An Impromptu Tour of My Brain.

Among my many quirks is this - I get obsessed with things fairly easily. The length of obsession generally varies. Sometimes its with people. Sometimes its things. When it happens, I am amazed at how quickly I am completely consumed. The more there is to learn about something, the more voracious I become.

For example, in eighth grade I became fanatical about Charles Manson. Yeah, I know, it's kind of weird coming from a cute little thing like me. I hung the cover sleeve from Antichrist Superstar on my bedroom door and would dance pirouettes around my room to Iron Maiden.

Six years ago, I became quickly infatuated with anything Russian. Don't ask. From there, I jumped into the whole saga of Nicolas and Anastasia, which was even darker and more plagued with dirty, Russian secrets. Those thick, heavy accents, the filthy snow and ragged serfs begging for food. Autocracy and despotism. I was all over it.

There have been other obsessions: Chuck Palahniuk novels, vanilla perfume, John Bonham, cake decorating, the Dirty South, Irvine Welsh, deep sea creatures, tornado's, the poetry of Philip Larkin, Mark Strand, the plagues of the Bible, Hunter S. Thompson. You name it, I have been completely consumed by it for at least twenty-four hours.

But by far, nothing has captivated me more than music history. Though, specifically between the years of 1967-1972 in England and New York. Yeah, I'm talking about the Punk Rock movement. I know a lot of you already know how insane I am over this shit ... and it doesn't even apply specifically to this era - I love SoCal punk bands who played night after night in the garage beneath my unit, who play at Pacific Beach Pub on a Wednesday night. If you're dirty, loud, full of ink and have some sort of substance dependency ... there's not a day my heart won't find you.

My obsession remains unwavered.

And for a chick like me -that means something.