In a world of trash heaps and disposable art, digital-only records and flashback culture, it’s comforting to know that we still walk among mythic artists. Yoko Ono is one of those artists. Her observations are so direct, so simple and so devoid of bullshit that they constantly remind me to reevaluate my perceptions. Her art reduces; it is a solvent for over-thinking. The proof of this is that, for the past 10 years, I’ve opened Grapefruit—her influential, heart- and mind-altering conceptual art book—whenever I start a new project. This has been a busy year for the 76-year-old legend. She re-formed the Plastic Ono Band with help from her son, Sean Lennon, and released Between My Head and the Sky, an album of powerful, modern music that startles one minute and soothes the next. Her voice, erotic and ghostly, tangles with the album’s reflective instrumentation. Listen for rhythms that recall ticking clocks, piano chords lilting in a far-off room and the soft purr of rainfall.

Gee, golly, and wow. This week, we really sunk to a world record of cultural nadirs (ugh, ugh, and ugh), didn't we? Well, the weekend is upon us, as is the most opportune moment to redeem our love for the letters. As it turns out, Ryan Adams and Weeds star Mary-Louise Parker are going to have an intimate chat about poetry and fiction. And you're invited to eavesdrop.

Who is Raymond Pettibon, exactly? For me, he is a monolithic pillar felled, breaking open the wall that separated me from my courage to be an artist, any kind I desired. He was born in Tuscon, Arizona, in 1957, has a B.A. from UCLA, and for anyone who ever drew stuff and also knew what feedback was (in a good way), he probably changed their life. If nothing else, his work hovered menacingly in the bedrooms of thousands of kids who grew up and fucked up the world for the better.

I remember meeting Marianne Faithfull for the first time. We were separated by a few thousand midnights, but even then, her eyes were kind, familiar. I remember her swaying figure through the glass of the control room at Globe Studios in New York. She was singing “English Girls Approximately,” a song I had written for an album, Love is Hell, that I’d made in three cities and in more than a little fog. As she cut the vocals on a very old RCA microphone, an ancient Elvis–looking spiderweb of silver grills and wires, I knew it was a mile marker for me. I also remember hazily talking to Marianne from the Chelsea Hotel some time thereafter, her voice a waterfall of calm and much needed kindness.

I knew Hollywood late. I saw it on television. Brightly lit and never-ending ease. Not an intellectual place at all. A place where radios played Tom Petty’s “Even the Losers” loud in convertibles and all those stories of hookers and trips to Las Vegas in the middle of the night. For me, Hollywood seemed scary as in nightmare-daytime scary, two trillion stories intersecting one block at a time. But I am a transplanted heart. Southern body created, but veins and skin all meant for the shadows of skyscrapers. Leaving the cocoon of New York for L.A. is painful. Even in winter. Because inevitably, you will meet someone, and they will want you to stay. Out there in the desert oasis that rides the beaches up the coast all the way to the valley, what they don’t tell you, and you have to find out for yourself, is “they’re all lonely as hell” and “it’s why they dream like that there.” The Big Time, they call it by postcard and letter. Ha. If only they knew what was what.

Aw, hell yeah: former BlackBook intern and current staff writer Ryan Adams is engaged to Mandy Moore, who's famous for being the only former teen pop star (that isn't Justin Timberlake, natch) to not only not turn out to be a scary tranny-hot mess, but to have a pretty successful acting/music career past teen stardom.

Oh my. It's New Year's again. Time is out somewhere huddled in a corner, cigarette ash at length, feeling sorry for itself. You know the feeling surely. What is it about New Year's that leaves us rushing for our lover, before the Times Square Ball begins to chase down the silvery pole on TV and disco is forever burned into our hearts each year this way (does ABBA receive royalty from this?) and all of a sudden everyone I know is in When Harry Met Sally. God I love that movie. Anyway, this New Year's, I did the impossible. I quit smoking (gross). I always read this thing, this "Quitting Smoking" thing on so many New Years resolution lists, but it seems most don't make it. So I hid under the blankets already and did the harrowing three-day OMFG slumber before New Year's. Why? Because I wanted to be through the worst of it before I went to some parties? Nope.

Liam Gallagher has a go-to move. It’s more of a non-move, really. He stands backlit in the front of the stage, feet shoulder width apart, arms behind his back, chin tilted slightly up. He stands motionless, statuesque and silhouetted. And it’s surprisingly effective. He pulled it out more than a few times last night when Oasis played a crowded Madison Square Garden. BlackBook’s own Ryan Adams took a repose from journalism to warm up the audience with his band the Cardinals, with more than a few fans considering them the night’s main event. Then Oasis took the stage with instant drama, beginning their set with a blackout.

When it comes to gift-giving over the holidays, inevitably you’ll end up doing one of two things (there is a third thing, but don't do that, don't give up). Those two things are:

a. Awaken from your Thanksgiving coma and think “Damn! It's time to buy those people presents again.” Or, b., Wait until the last minute.

Here are a few holiday gift ideas from someone who doesn't spend holidays with people. (I know how awesome this shit is. I bought it for myself.)

I am a ghost now, with two jobs -- musician and BlackBook scribe -- and a published author (I signed the books earlier this week ... boxes of them...my god, it's real). Hell, I am gauzy tired, dear reader, or just overcome with information. We writers dream of you. I can see a face which changes so fast when I think of you, and thousands of peaceful beams of light want to go through my fingertips to you. Damn. A writer with no reader? That would be an impossible echo. But maybe there you are; in the best of ways I went ghost, and so did you, if you are reading this. We must assume what we're like and why you're reading and why I am here -- eh, this is a two way street after all. Well, good then. Hello.