs. It sounded like someone had unleashed a wild animal. His shrieks threatened to break the windows. A migraine pierced his throbbing temples and his entire head was overloaded with pressure. Did she kill herself because they had failed or because he wouldn’t leave her be? Was it the song, one of the few things he’d ever done autonomously, that had driven her to this? Was this really happening? Then another thought came out mind. He removed the pistol from her hand and put it against his temple.

He was going to join her.

CLICK.

It was empty. Elizabeth had known she would only need one bullet.

Mayne snapped out of that nightmare and was thrust into another memory. He recognized the familiar room as the honeymoon suite in Las Vegas and almost felt at ease. The bed was in disarray and Elizabeth was smiling mischievously.

"What do you want to do?"

"Wha’?" Mayne responded, confused.

They’d already drunk several bottles of champagne and made love twice.

"What do you want to do?" she replied softly, daring Mayne to answer.

Mayne caught wind of her game and decided to play along. If she was giving him an option as to what they’d do next, he was definitely going to take advantage of her generosity.

"You can either come up here and tell me that you love me or go down on me."

Elizabeth’s face registered joy. Words like love were the hardest to get out of Mayne’s mouth. Once again she smiled as she began her descent toward his waistline. It didn’t take her very long to bring him back to life. Several minutes later, when she sensed that he was as excited as he was going to get, Elizabeth looked up at her man and with the sexiest expression she would conjure, softy said, "I love you."

Mayne came with a slight grunt. The powerful surge had given him something to work at but there was no pleasure in the orgasm. There never was anymore. He tossed the photo album aside and lay on the bed feeling dead, staring at the ceiling. For a split second, he thought he heard musical strands of "Without You" but it was only his imagination. His tired body lay there for what felt like a year before he sat up. At least the drugs on the night table were real. Everything he needed was on the table. Hidden beneath the clock radio was a syringe and a blackened spoon. There was a half-empty glass of water and a lighter next to it. In the spoon he mixed the proper amounts of heroin and water, and then, using the lighter, heated the bottom of the spoon until the mixture cleared up before placing a tiny piece of cotton into the spoon. With unsteady hands, he added some cocaine and his speedball was complete. Being a high-profile celebrity, he couldn’t afford to have his withered arms tracked up too badly. He usually shot into the back of his forearms or his feet. He also injected into his neck but the way he felt right now, he had no time to dillydally. Like an expert acupuncturist, he fixed into a bulging vein in his forearm.

"Cool," he mumbled, carefully examining his arm, as he felt the speedball coming on.

He fell back down on the bed. Between the drugs and his emotions, he was exhausted. It was a good thing drugs numbed away most of the pressures. He was rushing out as the drug hit him in powerful waves. It took several moments before he realized his left arm was touching something. He slowly rolled over. The photo album was opened to the last page. The last page contained Elizabeth’s obituary and a sympathy card. Tears he’d held in since that day began to flow down his cheeks. His pale face flushed as he felt his strength evaporating. He was drowning in sorrow but didn’t believe in self-pity and that made him feel even worse. He sat up hyperventilating with a question echoing inside his head. Why did she have to die? He had no answer and stood up too quickly. Why was everything so fucked? He went back into the living room. He needed whiskey.

Why?

He loved her so much.

Why?

He’d offered her half the royalties. Half. That was a financial empire, but she’d refused.

Why?

He’d tried to make amends. He’d tried being good according to society’s standards. He wanted to understand everything that had happened to them. He wanted her to love him but no matter how hard he tried, he fucked it up.

Why?

He wanted to be normal again but that wasn’t possible.

Why?

He wanted to feel closer to Elizabeth but she was dead. That tormented his fragile soul but for a split second of insane logic, Mayne concluded that his body should not be spared either.

"Arrrrrrggghh!" he growled, attacking his living room like a pissed-off brawler. Fists and feet attacked defenseless walls and furniture. He cocked his right fist back and a large hole went through plaster. He snatched an Oriental lamp off an end table and hurled it across the room. He violently threw a marble ashtray into a plaque, ruining both. Breathing heavily and drenched in alcoholic sweat, he grabbed a platinum record and smashed it, spraying glass shards everywhere. The shattered glass on the floor twinkled like sun-reflected sand. No matter how many hotel rooms he trashed during his career, Mayne had never harmed a guitar. That was strictly taboo until today. He walked over to the row of guitars, grabbed a ‘68 Stratocaster by its stringed neck and swung, smashing the mahogany body until it was little more than firewood. With each self-destructive act, he felt slightly better. He walked over to another platinum disc, readied himself and put his right fist through the glass. Blood spurted from the hand that was heavily insured by Lloyds of London.

For the first time that day he smiled.

Mayne grabbed the Jim Beam bottle off the bar and guzzled. The liquid painkiller warmed his heaving chest and eased his bleeding hand, which looked like it needed stitches. He walked over to his Fischer stereo, and, using his good hand, turned on the receiver. The digital readout was locked on a classic rock station. It was the only safe station on the dial, since it never played any of his songs. Mayne Mann was too new, too current. The station only played material from the 60s and 70s. He instantly recognized the song playing; it was Humble Pie’s "I Don’t Need No Doctor." It was raw rock like this that had inspired him to become a musician. Following the Pie were the Allman Brothers. Mayne could relate to what it felt like being tied to a whipping post.

During the commercials, he went into the kitchen to grab another beer. Out of his stereo speakers a record store chain announced its prices as the lowest in Los Angeles. The background music accompanying the record store commercial was "Without You."

His eyes stung but no tears fell as he realized that no matter where he was, he couldn’t hide from himself. Like a man on a mission, he walked over to the stereo, grabbed the receiver, and yanked with both hands. It took several strong tugs before the digital lights went off. With the receiver in hand, he stumbled backward, ripping wires and knocking over one of the large Bose speakers. Distraught and panting, he mad his way to the giant sliding safety glass door that led to the balcony. He casually dropped the high-tech receiver and undid the latch that kept the heavy door locked. Fresh air attacked his senses. The cool breeze felt invigorating as he stepped out onto the balcony and looked over the edge. His jet-black Bentley sat gleaming in the parking lot directly below. He picked the receiver up, held it over the balcony, and aimed it at the car. After several seconds of wondering if his aim was accurate, he let go. Glass spidered wildly when the receiver hit the car’s windshield and broke through. He went to fetch the beer he’d been distracted from and ripped the refrigerator door open as hard as he could. It crashed open, spilling several items onto the floor. The door dangled by a hinge. Mayne grabbed a beer, chugged half, and like a strong-armed baseball pitcher threw it at his guitar collection, barely missing his favorite: a vintage ‘57 Sunburst Les Paul. He grabbed another can from the crippled refrigerator as his eyes returned to the guitars.

The guitars were like adopted children and he loved each one in a different manner.

Certain guitars held certain memories but each guitar had the ability to create magic. It was that potential he respected and admired most about these guitars until this afternoon. Now, no matter how much he loved a certain guitar, or how valuable it might be, all he wanted to do was feel pain. Pain brought him closer to reality. It brought him closer to Elizabeth. He gave the world music, very good music, and asked for little in return. A little space to create, some kicks thrown in, and how about peace of mind? Instead, he had more material goods than he could ever use, more money than he could count, and nothing worth fighting for. There was a time not too long ago when he’d fought like hell for all of this. Now that he owned a piece of the rock he wished he could give it back. The view from the top wasn’t as picturesque as he’d imagined. What he did as his artistic expression, the record company sold for capital. He’d quickly grown disillusioned with the system but what else could he do? Without the industry he couldn’t share his music. No matter how hard anyone tried explaining it to him, musical notes would never equal dollar signs. He made music because since his early childhood, he truly loved rock ‘n’ roll. It was the people, his people, he wrote music for after he finished writing for himself. So then, why couldn’t he sleep at night?

He stared at the answer.

He was going to kill his guitars. If it wasn’t for these guitars, he wouldn’t have the problems he did. And he’s save the goddamn ‘57 Sunburst for last. He guzzled the beer, raising it away from his greedy mouth. Budweiser rained down the side of his face. When the can was almost empty, he crushed and spiked it like a football. Enraged, he grabbed a Les Paul Black Beauty and dealt it a quick but savage death against a wall. He raised a rare Telecaster over his head and clubbed the coffee table, breaking both. Then he picked up another Les Paul and, swinging it like a baseball bat, clobbered a lamp and several other objects before the guitar’s neck snapped off.

"Fuckin’ cheap shit," he grumbled.

He heard something that had a bit of rhythm to it. Was there a drummer playing in his head? It took several seconds for him to realize that one of the neighbors was pounding on the wall.

"WHAT, A LITTLE TOO LOUD FOR YA?" Mayne shouted at the direction the noise was coming from.

It didn’t stop.

"YER PISSING ME OFF, ASSHOLE!"

Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock.

"Motherfucker, I'm giving ya fair fucking warning," he said.

Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock.

Mayne walked into the bedroom and over to the night table. He grabbed his cocaine and poured a decent-sized mound on the back of his hand that wasn’t bleeding and snorted. Afterward he licked residue off his fist, numbing his teeth and gums. There was a pack of Marlboros on the table. He grabbed one and lit it. He took a deep drag and listened to his surroundings.

The neighbor was still pounding. The ashtray was an overflowing mountain of dead butts so Mayne placed the cigarette on the edge of the night table. He had tried to avoid a confrontation, but the shithead next door wouldn’t let it lie. He went to his wall safe, grabbed the Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum, and charged out of the bedroom. "OKAY, HOMEFUCK, WANNA PLAY GAMES?"

Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock.

KABAMMM, KABAMMM, KABAMMM.

He unloaded three shots toward the already hole-ridden wall. The pounding stopped instantly. Again he smiled. He aimed the pistol at one of his platinum discs on another wall and blasted the shiny sphere. He aimed at his TV and blew it to kingdom come. One bullet left. He held the silver-plated pistol in awe. He could easily join Elizabeth; all it would take was one quick squeeze of the trigger. The idea appealed to him. Maybe he’d get it right in his next life. Slowly, eyes closed, he raised the pistol. The trigger teased his scarlet index finger. The barrel felt good against his temple. Readying himself, he reopened his eyes. In front of him, mocking him, were two more Les Paul guitars. There once was a point in his life when these musical embodiments were holy. The dedication and years of practicing were a labor of love. Guitars were his passion, his expression, and his ticket out of obscurity. But all of that changed with one song. Now these guitars were reminders that Mayne could never regain his innocence.

"Can’t I fuckin’ die with some dignity?" he wondered as rage consumed him.

He couldn’t even commit suicide without music somehow interfering. His shaking arm lowered and took aim at one of the guitars. There was heavy recoil as wooden fragments flew everywhere. He put a massive hole in the guitar, and then walked over to examine his accuracy. It was definitely dead, but that wasn’t enough. He picked up the remains and threw them against the safety-glass door.

Sorry, forgot the end, here's the rest

"Can’t I fuckin’ die with some dignity?" he wondered as rage consumed him.

He couldn’t even commit suicide without music somehow interfering. His shaking arm lowered and took aim at one of the guitars. There was heavy recoil as wooden fragments flew everywhere. He put a massive hole in the guitar, and then walked over to examine his accuracy. It was definitely dead, but that wasn’t enough. He picked up the remains and threw them against the safety-glass door. He walked over to the balcony’s edge. Below, a small crowd had gathered around his ruined luxury car.

"Anybody want an autograph?" he asked, tossing out the fragmented guitar.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. I got another present!" he yelled, and ran into the bedroom.

His heavy footsteps jarred the cigarette he’d forgotten off the night table. It smoldered on the thick rug. Mayne dug inside the wall safe, grabbed a handful of hundred-dollar bills, and ran back to the balcony before his audience could scurry away.

"Don’t say I never gave you anything," he announced, letting the money fly.

Several wary spectators stepped backward but as soon as it was obvious that the confetti was currency, they rushed forward. Mayne waved to the small crowd and went back inside.

One guitar remained.

He stared at the ‘57, marveling at the beautiful colors. It was appropriately called a Sunburst. Reds, oranges, and yellows swirled in the wooden body. This one had gold trim as well as golden pickups. The Sunburst was his preference of all guitars. He had another two dozen in storage but this guitar was the first thing he bought after Suicide Shift was signed to a recording contract. It was how he’d rewarded himself for having "made it." This was also the guitar he’d written the music to "Without You" on. He approached it with caution and respect and gently picked it up. He sat down on the floor Indian style. Deep down, he was glad he hadn’t destroyed this ax. His picking hand hurt badly, but he wanted to play. Blood dripped off his hand and dripped down the guitar’s body. Enthralled, Mayne watched it run. No matter how intoxicated he was, his fingers never betrayed him, and this particular guitar always responded to his call. He began picking something that sounded like Hendrix. He paused abruptly. Something about that last guitar run shook him up and he couldn’t continue. In a vague way, it reminded him of a part in "Without You." After taking a deep breath, Mayne partially regained his composure. Multimillionaires like Mayne Mann aren’t supposed to cry. They’re beyond tears or at least that’s what society wants to believe. Mayne Mann was just Stephen Maynard Mandraich, a talented kid who could run his nimble fingers along a piece of stringed wood. He began to strum one of his favorite riffs, Thin Lizzy’s "Don’t Believe a Word." Even though the guitar wasn’t amplified, he could hear it as if it was. He let the last note ring out as he stopped and reflected. He used to love the feel of this instrument in his hands. He used to love making the strings come to life. He used to love just holding this guitar. Then his mind viciously reminded him that he’d also loved the way Elizabeth felt. He quickly rose off the floor and tossed the guitar aside. It landed with a loud DWWWAANNNGGGG.

He stared blankly at the guitar and thought of her. Both had given him so much pleasure, but he’d never been able to properly express his gratitude. He never told her the truth about how she made him feel, about how much he loved her, and when he did, the song reaffirmed that he should’ve kept his mouth shut. At least she’d still be alive. But the song was pure and he wanted to play it for her. Even if her physical body wasn’t present, he could still sing to her in heaven. He wanted to jam but was afraid to touch the guitar.

Then Mayne saw an alternative. He scooped up the almost-dead whiskey bottle and finished what little was left. It slipped silently from his hand. Very drunk, very drugged out, he staggered over to the piano. The smoldering cigarette on the bedroom rug had burned its way over to the goose-down comforter. The cover caught and flames quickly spread throughout the bedroom. Discarded clothing acted as kindling and soon the bedroom was on fire.

Until several hazy hours ago, Mayne’s life, no matter how miserable, had been something most people could only dream about. It was all an illusion, and he was one of rock ‘n’ roll’s elite, a hero. Now, he’d been reduced to his basic self and nothing really mattered. He felt the thorns wrapped around his heart and for the first time in far too long, felt human again. He’d smothered his spirituality in drug abuse. He’d stunted his health and personal growth with vice. He’d blinded himself because he was afraid to see that his purpose, his gift in life, was to be true to himself. And the only time he was able to find that inner truth was when he played his music. He softly tapped the ivory keys, making melodies come to life through his fingers. No matter how badly his hand hurt, he persisted in making music. He was determined to play for Elizabeth and all the other angels. With every fluid run, every harmony, every musical accent, his inner pain subsided a little. With each passing musical note, he became one with the music.

Sweating profusely, Mayne felt something stirring behind him. He tried ignoring it for as long as possible. Finally, he turned and saw large flames billowing out of his bedroom. At first he thought it was a hallucination but the fire was scorchingly real and heading his way. His favorite guitar was already engulfed and dying. He wanted to save it but couldn’t. He refused to let his jamming be interrupted. Elizabeth was listening. Every time his fingers pressed the Steinway’s keys, crimson stained the ivory and smeared. He ignored the small red spots, sliding his long fingers through them. Scarred-up veins bulged from his forearms a sweat ran down his face. All he’d ever wanted to do with his life was play his music and now he was. For the moment, he felt free from his demons. He built up the courage and began singing "Without You" in his natural gruff voice. The thick carpeting quickly became a wall-to-wall inferno as a giant wave of fire rose up and spread around the piano. He couldn’t have cared less. As flames swallowed the apartment, Mayne never screamed and never missed a note.

The End


Como se muestra en el final del video, "November Rain" está basada en esta historia de Del James, "Without You" (Sin Tí), publicada en el libro de James"The Language of Fear" (el lenguaje del miedo) de 1995. Esa historia tuvo una obvia influencia en Axl Rose, ya que describe la miseria de un ex multipremiado estrella de rock, que rememora los viejos tiempos de su antigua e intermitente historia de amor que termina con el suicidio [de un balazo] de la mujer. Lo curioso es que en la historia de Del James, no se menciona la boda de la pareja.