50 Shades Of Yellow
Endings are just new beginnings played backwards. As far as lazy opening lines go, that’s a lazy one, but it’s not inaccurate. It’s also a somewhat comfortable way of looking at things. Wouldn’t it be nice to get the leaving and the heartbreak over at the beginning, so we could enjoy the rest of it, everything that came/comes before/after leading up to that world conquering first kiss?
I’m sure many of you zooming here tonight remember the first time the Mercury Cafe kissed the FBomb. It was like when Harry Met Sally Does Dallas. Fuck! How great would it be if our last FBomb memory of the Merc could’ve been that first kiss? Instead of what it is/was, getting kicked out into the internet dirt by a gang of money rubbers who probably grew up rooting for the bad guys while watching one to many episodes of Starsky and Hutch.
The Mercury Cafe was a powerful Muse for the FBomb in the past, and if the music of Coldplay has taught us anything, it’s that a proper muse is important.
Chris Martin knows this, or even if he doesn’t, that’s ok because I’ve thought about this enough for the two of us.
We need to find a new space that can inspire us to write the next Scientist.
We don’t want to start gathering at some sort of Denver coffee/bar version of Dakota Johnson, because a Dakota Johnson muse leads to middle of the night mansion nightmares of being washed up and mid-life-career crisis collaborations with BTS.
Apparently a Gweneth Paltrow muse isn’t the worst thing in the world, she inspired Chris Martin to write ‘Moses’, which is a damn good song, but let’s face it FBomb, it’s not Yellow. It’s not Warning Sign. It will never be the Green Eyes behind Green Eyes.
Green Eyes was one hell of a fucking muse.
The goddamn Merc was our Green Eyes. When we fell for that place, we thought we’d found home. And it was that, for a while, until things changed because that’s what things tend to do. Green turned to greed, and with Greed Eyes The Merc swore she’d still love us in 2022, at the low low discounted day rate of 300 bucks a night.
Frankly, I blame Dakota Johnson. For the lost soul of the Mercury Cafe and for Chris Martin having to walk around during this plague pretending ‘My Universe’ is a good song. Dakota Johnson is a 50 Shades of a busted lawnmower kind of muse. Another daughter of big shot showbiz parents, just like Gweneth.
Wait, is that it? Do the grown up kids of famous parents make less effective muses than the grown up kids of non-famous parents? I bet Green Eyes’ parents weren’t famous. I bet her mom taught 4th grade economics while her dad almost achieved his goal of becoming a TV Repairman who also sold shoes.
My name is Cock Johnson (no relation to Dakota) and I’m not here to judge Chris Martin for his recent muse choices, or famous-people’s-kids/fuck-shame him. I’m here because the FBomb needs a new muse and I happen to know a thing or two about the muse.
You don’t find it. The muse finds you. And in the finding, you’ve found it. So forget that thing I just said about not finding it. The Muse made me say that. Which means it’s important, so DON’T forget about it. Make it the only thing you remember tonight when you’re falling asleep to the sounds of the most recent Free Britnany/Tiger King documentary, your dog barking at poltergeists, or your kids playing modern day Tetris on their goddamn holographic tv’s.
You can’t find a muse because you can find a muse and I know everything and nothing about all and also none of it because I’ve found a muse and it’s a doozy. If there was a Mt Rushmore for Muses, my Muse would be all four of its faces. Which means there’s no room on Muse Rushmore for the FBomb’s new Muse, which is fine. Don’t let that rattle you. Mountain sized accomplishments aren’t everything. Remember, you’re supposed to be in this for the art. There are still plenty of good Muse’s out there. Don’t give up hope, unless it feels hopeless, then obviously give the fuck up. And then write about that until it doesn’t feel hopeless. That’s what a good Muse would want you to do.
If you want my advice, I’d start by finding a muse who loves Cedar Point. Don’t trust a Muse that’s never ridden The Corkscrew.
But Cock Johnson, the Muse we’re looking for isn’t human. Our Muse needs to be a room in a building. How can a room ride a roller coaster?
Why are you interrupting me with something like that? You sound like Chris Martin. His muse isn’t a building, and you all know damn well that Dakota Johnson has never ridden a corkscrew. Ego: If a human being can not ride a roller coaster when it’s physics-ly possible for them to do so, a room should be capable of riding a rollercoaster if it’s physics-ly impossible to do so. It’s ying-yang people. Basic The Scientist. Keep up.
Other awesome traits in a Muse include: experience not finishing one’s dinner while not-eating inside a museum while surrounded by grandfather clocks, an appreciation for notebooks that lay flat, an intricate understanding of furnace filters, a kind of ringing in the ears that nobody else is cool enough to notice, the proper appreciation for Emily Blunt movies, and looking groovy while wearing Six Million Dollar Man red colored clothes.
I mean FBomb, I’m fighting the urge to break into full-blown Muse-induced rambling, so I’ll leave you here with one last thought:
1. Who would win in a mediocre Muse fight, South Dakota Johnson or North Dakota Fanning?
For what it’s fucking worth, my muse money’s on Fanning.
Written for the January 2022 FBomb.