Remember that commercial that showed an egg frying, with a voiceover letting you know it was not an egg frying? It was your brain on drugs. Well, the sizzling egg worked well enough for me. But, to the extent the egg dancing all over the pan is kind of yesterday, I nominate Courtney Love as the 2009 this-is-your-brain-on-drugs Public Service Announcement...(with a bonus reminder that eating disordered girls aren't actually attractive...)
A few of my favorite excerpts from a recent interview:
You know, part of it’s self destructive as hell, and I guess a
lot of people are really shocked by, you know, that kind of conscious
decision that I just don’t want to play this game. Let’s also get real
about it, you have a very dark, twisted, horrible thing like a suicide
happen in your life, and you’re still getting fucked by the industry,
but here’s the reality: Every time you buy a Nirvana record, part of
that money is not going to Kurt’s child, or to me, it’s going to a
handful of Jew loan officers, Jew private banks, its going to lawyers
who are also bankers, its going to sixty PAs. I asked my shrink about
this—I have a Jungian analyst, but I also have a normal shrink. . . .
For this record, I was listening to Neil Young’s Rust Never Sleeps
and I was listening to “Into the Black,” and I just knew I needed a
band as good as Crazy Horse. This all-girl fantasy I’ve had my whole
life, of you know. . .I’m going to show those Beatles, we’re going to
be huge! Well, it’s not going to happen, right now, for my generation,
for me. You know what I mean? Like, there are f****g riot grrrls
sitting there banging on pots and pans and talking about their vaginas,
and that’s all really lovely, and like the writing is great, but the
music blows. I mean you have to f****g sit in your room and practice.
You have to f****g learn how to play guitar, you have to learn how to
play bass, you have to learn how to f****g play drums. You have to go
get Zeppelin one through four, and you have to f****g sit in a f****g
little room off Hollywood Blvd. for two hundred dollars a f****
month, and you have to play those goddamn drums. And for whatever
reason, women just haven’t seemed to want to do that.
He’s dead now and after I did find out who he was, I was in their
bathroom, and I was like, there might be a rainy day where I need to
f****g prove that, like, this guy’s my grandfather, and you know, the
devil and the angel? But I was sitting there and I was sort of way done
peeing, and I was just sort of sitting on the toilet looking at all the
DNA everywhere and going: I don’t need your f****g DNA,
dude! I don’t give a s**t how f****g important you are to f****ng
acting. Fuck you! And then, the other side of me was like, grab it,
grab it! You never know when you might need it.
Read the full article here.
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