This is how it happens. A fat drunk man with a white beard swoops in at the end of December and takes a razor to the already thin surface of emotional stability, Alan and I tumble into a ridiculous fight, he leaves, and I’m left on the couch watching a Duran Duran DVD and dabbing salt water from my crow’s feet. During “Notorious” I jump up off the couch and inadvertently punch the ceiling, a feat that sends my brand new Tiffany bracelet Christmas present flying to one side of the room and its padlock clasp that’s supposed to signify the stability of our relationship off to nooks unknown.
“Fuck me!” I scream to precisely no one.
While crawling around the floor in hopeless search, the booze-blood rushes to my brain and a year of ridiculousness races through my head – moments that will not, cannot and should not ever happen again. This is how it sounds:
“When I do a spread-eagle toe touch, you can see Jesus on my face!” Taylor splits his panty crotch. “I am blessed!”
An event photographer snaps at us, perhaps knowingly, and I nuzzle into Scott’s necktie like Lindsay Lohan might into a toilet. And you know what? The Max of Well doesn’t even grab my soiled extensions and throw my head against the tiles! I love me some Scott Maxwell.
Morrissey’s coif is holding asexual sonic court in my gracious drawing room as varying shades of my nearest and dearest unsolved follicular homicides pile their suedeheads into my preparty fray, and I could almost swear that I’m not old and tired, and that washing this Vicodin down with that vodka isn’t self-medicating, but an actual good time.
“Do you think that the chocolate icing at the base is supposed to be pubic hair or poop?” I pose the most unappealing question ever.
“Both?” Tony gags, while all in earshot (cum shot?) chortle like lowly gay penis galleries do. There’s a script, you know.
Outside, a small mass of forward-thinking, heavy-drinking liberals are chattering around a table to the booming beat of something by Bananarama.
“Would you ever trade all of your glamour and beauty to be as smart and ugly as Stephen Hawking?” Savannah talk radios.
“I don’t have to,” I squawk back. “According to the theory of relativity, nothing can travel faster than light. Thus if light cannot escape, neither can anything else; everything is dragged back by the gravitational field. So one has a set of events, a region of space-time, from which it is not possible to escape to reach a distant observer.”
The next morning, we’re neck-deep in a cold Jacuzzi atop a rockpile that leads, by way of a tiled slide, into a kidney-shaped pool. Amid the gurgle of the not-calming bubbles I spot a sign, perhaps the sign I’ve been looking for my entire life: “Blocking the waterslide mouth will cause Jacuzzi to overflow.”
“Oh. My. God,” I fart an epiphany. “You’re a waterslide mouth!”
I witness at least three of the following: midgets, pumpkin muffins, midgets, a “White Rabbit” interpretive dance, midgets, a “Master and Servant” Depeche Mode derivation, midgets, a girl named Toxin who said she had “so much imagination going on in her head” (that head tellingly covered in a mountain of black yarn), boobies, magical pills that really light up, midgets and a fabulous-but-truncated show.
“I can’t find my gay,” I drivel into my flip-top portable communication device.
“Guess what!” is all it takes, and a chorus of meaningless banter involving television’s Mayim Bialik, eightballs stored under spare tires in rental cars, Paris Hilton’s vagina, DUI arrests, Britney Spears’ bald head, meet ’n’ greets, television’s Jodie Sweetin and suspended licenses (“Who hasn’t!”) erupts without noticeable pauses for breath.
“Why won’t anybody fuck me?” Savannah whines on, oblivious. “I can’t even get a redneck skater to fuck me cuz I’m so hip-hop.”
“Correction: You’re red-hop.”
“Why can’t I be hip-neck?”
Allegiances challenged, I suffer Anthony’s favorite Belinda story – she once ate a pile of bran muffins before a show and had to, ahem, defecate into a drawer side-stage; love her! – and muster enough strength to attempt to believe him.
“Omigod,” I elbow Tony and point in the direction of a potential Izod fatality at the bar. “Patrick Bateman is totally staring at me!”
A few minutes later, we’re surreally couched beneath a presumed Dali in the other room, still going on about nothing while watching people reflexively stare at the walls like they’re art, too. A girl comes over and stares over our heads and actually says the word “surreal.” I think I just swallowed myself.
And there it is. On the corner of Central and Orange, baking in the neon glow of dirtbag commerce, rests a lone pink baby sock. It’s a fucking baby sock!
“Oh my god! Should we take it?” Savannah coos. “We have to take it,” I trench coat. “It’s a clue.”
And that brings us to now, which is essentially like then.
“That’s all I get, a handshake?” is all it takes from Whitby for me to mount my imminent demise. Mid-hug, I decide to pull a limb contortion that throws both of my legs up around his midsection, something I would advise everybody to try with the person who signs their paycheck. Naturally, the maneuver backfires and in a slow-motion tragedy opera, my ass bone hits the pavement, soon to be followed by Bob’s knee hitting my scrotum. Know what’s missing now? My balls.
And that was how it was. You know what isn’t missing now, though? The shiny silver padlock. It flew over the ottoman and into Alan’s cowboy boot, right there with my heart. Fuck email@example.com