Courtney Love: “She grabs a suitcase and drags it doggedly to the center of the room. She turns to me and barks, ‘Go through my lyrics. They’re great. I’m the best writer of this generation. And if you don’t believe me, fine. But I dare you to find a bad one in there.'”
The whiff of self-delusion’s overwhelming. And there’s more. Hypodermic needles, mammary scars, the works. Hope Strauss got paid extra for writing the piece. (via Syntax)
Stauss may need a Purple Heart after that project. Did you know that Love’s agent once said that her memoirs would compare with the best of David Foster Wallace. Of course, I’m sure Jewel’s agent probably compared her poetry to William Carlos Williams.
Love is such a fucking spaz. I REALLY hope that Frances Bean Cobain goes on to do better than both her parents.
Hey, go see what Courtney Love’s dad says about GINNY GOOD at Amazon. G.
“I might even throw in some people I didn’t know, just to increase my chances of getting sued—Mia Farrow, maybe, Jill Clayburg, Elizabeth Clare Prophet, Courtney Love. I sort of did know Courtney Love, actually. She would only have been around two years old at the time, but I’ll put her in anyway. Her father brought her over to where Ginny and I were living on Shrader Street in something like 1966. He needed a babysitter. We were on acid. Her angelic little towhead two-year-old glow lit up the whole room. So, yo, Courtney, sue me, man. Bring it on.”
Heh. G.