Our eyes meet. She lost in my beauty, lost in her adequacy. I think of my Veyron 16.4, it's dual clutch transmission with its seven gear ratios, its direct-shift comp. controlled automatic, It's six-speed DSG, its 150 millisecond shift-time, its four engine bi-turbochargers, my second home in London, my $2000 dollar haircut from the John Barrett Salon, Fifth Avenue, the extra's whose brain I ate on the set of Stormbreaker, Moral Objectivism, Credit Benefit swaps, The tenets of the new conservative, My hammer strength insert ramp, 200 push-ups at dawn, 100 at dusk, The fallacies of the New York Times review of I Am Number Four, the wearing effect bone has on my Bosche AKE 40 Chainsaw , the value of introspection, the mindset of the American populace, My 2nd avenue Balcony view which overlooks The Arcadian, Hilary Duff, Being an island, living and dying alone, auditioning for Spider-Man, always anger, sometimes pushing it down, sometimes letting it loose. The High School Musical bitch says something to me. Expects me to reply. Thoughts of banal conversation, thoughts of tolerating those beneath me, Thoughts of waiting in line, waiting my turn. I say my words with the conviction of real emotion, turning Barnz's lies into truths.
I sit, thinking. Thinking about thought as a ironically redundant construct, the girl in the alley, her limbs somewhere I don't remember. Recycling as the losing battle, the woman who'd rather be a monster then age, the man whose best years are behind him. The make-up girl makes a joke about waiting, I politely laugh and then shoot her in the face with my type 64 silencer. The life pours out of her. The notion of empathy, and the capacity to understand it being beyond my reach. My 8:45 reservation at The Blue Bar, Algonquin. Twihards. Robert Pattinson's head on my plain-glass decor moderne mantle, Rising above the soft stuff, being the man you always dreamed you could be, Jealousy the great mystifier; Rules Of Attraction being th best movie ever made. The decreased productivity of the man who wants to do everything. The limitations of a public school upbringing, how actions define the individual, Life as a rat-race and second place being A-OK. The High School Musical Bitch is talking to me again.
The end. My star rising in hollywood, being the bench-warmer reserve of teen girl fantasy, The grail of the 50 mil opening. The hard-work of our parents and the generational disconnect. The prophets of our times speaking in insanities, the equal expectancy making me a liar. No matter. I park my Veyron 16.4 next to last year's model, which rots like unwanted fruit. I think if irony rules the world, then how can there be a home to go to and go back to snorting $1000 an ounce snow of a dismembered prostitute's back. I think about the comparative value of saran rap from several local convenience stores, factoring in distance, hygiene and race. The triumph of man being the defeat of impulse by reason and wait to win the next tween demographic craze, the agents tell me this is important. I nod along, and massacre in the mean time. A long way to go yet.
Rating: 4/10 (Neil Patrick Harris is really good in an otherwise terrible movie)
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