TO: THE PROFESSIONAL
FROM: IF I MOVE, KILL ME
RE: THE LAST SCENE OF THE WILD BUNCH
WHAT UP, BOSS! LEADING OFF: SORRY I DIDN'T GET BACK TO YOU ON THIS SOONER (I TOLD YOU I NEVER CHECK MYSPACE ANYMORE, BABY! YOU NEED THAT WORK, DIAL 1-900-HUSTLER!) BUT BETTER LATE THAN NEVER, RIGHT? TO ANSWER YOUR DILEMMA:
"For the independent woman with hot abs and cold boobies; upgrade yourself to the Fleur Hoodie"
NO, I DON'T THINK IT'S REALLY KOSHER TO RE-GIFT HOUSE OF DEREON. REAL TALK: SHIT'S DISGUSTING.
SORRY IF THAT AIN'T WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR, MY DUDE. BUT THINK OF US LITTLE PEOPLE. I'D EAT A FUCKING CANNIBAL IF MY ONLY WORRY WAS WHAT TO DO WITH ALL THOSE BIJOU LUV CAPRI PANTS OVERSTOCK. THE PROLETARIAT, BABY; WE'RE SICK OF MUSIC AND WE HATE EACH OTHER. BUT THAT DON'T MEAN WE DON'T LIKE TO MINGLE.
THERE ARE DIFFERENT WAYS OF SOCIALIZING FOR DIFFERENT KINDS OF SOCIALITES. PERSONALLY, I LIKE ROLLING UP ON THE BRYANT PARK PRET-A-MANGER WITH SOME DIXIE CUPS AND A BOTTLE OF SAINT MAGGIE'S. I PICK OUT SOME ROOKIE STYLIST IN A MATERNITY FROCK AND TELL HER, 'I DON'T CARE THAT YOU GOT RED ONION BREATH, AND I WON'T TELL A SOUL ABOUT YOUR BARELY CRACKED COPY OF THE ROAD, YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF MY DREAMS AND GET INTO THIS ZIPCAR. THEY'LL SCREAM YOUR NAME AT NIGHT IN THE STREETS AND YOUR SMITH GRADUATION GOWN WILL LIE IN RAGS IN THEIR FEET.
YOU DO SHIT LIKE THIS:
THEN THERE'S THE SHIT EVEN LA REID CAN'T GET INTO. OLD MONEY, STRONG DRINKS, TROPHY WIVES AND BLUE RIBBON MISTRESSES. I'M A CASH POOR MICK WITH A RESUME THAT READS LIKE MAD LIBS AND YOU WERE SELLING CRACK IN THE BUILDING BACK WHEN SELLING CRACK IN THE BUILDING WAS SELLING CRACK IN THE BUILDING. SO WE'RE ON THE OUTSIDE LOOKING IN SCREAMING 'ELAINE!' WHILE OTHERS ARE IN THE ROOM WHERE THE WOMEN GO, SPEAKING OF THE BLACKSTONE IPO.
BUT I HEAR THINGS--STORIES--AND JUST LIKE THE OLD DAYS, THESE STORIES HAVE USES.
HERE'S A STORY ABOUT OUTER SPACE AND LIFE BEING OVER BEFORE YOU DIE.
FULL DISCLOSURE: I'VE TOLD THIS ONE SO MANY TIMES, IN VARIOUS STATES OF SOBER, FADED AND BEYOND, THAT I CAN'T SWEAR ON LEVITICUS TO ITS VERACITY. I'M SURE I'VE REMIXED IT AT SOME POINT TO FEATURE CAMEOS FROM IONE SKYE, KENNY "SKY" WALKER AND MARK HAMMILL.
BUT WHO GIVES A FUCK. IT'S CLOSE ENOUGH FOR PUNK, RIGHT, BAD BRAIN?
1980SOMETHING, UNDER BRIGHT LIGHTS IN A BIG CITY: SOME GUY, AN EXECUTIVE VICE PRESIDENT OF MONETIZING RITZ CRACKERS AND SURFACE-TO-AIR-WEAPONRY (SOME FUCKING GUY IN A SUIT WHO STACKS PAPER), HE'S AT THIS PARTY. AND HE'S GOT THIS HUSTLE SPECIALLY PREPARED FOR THESE VERMOUTH DRENCHED AFFAIRS.
HE FINDS THE MOST FAMOUS CAT IN THE CROWD AND HE SAYS 'WHY DON'T YOU AND ME DITCH THE FUCKING DEBATE TEAM AND HAVE A REAL DRINK.'
THIS HAS SERVED HIM WELL: HE'S PULLED THIS ACT WITH G'S LIKE GORBACHEV AND THE WHITE WARREN BUFFET. WORST CASE- HE'S TOLD NO THANKS. BEST CASE HE'S SIPPING BARREL AGED SHIT WITH SWISS-BANK-ACCOUNT-HAVING DUDES WHO GOT SOPHIA LOREN BY THE HAND AND LABOR UNIONS BY THE BALLS.
ON THIS PARTICULAR NIGHT HE PLAYS THE ANGLES AND WINDS UP IN SOME PENTHOUSE WITH NEIL FUCKING ARMSTRONG.
We are just now learning the shit that he taught
A-S-T-R-O-N-A-U-T. GET ME? I MEAN, FUCK ALL EYES ON ME; HE HAD HIS EYES ON ALL OF US!
SO THIS GUY GETS ARMSTRONG A LITTLE TOASTY AND THEY'RE TALKING ABOUT THE TRAFFIC AND WEATHER AND WHATEVER. THEY'RE PASSING THE SHIT BACK AND FORTH LIKE THE SOCIETY PAGE VERSION OF E-DOUBLE AND PARRISH SMITH
OPEN SESAME, SON. FINALLY, THE CHECKWRITER ASKS THE MOONWALKER TO TO BE A DECENT PROTESTANT AND LEVEL WITH HIM; SOMETHING LIKE:
"BETWEEN YOU, ME AND THIS SIDEBOARD, DID YOU REALLY PULL THAT SHIT OFF? BECAUSE I BELIEVE IN MONEY, TOM SEAVER AND JESUS CHRIST AND IF YOU GUYS FILMED THAT SHIT ON THE BACKLOT AT PARAMOUNT WHILE MIA FARROW WAS GIVING THE CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD A HUMMER, THAT IS A-OK. BUT WHEN I GO HOME TONIGHT AND FUCK MY WIFE, I JUST WANT TO KNOW FOR SURE HOW MANY STEPS MANKIND HAS TAKEN."
AND ARMSTRONG, WHO WAS A FUCKING SQUARE BY ALL ACCOUNTS, HE FINISHES HIS DRINK AND SAYS:
"I WANT YOU TO YOU LOOK ME IN MY EYES; I HAVEN'T SLEPT A PEACEFUL NIGHT IN MORE THAN A SEVENTEEN YEARS. I AM INCAPABLE OF ANY KIND OF HUMAN CONNECTION. I AM CONSTANTLY IN DANGER OF DRIFTING INTO TOTAL MENTAL OBLIVION. THESE EYES, THEY LOOKED UPON THE EARTH AND SAW AN INCONSEQUENTIAL PARTICLE IN AN INCOMPREHENSIBLE, INFINITE UNIVERSE. YOU THINK THE JETS HAVE A SHOT THIS SEASON? I WALKED ON THE FUCKING MOON. THANKS FOR THE DRINK."
OKAY, OKAY. I KNOW YOU'RE ONLY 50 PAGES INTO DEATHLY HALLOWS RIGHT NOW, SO I DON'T WANT YOU TO BLOW A GASKET. THINK ABOUT THIS OVERNIGHT AND TOMORROW I WANT TO TELL YOU ABOUT THE BLACK ALBUM, EXILE ON MAIN STREET, AND DEATH.
