Tentacles of Love is a RAWKING album.

Walking home in the rain without my iPod I suddenly had a bizarre panic attack, dizzy, etc. came upstairs drenched in sweat. I'm returning to normal now thanks to three bowls of cereal. No not bowels, BOWLS. jeez, Lauren, you have such a potty mined.

Could I be having pre-Halloween anxiety? What the hell is going on? Tomorrow is a big night, though I am sure it will not go as I plan... I'm allegedly filming hosts of half-naked models in the act of dismembering rock stars; slashing off arms and whatnot, in some yet to be announced location by my modelizing millionare ex-roomate and former co-band member. Not that kind of member, Lauren! You have such a dirty mind.

Why do I get the feeling that it's all gonna pan out badly? Is it the rain? Making a movie is a difficult and arduous process, Jimmy, it's not meant to be done in a room full of hard-drinking, god-knows-what smoking and snorting models and their Euro-disco arm candy menfolk... all preening and gabbing and making me feel like Paul Giamatti, craven and seething with my flawed humanity.

There's something so.... finished? about those people... like they are perfect because they are simple. It's easy to draw a good stick figure, harder to draw a complex moody Piscean visionary mystic artist genius director painter writer editor guru advisor doctor special effects artists media consultant food blogger like MYSELF! Hey, where is everyone going?

I'm listening to my nearly finished album and it sounds like a stranger is singing... who is this person? Maybe I'm unfinished, but when I'm done, hoooo boy! A 45-minute documentary will scarcely be enough to contain my myriad quirks.

I trumpet the grandeur that is I. Tentacles of Love. No more panic attacks, Erich, stand tall and be mighty and fret not thine hour upon the stage. And stop procrastinating. you are supposed to be writing about this damned African Kora player.

Later I'll tell you about my damned other ex-bandmate who is getting married and went from having a small ceremony to making me rent a tux, and the guy who measured me was dour and had an oppressive aura, and I had to walk up 6th Avenue which is rotten with cell-phone talking swine, and I hate the L stop on 6th avenue, it's like what I imagine Hell to be. Enough whining. Life is good.

I had a dream last night I was doing heroin with PJ Harvey. I dont even know what heroin would feel like, but it was making us both stupid, and her new album was weak, and I could barely move, and her sister was looking at us and shaking her head. (originally written on myspace - 06)