Guy tells his girlfriend he wants to part ways. Girl has a hard time accepting this. In a ploy to get guy back, she offers to help him clean his apartment. On a Saturday morning, Starbucks iced coffees in hand, Arcade Fire’s “The Suburbs” blaring on the stereo, he in sweats, she in a mini skirt and an extra squirt of perfume, they dust, vacuum, scrub windows. She remembers their 4th of July in Montauk, his annoying niece who could never pronounce her name properly, the white roses he sent her on her birthday (“red’s just way too obvious,” he insisted with that crooked smile). Warm sunlight. Beaming optimism. With a box of his dusty LPs in her arms, her foot suddenly skids across the hardwood floor, as if on a banana peel. “FUCK!” she shouts, the records tumbling everywhere, her ACL severely wrenched. Under her shoe she finds a soiled condom. The new girl.
In New Orleans I couldn’t sleep, so I wandered down Bourbon Street, where goateed and paunchy tourists sipped daiquiris from hand grenade-shaped colored cups. A dominatrix-looking waif waved at me. I waved back. She waved me over. Two seconds later I was perched on a bar stool at Temptations. The bartender—tanned, muscled, shiny—was Southern friendly.
“I’m Bob,” he said. “What can I get you?”
“I’m Frank,” I replied. “I’d like a Heineken.”
A billow of bad perfume disguised as a large-breasted dancer approached. “Hi, I’m Melissa,” she said, offering her hand.
“Where you from, Frankie?” she asked, taking the seat next to me. She wore pink lace panties and pink pumps and a white wife-beater. I was reminded of the Good & Plentys I used to love as a kid.
“What brings you to New Orluns?”
“I’m with a friend, but he’s back at the hotel.”
She moved in close and placed her hand on my leg. “So what do you do, Frankie?”
I took a long pull from my beer. “I run a pool cleaning business out there in the San Fernando Valley.”
She skimmed her fingers over my wrist. “You married, Frankie?”
“Where’s your ring?”
“We don’t wear rings.”
She softened. “I have a three-year-old daughter,” she said, smiling. “How old are your boys?”
“Five and seven.”
“That’s such a fun age! What are their names?”
I looked off toward the stage. Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me” blared. A row of Japanese businessmen fingered dollar bills. A topless blonde swallowed a man’s head with her breasts.
“Trace and Chad,” I said, trying to repress my smile.
“Aw, Frankie! Look at you! You’re such a proud daddy!”
I took her hand. “Trace is the oldest, a real terror. Katey and I made him a deal. You bring home a decent report card, and we’ll get you that skateboard you’ve been askin’ for…”
Of all my great achievements (trick-or-treating OJ Simpson’s house; five stitches to the chin after failed Evel Knievel-inspired launch over three Tonka trucks on Huffy BMXer; 7th place Meadow Oaks Summer School Hot Dog Eating Contest; tiles at Marina Dog Bowl; Tae Kwon Do yellow belt; stage dive Dead Kennedys Whiskey; cocaine seizure behind the wheel of powder blue ‘66 Karmann Ghia; back-to-back pizza deliveries to John McEnroe and Charlie Sheen in ‘86; premature ejaculation with Alexis from Heidi Fleiss’ stable ($800/hr, non-refundable); sushi with Madonna circa Like A Virgin; Mile High Club Pan Am Flt 104 JFK-DeGaulle; stalking, cornering, revelling in for maybe a year then killing perfectly good love, repeatedly; front row The Who reunion tour; on-time alimony payments seven months and counting; et al), this might be the sweetest:
If I’ve got the story straight, the One Minute Disco traces back to a cassette tape that got stuck in a car stereo. Everywhere the driver went, the first sixty seconds of Billy Idol’s “Hot In The City” accompanied him. Rather than try to pry the tape out, he made it his theme song. When the car finally broke down, he thought it only right to memorialize this peculiar ritual.
For much of the Port Eliot Festival’s storied history, the One Minute Disco happened on the hour, every hour. Festival-goers would drop whatever they were doing, shake their hips and throw their hands in the air for sixty seconds, then go back and pick up where they left off, a kind of espresso shot, or prayer, or simulation of losing one’s virginity.
This year the One Minute Disco made a surprise appearance. On the final day, at exactly 8:00 p.m., a familiar-looking truck rolled through the festival grounds, making sporadic stops and liberating exhausted hips. As word spread, it became a kind of pied piper, a trail of bouncing bodies following behind.
Here’s stop #2:
...THAT WOULD HAVE DELIVERED ME TO THE MALL WHERE I WAS SUPPOSED TO MEET THE PCP DEALER BACK IN 7TH GRADE…
summer camp with mr. skaff
killing squirrels with slingshot
sneaking into eric d’s mom’s liquor cabinet and pounding shots of old grandad
smoking resin at jen the lodies house
pcp score at topanga mall
pizza delivery dude beatdown
wrecking tommy v’s camaro on the way to nugent concert with open container and possession with intent to sell
quentin for the next six fuckin years
jesus and serious weight lifting
welcome back kotter reruns
free at long fuckin last
fucked up, but sexually electric marriage to world famous but fading porn actress
reality tv show
promo tour across the us
on-screen fight with dickwad camera fucker
relapse (oxycontin, mostly)
hotel lobby fight with nikki
drug store raid gone horribly wrong
back to fuckin quentin
bigmouth cuts a deal but gets shanked in the tv room
mean staph infection
seven years with not one fucken letter from the fuckin bitch
nights with biendl
god grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, courage to change the things we can, and wisdom to know the difference
staph infection progresses
god give me the detachment to accept those things I cannot alter