same as it ever was (talking heads)

Thursday, September 15, 2005

Cool...and Totally Weird...part 1

I posted about Bret Easton Ellis' novel Lunar Park awhile back. When I was doing some surfing for that post I happened to come about a web site dedicated to the release of the new novel. There was game an interactive writing game that people could participate in to coincide with the release of the novel. The game was called the Exquisite Corpse and it was basically writing a short story with 30 other team members. The winning team would receive a signed 1st edition copy of Lunar Park by none-other than BEE himself. Anyway my team The Tardy Terby's (we didn't get to choose our name) won the bitch (21 teams were involved). We should be getting our signed books by the end of the month!

This whole thing was totally fucked-up though. Before the game started we got a cryptic set of instructions on what to write about (the game was scored). Ifwe used a comma correctly we got 10 points, any pop culture reference was worth 25 points, if we used BEE favorite word (which was not supplied) we got 100 points, we also had to write like it was a lost BEE short story, those were the only real instructions. Oh yeah, the other thing was that we could only see the previous sentence before the one we wrote, with 30 people writing the finished product is understandably chaotic, fucked-up, and pretty funny. Every so often I'd check my gmail and I'd be allowed to add another sentence (I only ended up with about 11 of the 220 or so) I'm going to reprint it below with my contributions in red for those of you who don't want to link to it. I'll also put the laugh out loud funniest sentence of all-time in green (sadly not written by me). Anyway if you get bored with the whole thing just scroll to my parts and see what I had to work with (remeber I could only see the previous sentence). Enjoy, this is pretty fucked-up shit...The Tomb

People say monsters don't live in L.A. They only say that because they have yet to meet the ones that I have run into. On Tuesday, it came to me that all these decisions I have undertaken, all these routines, were nothing more than sad little coping mechanisms for dealing with them. What would George and Martha, the real Sid and Nancy of my first rehab, think- they always had the perfect cut down disguised as a brutal back-handed compliment. George, a short, fat, George Clooney if you can imagine one, and Martha, maybe five pounds overweight with fake tits, who I had tried in vain to get alone since I first met her in rehab, standing here, in my house, who thought I had been sober for close to four years.

Moments before the doorbell rang however, I had been in the bathroom downing Lodine and Ultrasec like they were going out of style. I could barely hear the doorbell ring over my music playing, it was the new track "Hip to be Square" by Huey Lewis and the News. The person outside was hadling the doorbell with all the speed and dexterity of a morse code typist. I waited a beat, then let the door open. The daylight was not really applying itself; was not what one would call "brilliant", and was definitely not living up to one's expectations. The pills were drowning out any expectations I had had for the evening. I knew the only real way to regain focus would be to cruise the usual back alley haunts for human entertainment, but since that was obviously out, the only choice I had to focus on what was later to come.

I was getting irked: isn't evil suppossed to be early? A suprise, rather than an appointment. We stood there face to face sizing each other up as the drugs rushed through my veins and all I could think about was if this would be over in time for my late night rez at Dorsia. He smirked at me conspiratorially, and it was then that I knew that it would be impossible to return my DVD's (Videodrome and Gozu) AND get to Dorsia on time. I shook my head in confusion; I was not sure where those stories- those monsters I had made up and pressed into pulp- and where my memories had overlapped, but the process had become seemless and irreversible. I groped in the pocket of my sateen Stafford Collection bathrobe for a Klonopin, but my pez dispenser was empty, so I shook what I could of the heebie-jeebies from my head and addressed the hallucination before me with with what smug insouciance I could still muster.

As we sat down for dinner, George kept staring at me from the corner of his eyes, was he the monster I'd been searching for? I wonder if I should get him a drink or hit him until the answers fall out of him, followed by the questions. So I ordered a J&B straight and a Corona while looking over the menu. On the rim of the glass I noticed one of the server's curly, brown beard hairs; but I am far too dependent on alcohol to consider sending it back. As I removed the hair, made inconsequential by my third double bourbon, a vaguely familiar face moved into the amber haze under a stained glass lamp.

"Still throwing the word vaguely around your head like a raquetball, I gather." she snarled, her L'Occtaine-clad lips curled into a cruel rictus. I now knew, not too far off, slightly beyond this last drink, is the calm I desperately need to adjust to this sudden visit from my old friend. Just then my phone buzzed with an incoming text message. It said: c u in 4 minutes. Both shocked and flattered by the note, I made my way to the lavatory to expel the contents of my churning stomach. After I'm done retching, I'm thinking: 4 minutes is such a short space of time, if I had only 4 minutes left to live, what would I wish those 4 minutes to consist of? My mind immediately darts on my wife, and then darts on the cutie barista down at Starbucks. As soon as my head cleared from such inane thoughts, I went to the kitchen to look for the pitcher of Jimmy Buffet Margaritaville margaritas that I couldn't help but thinking that I had made earlier that day.

"You again" she snarled again; "George and I've been persuading one another that we didn't care whether you ever finished vomiting, you must have been in there for four minutes? Hey, I'm talking to you, were do you think you're going?" Her voice was like television static to me, a droning noise of a thousend wasps in my head. I couldn't make out the words she said, her mouth moved like a robotic abyss drawing me into her spell. Enraptured, I watched her hypnotic movements.

Sipping my J&B I reach into my coat jacket and pull out my tickets to Le Miz, it starts in two hours. The reflected figure of a lanky nordic-looking fellow passed by in the mirrored pillar I had been admiring myself in. Spinning on the heal of my opera slipper, I lunged at him with the stiletto end of my Montblanc rattail comb, and we collapsed into a well upholstered heap on the floor. Blood Rorshachs from his body making animal shapes in the tacky shag rug. I release the comb from my grip and feel my pulse steady. In examining my surroundings I see what has been done and I'm horrified and calmed by the gore. I also find it oddly compelling that a slinky was used to help facilitate the carnage. The slinkly grotesquely looked like a large bracelet around the body.

"Damn" I thought, I had forgotten to buy that David Yurman bracelet down at Neimans. Such a fickle thing memory is, especially mine. By the time I gather myself the Le Miz show has already started and I am in no condition to sit through that again, especially not with her, so I duck into a Swatch shop to pick up my nephew's birthday gift, not all memory is unreliable.

I peered over the top of my Ray Ban sunglasses at the vast array of overpriced timespieces, and began to feel my stomach turned with disgust as she reached for a black faced chronograph. She frowns when I mention it might say, "Patek Phillipe" on the outside, but on the inside it's just Japanese tin. I continue to play these childish games with her. She glances toward The Smiths poster, her fingernail pressed against my palm, flashes an unintended smile, sighs again as the wind is drown by the sound of Echo and the Bunnymen bouncing, like shadows, through the hall. She leans in close to whisper in my ear, my head is filled with her Calvin Klein perfume, but all I can think of is what her head would look like on a stick. Her Gucci sunglasses lay next to her, left lens cracked. Illumination of her face ghastly smiles from the shattered pieces?. This world no longer cares and the buzzing of flies sounds like brokers on a busy Wall Street day. Suddenly I hear a loud whoosing noise that causes me to spin around, looking behind me, there is nothing there. The noise is behind me again. I spin, but just as quickly it is gone again, like the cat toying with the mouse.

I suddenly realize that there is glitter all over me and everything around me, like confetti in the opening scenes of the Cliterati. Is that also an open box of Count Chocula? The thought went ripping through my mind like a glass shard. Nervousness became my best friend as cold chills ran through my body. It stood before me twitching and salivating like a meth freak coming off a three day binge. The Stoli in my guts turns to acid as I recognize its stench as one not connected to anything remotely alive. It came at me like a brand new Duccati in your rear view mirror, I knew at this point there were only two choices that I could make. Get a haircut at Sara Mills, or just push my fears aside and go on. I realize, I've lost my Rolex. Have I left it somewhere? Gym? Has it been stolen without me noticing? Too much Neurontin and Gabitiril? It must be Seroquel which I've been taking in quantities, because of nightmares. The Banshees! Oh god the banshees! I pulled at my hair in frustration. So much stress at one moment will do a toll on my facial that I just got yesterday not to mention my hair which I am sure is about to start graying any day now.

editor's note: This is the first part of this story post, the fucking story is like the Energizer Bunny. Anyway I tried to make a link to the story but blogger wouldn't publish the post so I couldn't make the link. I'll finish up this post in sections, probably this weekend. The shit starts to get weirder and weirder, and I keep writing shit that is dumber and dumber.

12 Comments:

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