Ditritus: Kid Versimilage, The DJ Wonderslut

Vapid Musings and What Not

Dedicated to Melissa, The Gorgeous Red Head.

What with nothin' ventured, nothing gained, and my goings on are wrought with ambivalence to the living (and wrung hands and gnashed teeth and...) in my waking life, I am now forced to dredge my subconscious to provide what fleeting interest this Gather love snot of a maddening man may have. Hence, for all you somnulence fans out there, a synopsis of last night's dream:

I see myself reflected in glass and steel in the middle of a large crowd in the lobby of a movie theater (all pristine Kubrickian white walls, gleaming surfaces and what appears to be fiber-optic bonbons), Gathered to catch the five-minute teaser for the long-awaited comic-book epic, Ludolf's Lovepulp, and after no small amount of jostling among the capacity crowd (with one poor soul somewhere in the middle crying, "Beat me, bitch, Beat My Meat! I'm here to see Ludolf's Lovepulp!"), we eventually make it into the cavernous auditorium and seat ourselves libidinously. The house lights dim and a roar comes up as the giant convex screen before us is filled with a rapid-fire, quick-cut montage of our favorite comic-mag heroes made flesh at last - Laura OctoMuse, Professor Leverenze, Philip S. Nudelman, Esq., Billy Bob Thorton as John Q Walter, a montage that lasts all of fifteen seconds before the screen goes black and the bombastic score falls dead, replaced after a few, uncomfortable seconds by the image of the film's director, slumped against a wall with a troubled look in his eye. He's not identified on-screen, but I recognize him immediately from his trademark black suit, graying tuft of hair, gaunt, slightly pinched features and the Dunhill cigarette he's holding with a peculiar sort of Euro-Trashy affectation of gleeful indifference. Surprised, I cry out: "Holy shit! That's Me – Fuck, I am a sexy mofo! Wait - No - I have become Ludolf Grolle."

Hundreds of glares turn in my direction, all bearing that mixture of contempt and bewilderment I've come to know so well. Outburst aside, it's obvious that no one has the slightest idea what I'm talking about (nor, probably, should you, unless you're Jewish, a bad-nineties-movie aficionado nonpareil, an NPR junkie or someone who's read the two previous abortive attempts at my writings abortive state on this very Gather site - briefly, I am a writer/prognosticator of truth who made quite a lucrative living in Hollywood by writing the screenplays for some of the most cynically commerce-driven drivel of the 1990s {you haven't heard of them – so why comment here} before retreating to Cambridge and becoming a national hero in the mid-Oughts via my hilariously dark-humored satire of network politics, the success of which evidently went to my head in a major way, pent-up auteurist dreams I'd been holding on to since at least last night. (No one seemed to know, notice, nor care), something with a touch of Borges, a little Satyricon, maybe, or maybe if Mordecai Vissler and Atom Boy had collaborated on an episode of Mr. Loveslut Pimped My Ride..." you would understand my narcissism.

He starts to tremble slightly and a tremor creeps into his voice as he continues, suddenly unable to complete sentences. "And I'd... Boston existentialism... Nights of Cabiria... Italo Calvino... Al Waxman... parchment beef... Aldus Huxley... Mini Driver... John Haslett-Cuff... choas magick... Williams-Sonoma... Godiva... Dresden Dolls... Brecht..."* That last word comes out as a brief choking hack and he falls silent, slouching even further against the wall, staring balefully at an indistinct point somewhere to the right of the camera, blowing misshapen smoke rings in its direction with an enigmatic half-smile on his face (the left half) until the five minutes runs out. Instead of the usual bombastic-fanfare-accompanied "COMING SOON" at the end, the words "Slippery When Wet - January 07" appear, backed only by the thin, lonely buzz of a reel running out.

The lights come up and I realize that the entire audience has cleared out; all, that is, but the young superfly TNT hipster couple asleep a few seats down. I nudge them as I walk past and they jerk awake, started. "Oh! I can't believe we fell asleep before it even started!", one says (I'm not sure which one because they're both moving their mouths and neither is in sync with what's being said). "We've been waiting for this for years! So - what'd you think?"**

I look at them for a long minute, then break into a smile. "It's gonna be great," I say.

*An actual quote. My dreams are nothing if not meticulously researched.**

** Ah, shit. They really don't want to know what I think.

Recent Nicknames I have been called, mostly behind my back: