West Coast Hearts by Thomas A. Morgan

OK--But Define "Tragedy"

Tragedy? What's tragic is the amount of web space, printer's ink, and felled trees just to cover this crap!

I had thought that an institution like Rolling Stone would have avoided the temptation to cover the Britney Spears mess but seeing how they're Rolling Stone, and the rag just ain't what it used to be it's no surprise they they are. But whatever it takes to get circulation up, I guess.

Medicated pop stars are as old as rock&roll. Most of the great jazz and blues musicians that stumbled around before them were as equally f*cked up on smack, uppers, or even just railroad gin. But there's nothing more vacant than a dim-bulb blonde staggering into infinity, and then having a media complex force it down your throat 24/7. I don't know that there's any lesson we haven't heard already and, really, the media outlet that airs her untimely death will surely get some kind of reward (not to mention what the paparazzi's take is going to be).

So, are we sad? And what's so tragic? Homegirl was pulling down some serious money--still! Yes, money doesn't buy happiness, etc., but we're forced to care because record companies create things like Ms. Spears, churn out lord knows how much in revenue, then the contracts flood in and what was once presumably a normal kid--albeit robbed of a childhood, apparently--is now a millionaire in some Hollywood mansion. Enter the medication!

I don't know. And then Rolling Stone covers her in the current issue. Yes, Spears is a trainwreck (so are most actors, writers, producers, reporters, linemen, presidents, senators, pilots, soldiers, etc). Yes, she bones some dude in a dressing room (doesn't that sound normal?). She buys a new car ever month (haven't done that yet!). She drinks lattes, for cryin' out loud!! She's not crazy! We're the crazy ones!

Then the bible thumpers are gonna say that Hollywood did this. That could be true. Britney was, after all, a southern girl with (again, presumably) values. They're gonna say that she was "robbed of her childhood." There could be truth to that too. I was allowed to run around the woods and fields in New Hampshire till all hours. It was very Robert Frost; these were different times; people read books because there were only three channels on the tube; farm girls were...

So, a tragedy? Define tragedy. Is hers the face that launched a thousand ships? If so, then yes. If not, pack sand. And, anyway, when she goes to live on some oasis in Dubai we will have forgotten about her altogether.

Al of this, my friends, is at the core of West Coast Hearts.

Cupids & Cartouches

All writers are observers, and nothing more. When I was a young man, I thought it glamorous to be a writer. Back then gas was less than $1 a gallon, cigarettes ran you $.65 a pack, and all the problems in the world seemed to be happening someplace else. California, to me at least, was just as distant as the other side of tomorrow, and tomorrow never seemed to come.

Of course, I'm idealizing the past. We all do. It seemed a simple place. The good guys wore white, bad guys wore black. Computers were still made stateside, everyone seemed to have money (that was the illusion, anyway) and the movies weren't solely plotted around what wizards, gnats, and gypsies did. CGI didn't really exist yet, and neither did the current Administration. No, it was a utopia of sorts.

Like I said, California was as distant as the other side of tomorrow. It was a far-off place that had so fewer people than it does today that I can't even imagine what all the empty spaces of south Orange County looked like. None of the madness was here yet. I wonder then, sometimes, what was the tipping point?

It's easy to blame the Internet for some things. I mean, really, it opened up a Pandora's Box of sorts and while it's certainly responsible for bringing people together I feel as though it's equally responsible for pushing people apart.

Internet has it's own language. Some of that language trickles down into fadlike vernacular, as in MILF. I recently completed a stage play that subtexts the whole MILF thing. It started as a comedy but as I continued writing I realized that the jokes weren't really working for the context; granted, I'm pretty funny but if you tune in to Dateline's To Catch a Predator show, you'll see just how f*ckin' sad people can be, and how lonely and pathetic the Internet can make some.

I don't know. Worked on some chapters of West Coast Hearts and felt I had hit a breakthrough. This wouldn't be an overnight project. There's a lot more commentary. But I am distracted by life these days.

A while back I began to outline this thing  but then stopped to revise Dryline Rhapsody and North of Here. Those two novel manuscripts were subsequently sent off to NY. Then started working on MILFord and No Daylight. Now that those two are in the can, I found a plot course I could extend into West Coast Hearts, and so have thrown myself into it with earnest.

All writing starts when you stop to listen. It's hard work but it is worth it. It may turn some into millionaires or simply be a labor of love. The outcome remains to be seen.