20 December 2005

Intelligent Design

It's such a beautiful day today with nary a cloud in the sky. It's as blue as the day I was born. But elsewhere the skies are black. And everyone is dying. And it feels so wrong to be sitting at a desk listening to Uncle Tupelo while staring at the blue, blue sky.

If I could play the banjo I would pick my sorrows away. No such luck, though. I suppose I could do an interpretive dance in my front yard. There's really nothing that can't be solved with an interpretive dance. So Kevin Bacon.

17 December 2005

In the Beginning: The Selwyn Diaries Part Two

Still waiting for the release of the Selwyn diaries, The Cuyahoga Falls Intelligencer has decided to release a few more excerpts. We begin at the beginning:

Thursday, 27 March -
It was the evening before our world tour when I decided to take a walk around the city. Take a last look, you know, at all the wonders of town before leaving for Toulouse and Nice and all those other places. As I was passing Erica's humble abode (yeah, right), I noticed a dark figure in the bushes and called out to see who it was. Not surprisingly, it turned out to be Mandy Candy Sandy, who proceeded to tell me all the titillating details of Erica's encounter with Sting. I was unimpressed.

Well, it's not that I was unimpressed, I was just reeling from earlier this evening. Erica had come screaming to my door to tell me that our journals - the ones that spelled out our every fantasy (which for me was 50 dramatic ways of killing myself if I didn't meet Bono - were sitting in a display case at the Cuyahoga Falls Popular Museum. They had been donated by an anonymous source and were available for check-out by all. We went running to the BBMS and confronted Mayoress Reputa with a few choice words until we realized for the time being there was nothing we could do. Erica slipped away intending to make a "phone call" to Disinformation and I went home. Oh well, I'm sure Mandy was the first to read them and if so, everyone's going to know what's in them anyway. Still, I'm plotting my revenge.

Anyway, Erica was up in her place with Sting and the whole incident left me with a craving for fish. Fish with tails, yum! It's that same craving I get any time I go on a long trip...something about the Omega 3 Fatty acids, I guess. Good brain food. On my way to Philpott's All-Nite Grocery Pit I ran into Chris Jackson smelling faintly of potted meat byproducts. Whatever. I bought some kippers and went home to get ready and now here I am diary, writing to you before I sleep. And now I'm going to sleep. Night night.

Friday, 28 March -
Today's plane ride to France wasn't too interesting. Erica proceeded to tell me what I already knew about her night with Sting and that he would be joining us on parts of our tour to whip her into submission...um...I mean, into a high school graduate. I kept saying that I'd probably need some tutoring if I wanted to graduate, but she kept conveniently not hearing that part of our conversation. But the trip did have fresh fish. I was glad that I had put that into our rider right before we left, stalling our takeoff while Raynelle - the queen of all private assistants - ran to buy some at Philpott's, but making me very, very happy.

I am glad that Erica's dream man has come into her life, but I can't help but wonder how someone can be with one person. I myself prefer variety even though I never do anything. Really. I just like to hang out in seedy parts of town, picking up dangerous boys and turning them into my pets. Europe is great for that 'cause no one seems to care that I'm only 16. Just call me Lolita, baby!

Really the thing is that I'm waiting for my very own dream man to realize I exist. And the only one for me is Doug. I know everyone says he's a loser, but if they would only hang out at the donut shop they would see that there is so much more to him. I always know when he's going to be there (all the time), so I make sure I get a choice seat right near him to hear his voice while he deals and makes up poems about Jim Morrison. But what am I going to do? If being a world famous rock star with a hit record and a 3.7 GPA isn't enough then what is????? Alas, I'm off diary. I need to get ready for tonight's show.

Saturday, 29 March -
The show was okay last night, Erica seeming a bit distracted the whole time, but the boys on the main rue were magnifique! I did actually meet one young stud that night that gave Doug a run for his money. He was tall, lanky and aching to touch me through his unwashed jeans, but I held out. God it felt good! I picked him up with a glance and took him back to my hotel room, passing Erica's on the way. Out of curiosity, since Sting was supposedly "tutoring" her, I put my ear to the door to see if I could hear anything. All I could make out was something that sounded like a combination of barking dogs and someone stirring a bucket of plaster. Who knows.

Anyway, I brought Michel into my room and undresses myself. No words necessary. I made him sit on the bed while I Jazzercized into a good sweat (he was noticeably sweating as well) and then, right when I was about to go into my famously high leg kicks, I kicked him right out of the room. Yeah!!! He banged on the door for at least half an hour until I called security, which promptly shoved him along his way. Ah, Toulouse!

Today we were in Nice. I convinced Erica to go to the topless beaches with me to help me film my trip to France. It was a great feeling to be topless in public. I flimed this one 14/15 year old boy who had an enormous penis. Mmmm, it's nice in Nice. Out of the side of my lens I noticed a dark figure laying right in Erica's way, but I guess Erica didn't. I chose not to tell her since, you know, it's much funnier not to, so she tripped right over the figure and gave me the perfect ending for my entry to "Cuyahoga Falls' Sleaziest Home Videos."

Tonight's show was much better than the last. Erica seemed to have an energy and passion that was lacking earlier. Maybe she was over the jetlag...or maybe last night's lesson was particularly stimulating. I asked her if she had learned anything and she mumbled something about Thomas Campion. Whatever. Tonight there are no boys for me. I need to sleep to prepare myself for EspaƱa, home of the Latin lover...which I will conquer with much style and ease. Night night.

Monday, 31 March -
Yet another eventful trip for Cuyahoga Falls' greatest export. We took a train to Barcelona and arrived with much to do by the locals. I felt so like The Beatles that I just had to mention that we were bigger than Jesus (they, of course, were bigger than God, and I can't be that presumptuous). Anyway, this nearly caused a riot in the crowd that had been placid and adoring moments earlier. Alas.

We had to leave early yesterday, so when we got settled on the train everyone fell asleep but me. I had to walk around drinking in the sights and smells of this creaky ride. And what a smell it was! Tasty hake coming from the dinner car, to which I was heading when I saw someone sneak out of another compartment. It was Sting. Naturally. He looked a little flustered as we exchanged pleasantries and then went inching away as if I hadn't already seen him. Whatever. He's a good looking man, but he seems like he'd be a real dick even after you get to know him...or maybe because you get to know him. I was staring out the dinner car window gnawing on my fish when I saw him leap off the train onto a silver Aston Martin that had been stealthily driving alongside. Damn...

I did manage to fall asleep for a few hours in the afternoon after we arrived. Good. I needed to be shiny and cute for this evening's events. I went to this newfangled thing called a technobar, which is like a mindless beat fuck. Nothing but hours and hours of drums and synthesizers and the occasional vocal. Sweet! I took home two boys that night because nothing has ever, ever, ever made me feel the way this does. Never...never, never, never. I still maintained the upper hand, though. I think. Maybe. Whatever. Since we're playing tonight here in lovely Barcelona, I've given Jorge and Manuel backstage passes. No doubt the three of us will be having much more fun tonight.

I feel sorry for Erica because she never gets to see anything lately with all her "lessons." She was always one to take the English seriously.

Tuesday, 1 April -
It's Tuesday now, something like 5 in the afternoon. I'm writing from the train to Pamplona, where they do the running of the bulls. I may have to jump on in and join the fun.

This is actually the first conscious moment I've had since about 12:30 this morning. What I remember from last night is Jorge and Manuel being backstage with us, noticeably greasier than the night before (yum!), and Erica flashing me a concerned look as I led them away by their belts. We were at a technobar no less than an hour when I felt those...feelings again. Next thing I know I'm sitting on this train...

I'm wearing a dog collar and there are random words written all over my body in Spanish, which with my rudimentary skills in this language I've managed to translate. "IT'S TEATIME FOR THE THREE MUSKETEERS," "COME TO MY LAIR," "I LIKE YOUR MEATBALLS" and on my right arm the cryptic "BIG CHEESE GETS HIS TONIGHT" with an arrow pointing to a star on my pinky. I can hear the roadies saying something about having to pry me off the bed with industrial strength WD-40 and a spatula...and yet I feel so fresh and rejuvenated. Erica keeps asking me when I got the tattoo of Dan Fogleberg on my shoulder. I keep telling her it's a birthmark, but she won't believe me. I'm changing the subject now.

I wonder if Disinformation has gotten in touch with Erica regarding the notebook situation. I would love to find out so I can plan what horrible things I'm going to do to this anonymous source.

I hope Pamplona has technobars.