It's another warm winter day in Southern California. I live in the Hollywood Hills overlooking Sunset Plaza, an ultra high-end strip of land full of restaurants, bars, and fashion boutiques. I wake up around 11:30 am, I didn't set an alarm; I haven't used an alarm for a couple years now. Time, for me at least, is not of the essence. I jump out of my California King, turn on the 80 inch Sony plasma and head to the restroom and commence brushing my teeth using my new electronic toothbrush also made by Sony. On the television five dumb menopausal bitches doped up on caffeine are sitting around a round table arguing over pedestrian bullshit, overlapping each others' sentences and abruptly cutting one another off over their Hot Topic which is last night's dance show. They're visibly heated, arguing over who should've really been voted off. I vote them off when I change the channel but on the news, the anchorwoman I'm obsessed with has the day off and though there is an interesting story about multiple babies found in trash bins all over the city, it's still not the same without her perfect full lips disseminating this information so I turn the attention to myself but looking in the mirror I don't like what I see as I notice that I've lost some muscle definition in the abdominal area. It's barely noticeable but noticeable nonetheless which is all it ever really comes down to. I instantly make up my mind and commit to a two hour workout at the gym which means I'm injecting myself with a 1000 ml of B12 for added energy since my serotonin, whatever is left of it, is depleted from last night's coke binge to the point that I cried myself to sleep after jerking off to a Manga Japanese anime cartoon which got weird when the twin sister samurai warriors went for a skinny dip in the ocean and sunbathed naked on the beach. I was on a lot of drugs and the feeling was surreal. Last night I dreamt about having sex with ghosts.
The gym I go to is Equinox; it's nice and clean but nothing super-spectacular to brag about, my house on the other hand is a different story altogether. I live in a four-story ten thousand square foot ultra modern home hanging off the cliff of Lookout Mountain which is a cul-de-sac neighborhood off Skylark Lane in the Hills adjacent to Mulholland, a stone's throw from Leonardo Di Caprio's house. The house is beautiful (mine; not his); it's sandy white with wood trim, and rows of huge slabs of frameless tempered glass panels form a massive wall of floor-to-ceiling "open concept" slidable windows on the entire side of the house overlooking the city. There is an elevator, gym, an infinity pool built out of marble on the first floor, a cabana, and imported white sand surrounding the pool. The only other color being represented here is red in the form of beach towels neatly folded on the wooden lounge chairs. I open the subzero fridge door and take out a large bottle of Evian water, I grab a gym towel, and my new Bose headphones and walk into the garage. I jump in my black Lamborghini Aventador, I push start the engine. It roars out loud like a wild beast. Frosty glass door of the garage lifts up and I back out and head down the hill. I have thirteen voicemails, most of them from my dying-to-be girlfriend. She's texting me "call me ASAP" which is a surefire way of not getting a call back from me but it still doesn't change the fact that she's hot, no, super hot. Basically you would break your neck straining to look at her if you saw her anywhere including Pinkberry which she is addicted to but I find the calories unnecessary though I've had it on the occasion where I sprinkle it with whey protein if only to fool myself into thinking it makes it healthier and it very well may but right now I'm more important than her. And this workout supersedes everything at this moment in my life especially having to endure a phone conversation about her dinner last night with her boring, utterly unremarkable college friends. I'm listening to some bullshit rap music on the radio. Some nasty nigger yapping about being cool, rich, and high and buying everything at the mall. I wouldn't mind putting a bullet in his empty head if I ever get a chance to. I think his name is Crème Fraiche or Pop Tartz or something equally preposterous but America loves him. I'm losing the war, out of season and almost extinct and probably would be if I a) wasn't as intelligent as I am and b) didn't have Trilateral commission friends with insane Skull and Bones connections and c) didn't inherit a fortune when my father finally croaked--the dumb son of a bitch. Speaking of bitches, at the bottom of the hill, while waiting at a red light, some pretty ugly (my favorite oxymoron) bitch tries to smile at me and I have to fight down the urge to get out of my car and approach hers, knock on the window of her Prius, impatiently wait until she rolls it down then palm her fat face into the headrest, covering her mouth and nostrils, and keeping it there until she can no longer breathe but opening the doors on this Lambo is a fucking event and it's because of this and not the fact that it's broad daylight that I don't kill this corpulent cow, a nobody loser bitch, who I have no problem burying under the marble pool, in the soundproof secret torture chamber of my house, in the same hideous flowery-patterned curtain looking yellow dress she's got saran-wrapped over her. I notice a filthy bum on the street, in the middle of the sidewalk fighting someone imaginary. An SUV with Lakers flags affixed to all four windows with LAKESHOW24 vanity plates bumping the same shitty rap song that's playing in my car drives by. It's a green light. I remember to change the station; I press SCAN and land on some familiar sounding new wave song from the eighties.
Fags sporting hot pink shades are walking around the street in neon tank tops and daisy duke jean shorts drinking oversized frozen frappuccinos out of straws. What a cursed life I'm thinking, sodomizing each other and shooting loads of cum in other men's assholes can't be too much fun, can it? What a bunch of assholes, now they're gawking over, I admit, a rather handsome twenty something male model posing on a massive Calvin Klein billboard towering over Sunset. He is in great shape with a totally ripped abdomen but not tan, makes $275,000 a year max but probably way less and though he is good looking, this notion that he makes what amounts to a tax write off for me wards off the imminent panic attack I would've had if he were also very rich, still I can't help but grip the steering wheel extra firm and flex my tricep so the fruity passerbys can see how defined my arms are. The fucking thing looks like a striated horseshoe. Looking at the sky I'm shocked to discover that some loon in a plane, a single engine Cessna, is skywriting the entire periodic table of elements. It's a vision so clear to me that I have to cross my eyes to clear it still this does very little in changing the fact that there is no more smog in this city which is a shame because the earth is recovering from my father and his junk bond buddies' attempted mother-nature matricide in the late 1980's. There is very little littering nowadays so I decide to litter a little to help create jobs, you know give the GDP a much needed boost, but what should I throw out of my car? Not the new issue of Robb Report and definitely not my favorite knife, a Kyocera Kyotop Damascus. I settle for the half empty bottle of Alkaline Chlorophyll water that cost me $12.50. Some little kid on the Mel's Diner patio who was checking out my car saw me do it and found it hilarious; I wink at him then throw the Aventador in fifth gear and in less than no time, like a smash cut from a movie, I'm at the gym. I work out and I work out hard, supersetting chest and biceps followed by thirty minutes of abs and core work. See the differences between me and you are too much to delineate right now but one major distinction worth noting is that I don't stop lifting or pulling or pushing weights when I fatigue or when I reach the recommended twentieth rep or when my muscles burn so much that they literally feel like they're on fire or when they feel like they are going to explode though my skin because of the torrents of blood rushing the targeted muscle group. To me that's the beginning of the set. I use that kinetic energy. I push through that adversity and pain because I like it, because I know I need to do ten or twelve more reps to get real results, to separate myself from the rest of the farm animals mildly working out and chatting about auditions and call backs on doomed pilots. I look like David Beckham if he had a body like a god and not his skinny pathetic excuse for a man's frame but I'm far from a bloated fatbuff New Jersey meathead who mistakes a bad sunburn for a good tan. And unlike Mr. Beckham, I don't speak in a squeaky prepubescent tone and my body doesn't look like a flock of seagulls took a shit on it because I didn't mar my physique with graffiti and body ink. As a specimen, I'm near perfect in every measurable category, on top of the food chain, and a gift to the human race. I'm someone worth cloning. Maybe the only one.
…excerpts from "Dinner"
"Guilty!" is my response to Josh's lame accusation. Everyone at the table is staring at Elle and I. The Today Show this morning was about kids having kids.
"Hi everyone my name is Robert" I announce to the table like a recovering addict, "and this is the lovely Elle." I fake a smile, pull out the chair for E and we take our seats. During preliminary introductions I completely zone out, my mind floats away to a completely different world where I find myself amongst sadist aliens decked out in platinum-iridium armor, trying to communicate with them in hopes that they'll recruit me and claim me as one of their own so they can take me away from this place. They tell me I'm the chosen one and end up knighting me in some awesome futurist dubbing ceremony. I'm dressed at the height of fashion. My armor is 24 karat gold. The close helm, gorget, and visor are made of Koh-I-Noor white diamond. I daydream about spacediving into a lake while it's raining, swimming in it then snapping a perfect picture of the Loch Ness monster using my new Sony Cyber-shot DSC-RX100 Digital Camera. Then killing the fucker. The footage from the film in my head is endless shots of blood and carnage; I'm riding the monster's neck, stabbing it, over and over and over again. A hundred times in all. Until the blue water turns red, until he's bathing in his own blood. The sound flickering over the image is his primitive, horrendous shrieking. Now I'm licking the animal's blood off the titanium blade. He's writhing in pain but I'm holding on tight until unexpectedly, shockingly his head rips off and everything fades in what seems like time-lapse photography--and in slow motion, like a movie--the sun goes down, and the lake gets much darker until its just pitch black and I'm back at the Red O where one of the dirtbags in our group wearing a non-descript but not inexpensive striped collar shirt is snapping his fingers in my direction and smiling but my vision is blurry from the Ambien I took to sedate my homicidal fantasies and I have to blink my eyes and focus really hard to get a gage on what the fuck is going on around me and what this son of a bitch wants from me. Goddammit why didn't I bring my headphones?
Me: "Yeah, what?"
S.O.B: "Hey hey, what year?...I went to Stanford as well!"
"Oh yeah" I say pretending to be charmed by this useless fact but I'm really thinking who gives a fuck then looking around the restaurant, I too snap my fingers, motioning for our ridiculously dressed waiter in a green sombrero hat. "Garcon, garcon," I keep saying but the Mariachi band is too loud, fuck it.
"What do you need?" asks Jennifer, Josh's girlfriend.
"A cookie for this dimwit," I whisper in her ear. "Excuse me people."
I get up and make my way to the rest room glancing back for a quick second to see if Josh is trying to be funny at my expense and sure enough, his mouth is moving, his friends are laughing. He's probably telling them I didn't take my meds and that I'm some kind of trust fund baby who doesn't have a job but none of that is true since a) I do take meds (I just self-medicate) and b) I do have a job. My job is the hardest job on earth. I manage my own money--sort of. Sure it was given to me and yes I do have help in the form of six financial advisors but do you have any clue how difficult it is to decode and identify money managers' real objectives? To screen out what's in my best interest as opposed to theirs. They're scumbags…and arrogant too. My dad, may Satan bless his soul, was good at two things: making money and saving money. He learned a business, tweaked the model, then replicated it. Shipping, oil, commodities, technology, finance; he did it all. The money he made he never ever spent. The money he made from the interest of the money he made he never spent and the interest he made from the interest accrued of the money he made he rarely spent. The principal was never touched. The earned interest just stayed in his tax sheltered accounts, compounding. Interest on interest on interest and it went like this until that became the business. Managing what to do with the cash he earned for having cash and being wealthy became more seminal than trying new businesses but now he's dead. Thank god. And I'm the only child, born into a fortune which I manage the way I choose to and I can do whatever in the world I want with my inheritance yet inexplicably I find myself following in the old man's footsteps. Spreading my money around, diversifying, using six Harvard brains instead of one, letting my advisors battle it out with one another to see who gives me the highest ROR, which one provides the soundest advice, which one of these cocksuckers is the king of the Wall Street jungle. I'm not one of these fucking investors who "takes" or "realizes" losses at year-end for tax purposes. Fuck that, that shit is for the pussy populace. And I don't leave my money in preservation mode because I have way bigger ambitions than that, I'm trying to shoot up the Forbes list. I'm good with numbers and I'm keeping count.
I count out two Vicodins from my pill box ($650 by Burberry) and swallow them dry (impressive I know) then walk out of the men's room after checking out my perfect haircut in the mirror, making my way to the bar where I order a Corona Light from some slutty looking Latin chick behind the bar sporting some kind of diamond piercing in her cheek which oddly enough I find highly erotic and this bitch is lucky I'm with a group of eight and because of this I won't have the chance to sit at the bar, openly flirt with her, watch her flirt back while squeezing a slice of lime in the longneck bottle of beer and fantasize murderous visions in my head, then hide outside in the dark alley until the end of her shift and leap at her like a sick perverted nut but she might like that the dirty whore. Maybe at first but I'm pretty confident the ensuing rape and mutilation session in the funhouse under the pool won't be a great source of pleasure…for her, not me. Back to the table.
"You take your meds?" Ha-ha-ha-ha.
"Sorry guys I was trying to order a cerveza but you know…" I feel numb at the moment, thanks to Pfizer. These idiots have ordered some really unhealthy food options, like baskets of deep fried tortilla chips topped with fucking Velveeta nacho cheese, salsa, and heaps and heaps of sour cream and corn and I don't know what else. The table looks like it threw up on itself, it's horrifying. And it smells disgusting. The guacamole is being prepared table side by the valet guy I think. I find his interaction with the group extremely uncalled for and quite irritating. If I wanted to watch an amateur chef try lame tricks and play with my food I would've gone to Benihana and sat at the teppanyaki table. I order octopus for dinner even though it has a chili lemon glaze that I don't particularly care for. Fucking beaners put that shit on everything. This isn't Echo Park and it's certainly not the fucking mango and pineapple stand outside the courthouse though I have to admit I've always wanted, since I was a little kid, to eat peeled, sliced fruit out of a plastic bag. I spend the rest of this dreadful dinner speaking to Josh's Jennifer about her future plans with her lowlife man. I'm mocking him any chance I get which is fine because he's telling Elle and the rest of his gay crew about some purportedly awesome Bali vacation he went on and all the amazing things he did while he was there besides my derision of him is done in a way to make it sound playful if he were to somehow overhear us instead of his own relentless voice or the horrific sounds coming from the unskilled Mariachi band who is going table to table and singing for tips. Right now they're at the table next to ours, the song is La Bamba, a worse version if that's even possible. My abomination for live music surpasses any quantifiable logic.
…excerpts from "Art Show-and-Tell"
This place is crawling with mutants. Artsy looking people trying way too hard to stand out are doing everything but looking at the art. They're wearing outlandish outfits (metallic leggings, loose shirts, glittery headbands), smoking cigarettes on the terrace with drinks in hand, laughing, and getting on my nerves. I excuse myself to the nearest restroom where I have to wait five minutes for two other guys in the stall to do their cocaine. I overhear them talking about the group of beautiful girls that just arrived in a limo--Madison, Elle, and Jen presumably--and how badly they want to fuck these girls. My interest picks up when one of them asks the other which one he would rather fuck and now leaning in with my ear to the door his response is, "all three of them fucker" which is ensued by both of them laughing out loud like jerks. For some reason this makes me horny, jealous, and overprotective at the same time. The doors opens and I catch them high-fiving each other and I'm tempted to do something bad to them but I take a deep breath and catch the door before it's slammed shut since they, neither one of them bother holding it for me even though they saw me eagerly waiting. I can't believe they're not gay. These guys look like they stepped out of a Prada photo shoot with their unremarkable haircuts, pale skinny faces, and skintight turtle necks. Whatever, I sniff eight bumps of the white powder off the back of my hand, wash my nose clean and check myself out in the mirror, I look phenomenal as usual but I'm still not satisfied so I do two more bumps then use the key of the anonymous mailbox I rent in the Postal Annex on Beverly to inscribe into the bathroom wall "JEFFREY DAHMER WAS A FAG" and then turn around to walk out but I instinctively know this is wrong so I scratch out the work "FAG" and etch in it's place "NIGGER LOVING FAG" Then I stand back and have a second look at it, "JEFFREY DAHMER WAS A NIGGER LOVING FAG" which feels more apposite, yes much better. Now satisfied I head straight for the bar where I order a glass of vodka on the rocks, the bartender tries to give me Ciroq but I push the glass right back at her in the same sloppy manner she did me like I'm a lumberjack ordering a PBR in a dive bar in South Boston or something. "Trrrra agin," I mimic a Southie accent, leering. She gives me Reyka. It's not bad and neither is the girl in a Rodartie black mini dress and fur coat draped over her shoulders. I don't bother looking for my so called friends and take great pleasure sipping my drink and wandering the halls of this three story exhibit but I don't see anything interesting. All the art hanging on these walls I've seen before. It's all been done before, all imitations. A copy of a copy of a copy. The contemporary oil canvas paintings bore me so I make my way to the exit so I can tip the limo driver to drive me downtown to a cool bar, maybe somewhere on a rooftop with a pool, but not the Standard, somewhere I can have a drink or two, maybe meet someone new, someone I can talk to. But then I see a crowd of people surrounding what I'm assuming is the midget artist's showpiece. He's standing there, waist high, giggling and taking in all the praise and I push my way to the front so I can get a glimpse, see what the big deal is, and I can hardly believe my eyes when I see that it's a 10 x 10 still life sketch of a bowl of fruit. A bowel of apples, oranges, grapes, and bananas. Oh, and a grapefruit. I'm reduced to tears because I can't believe it. I can't believe this is the world I live in. The artist is talking about the consequence of simplicity. I'm thinking what the hell happened to artists like Francisco Goya or Kazimir Malevich. What the fuck are they teaching these imbeciles in art school nowadays? I spin around and grab a flute of champagne off the tray of a passing server. She gives me a fake smile and moves along. I return the favor and quaff the not-bad bubbly then sense someone's hand on my back which startles me.