I wrote about Demi Moore, canned drugs, fake Fleetwood Mac monikers and 911 calls for Grantland.

If you want to make the case that soap operas are fictionalized celebrity dream machines, may I point out that soaps are dead? I did find a lot of pleasure ditching MCM classes to watch Passions back in the day, but I think we can find something more modern, or at least less familiar. Right?

(But do you remember the strange coincidence of Josh Ryan Evans’ death of a heart defect on the very same day his character Timmy donated his heart to Charity Standish and sacrificed his own life?)

carrieabigstick:

múm - we have a map of a piano

Bob was having a nightmare. In it, he was wearing a prom dress, even though he was thirty-two years old. The prom dress was covered with sequins and stank like pee. Bob, in his nightmare, felt ashamed of himself, so he opened the closet door to hide inside. Thousands of dead batteries tumbled out, covering Bob and leaking acid all over his prom dress. Bob cried out for help, but nobody was around; he reached for the phone, which had materialized just out of arm’s reach, but he was immobilized under the mountain of Duracells. The phone started to ring, and then the answering machine picked up. It was Rachel from Cardholder Services. Bob died of suffocation, and then woke up. His answering machine was in the process of receiving a message from Rachel, just where his nightmare had left off. He picked up the phone and pressed one for more information.

An operator offered to assist him. “Bob,” she said, “I’m calling from Cardholder Services because, while nothing is wrong with your account, we can assist you in reducing your debt of fifty-five thousand dollars and nine cents.”

“I don’t have any debt,” lied Bob.

“Bob,” said the operator, “you may not have any debt, but do you have any batteries?”

Bob pinched his thigh to make sure he was awake.

“Bob,” said the operator, “prom is in an hour, and you can’t go wearing that dress. It smells and pulls at the waist.”

“Is this Rachel?” asked Bob. “Are you inside my head? How did you get inside my head?”

“That’s where I live, Bob,” said Rachel. “And you can lie all you want, but I know about your debt, and I know about your dreams. I know about everything.”

“No,” insisted Bob. “That’s impossible. Put me on the line with your superior. Get the manager on the line right away.”

“I am the superior,” said Rachel. “I am the manager. It’s always me. It’s always been me.”

Bob brought the phone into the kitchen, where he kept his bullhorn. He pointed the bullhorn at the phone and screamed into it. He put the bullhorn down and placed the phone back on his ear. “How did you like that, Rachel?” asked Bob.

“I didn’t like it very much,” said Rachel, “it hurt my ears. So I poisoned all of your bottled water.”

Bob looked at the unopened case of bottled water on the floor near the refrigerator. It had cost him $11 and had enough bottles of water to get him through next Tuesday. Surely everything was fine. There was no way to poison water over the phone, especially since the seal on the caps was unbroken. The water was fine. Of course, the water would be fine.

“Go ahead,” said Bob. “I’m done talking to you. Don’t call here again. I’m on the Do Not Call registry.”

“I’m on the Do Not Bullhorn registry,” responded Rachel. “All bets are off, Bob. Won’t you let me manage your debt?”

Bob began to think quickly and outside of the box. “Officer,” said Bob in a quiet and even tone, “this is the number. Trace the call. Thank you officer. Thanks, officer Mike with the Los Angeles Police Department. Trace it, and then arrest this person, as you said you would. Yes, very good. Thank you, officer.”

“Bob,” said Rachel, “you really shouldn’t have done that. You know I hate when people try that stupid trick on me. You made it impossible for me not to place a bomb in the undercarriage of your Volvo S70. I didn’t want to make your car explode as soon as you turned the ignition key, but you really gave me no choice.”

“Ha!” laughed Bob. “It’s an S40! You had me confused with Ricky Daneshgar from down the road!”

“Thanks for the correction,” said Rachel, “but because you laughed at me, I’ve just placed bombs in the undercarriage of all the Volvos on your road.”

Bob listened to a series of loud explosions go off up and down his street.

“Well, I was planning to bike to work today anyway, Rachel,” replied Bob. “And as you probably know, I haven’t yet bought the bike I’ll ride, so good luck tampering with all of the bicycles for sale in Los Angeles.”

“Oh really, Bob?” asked Rachel. “Well, good thing I had all of the money in your bank account wired to Time Warner Cable. I hope you have good credit to buy that bicycle. Oh, wait, you don’t have good credit, because you’re fifty-five thousand dollars and nine cents in debt.”

“Good thing I’m sick today anyway and wasn’t planning on going in to work!”

“Yes, I know, you’re very sick. I’ve just given you diphtheria.”

“I have no symptoms!”

“It’s asymptomatic for the first five days. Then your skin takes on a bluish hue, you get chills, and you die.”

“There is a 90% recovery rate,” corrected Bob.

“Not the kind I gave you,” corrected Rachel. “You’ll open the hall closet to get some batteries, and then your diphtheria will worsen, and you will suffocate. Unless…”

“Unless? Unless I manage my debt with Cardholder Services?” Bob stared out the kitchen window and saw his neighbor, little Sally, making her way with her mother to their Volvo S60. “Don’t get in the car!” Bob yelled at the window. “Little Sally — don’t get in!”

“They can’t hear you,” said Rachel. “That window is stuck closed, isn’t it?”

It was.

“Now, real quick, do you want us to assist in managing your debt, Bob? Or do you want the deaths of all of your neighbors hanging over your head in your last few days of life before the sickness makes you hallucinate?” Rachel gave him a minute to think. Little Sally’s mother opened the door to the Volvo.

“I’ll take the diphtheria,” said Bob, and hung up the line. He heard the Volvo S60 explode as he hefted his case of bottled water into the dumpster.

I’m a big fan of Mrs. Ashby.

My favorite fictional stalkers, over at Grantland.

PROSECUTOR: Your honor, we now call to the stand a Mrs. Anne Pike.

[ANNE PIKE FLOATS DOWN FROM THE CEILING HOLDING AN UMBRELLA]

ANNE PIKE: Good morning.

PROSECUTOR: Good morning. Now, Mrs. Pike, you were in a telephone booth across the street from the scene of the homicide. What did you see?

ANNE PIKE: I made a diorama.

[ANNE PIKE PRODUCES A DIORAMA FROM HER PURSE. IT IS TOO BIG TO HAVE FIT IN THERE. THE FIGURES INSIDE START MOVING.]

PROSECUTOR: Just in case the jury can’t see, Mrs. Pike, can you describe what happened?

ANNE PIKE: Sure. A man in a handlebar moustache had all of this rope —

PROSECUTOR: Is this the rope in question?

[PROSECUTOR HOLDS UP A ROPE]

ANNE PIKE: No, it was kind of like this.

[ANNE PIKE KNITS A ROPE IN FIVE SECONDS, USING HER FINGERS BUT NO NEEDLES]

PROSECUTOR: Excellent.

DEFENSE: Objection! Objection! How can we be sure that was the rope? I’ve never seen that rope before.

JUDGE: Overruled. That was a neat trick, Mrs. Pike.

ANNE PIKE: Thanks!

[ANNE PIKE SHOOTS RAINBOWS OUT OF HER FINGERS IN THE DIRECTION OF THE JUDGE. BABY DUCKS ENTER THE COURTROOM IN A LINE]

JUDGE: Ducks!

ANNE PIKE: I learned that last Saturday.

PROSECUTOR: Please continue, Mrs. Pike. [PROSECUTOR KNEELS TO GATHER SOME DUCKS AND HOLDS THEM TO HIS CHEST] What did the man with the moustache do with the rope?

ANNE PIKE: He tied up a young woman and put her on the railroad tracks.

PROSECUTOR: Just when the train was coming?

ANNE PIKE: Yeah, I could hear it from the phone booth. It went [TRAIN NOISE COMES OUT OF ANNE PIKE’S MOUTH, FOLLOWED BY STEAM].

DEFENSE: Objection! Theatrical!

JUDGE: Sustained. Too weird.

ANNE PIKE: I apologize, your honor. Anyway, the train was coming and there was nothing any of us could do but stand by in horror.

PROSECUTOR: Do you see the man who tied the victim to the tracks in the courtroom today, Mrs. Pike?

ANNE PIKE: Hmm, let me see. Oh, yes! There he is, second row, right there!

PROSECUTOR: Please indicate who you’re talking about?

[LIGHTS IN COURTROOM GO OUT, BUT FOR A SPOTLIGHT ON A GUY WITH A MOUSTACHE IN THE SECOND ROW. A HOVERING NEON ARROW POINTS TO HIS MOUSTACHE. HE TRIES TO SWAT THE ARROW AWAY, BUT IT BITES HIS HAND]

MOUSTACHED MAN: My hand!

DEFENSE: Objection! Bodily harm, your honor. Seriously disruptive.

JUDGE: Arrow, I’ll hold you in contempt.

[ARROW COUGHS AND LEAVES THROUGH THE  BACK, FOLLOWED BY ONE DUCK]

PROSECUTOR: And when the train hit the victim, Mrs. Pike, what did the man with the moustache do?

ANNE PIKE: He twirled his moustache around his fingers, itched under his top hat, and went into Panera for a little while. Later he came out with a turkey sandwich, but it was gristly so he returned it.

PROSECUTOR: How did you know that his sandwich was gristly, Mrs. Pike?

ANNE PIKE: He made this face. [A PROJECTION APPEARS ON THE FAR WALL WITH THE MOUSTACHED MAN’S GRISTLE FACE ON IT]

PROSECUTOR: Item number five-eleven G, gristle-face. Jurors, this is the face of a murderer.

DEFENSE: Objection!

MOUSTACHED MAN: I was taped?!

ANNE PIKE: I have a photographic memory.

[QUACKING]

PROSECUTOR: Mrs. Pike, how did you feel when you watched this awful spectacle take place from the phone booth?

ANNE PIKE: It’s hard to explain.

[PROJECTION OF A CLIP FROM BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN APPEARS ON FAR WALL, WITH ANNE PIKE DRESSED IN PERIOD GEAR WATCHING A BABY CARRIAGE FALL DOWN A LONG FLIGHT OF STAIRS]

ANNE PIKE: And kind of like…hmm…

[RAIN STARTS TO FALL IN COURTROOM. A LITTLE LIGHTNING BOLT STRIKES THE JUSTICE SCALES]

ANNE PIKE: Shoot, was that metal?

PROSECUTOR: I think that’s all. Thank you, Mrs. Pike. You’ve been an incredible witness.

[DUCKLINGS PLAY IN THE RAIN AS A SHORT RECESS IS CALLED]

adriano celentano — prisencolinensinainciusol

HELLO?

HELEN?

IT CUT OFF IN THE MIDDLE OF THAT RIPPING YARN

HELLO?

HELEN?

I CAN’T HEAR YOUR VOICE

WAS I SUPPOSED TO PUSH ONE?

HELP

SOMEONE

HELEN?

—

a poem about turning one year too-damn-older.

van morrison — into the mystic

wounded lion — i’m sad

Hello, I’m an angry white yuppie who lives in the Silver Lake neighborhood of California. Recently it’s become nearly impossible for me to relax, due to the hardships I face every day. For instance, this afternoon I saw a young woman laden with bags of (I presume) disgusting vegan cuisine from Trader Joe’s trying to cross the street. In front of my sports utility vehicle, which had been trapped in the parking lot for over two minutes! And against the crosswalk! I rolled down my window and told her a thing or two, which made her cry, but I was not sure she’d learned her lesson, so I spat at her as I screeched away. Why do people think my time is so expendable? She’s lucky I didn’t run her down. I could have. I have a very good lawyer.

After turning out of the lot, I found myself behind a family of bicyclists with annoying little red flashing lights alerting me to the presence of their prehistoric two-wheelers. What’s that about? We live in a city. Roll down the windows of your Prius and enjoy the air that way, instead of slowing traffic. Exercise at the gym like the rest of the world. Do you think I have hours upon hours on a chilly Saturday to take in the sights as I roll down the street at 25 MPH? I’m a busy professional! I honked, which only spooked the family, and made one weedy adolescent take a spill onto the sidewalk. Luckily, this distracted the rest of the pack of idiots so I was able to save thirty seconds making my turn. But then, of course, more obstacles popped up like swarms of obnoxious fruit flies around my pristine margarita of a drive: here, a couple walking in aggravating happy ignorance with their scraggly Yorkshire terrier — I cannot tolerate those awful little dogs, so I threw litter in their faces as I passed; there, an insufficiently filled reservoir, ruining my view of what should be an abundance of water — can this city do nothing right?; and, finally, a little old lady pausing to take in the view at the top of the hill which is the site of my modern condominium. “Get out of my way!” I screamed. “Go somewhere else! This is my driveway! It isn’t your driveway! Go home to wherever you live, downtown or in some un-gentrified suburb!” She did not move, or take note of my yelling, which I knew probably meant she was deaf (the volume of my yell is very loud; I practice often). I gave her the finger and she feebly tottered away, after wasting another sixty seconds of my life.

When I arrived home, I unpacked my $14 ham sandwich to discover that they had only speckled the bread with like five capers. Five capers in a sandwich that really needs seven bites, at the very least. I threw it into the garbage where it belonged. I sat at a desk pretending to do work for that $14 and all I wanted was mouthfuls of capers. As if this day could get any more horrible, my espresso machine had not been cleaned by the maid in the manner I had explained to her upon her hiring, so when I went onto the veranda to enjoy the sunset, all I could taste was old froth residue, like a mouthful of dirty scum. Unforgivable. I phoned her cell and fired her, then called her names and insulted her mother. Of course, by this point the sun had dipped below the hills and I was left, with an empty stomach and hard heart, in the dark on a cold Adirondack chair. I thought about calling my sister Sally, but then I remembered that she was still sore at me for criticizing the placement of her hammock. I thought about calling my best friend Steven, but he wasn’t speaking at me due to the fact that I’d smashed a bottle of wine on his coffee table after he beat me at Scrabble in late 2010. I called my lawyer and shot the breeze for a while, asking after his daughter and pretending to give a damn about where she was going to college.

“UCLA,” responded my lawyer.

“Fuck the Bruins!” I yelled, because I hate the Bruins, and because my lawyer was unlikely to hang up on me, as he charges by the minute.

“We’re very happy for her,” my lawyer continued. “She wants to be a dancer.”

“That’s horrible,” I said truthfully, “You’ll never recoup your financial investment in her. She’ll probably grow up to wear palazzo pants and weave dreamcatchers in the desert.”

“I’m just about ready to fix dinner,” said my lawyer. “Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

I went through the list of people against whom I’ve been considering filing lawsuits, which took another ten minutes, and then let him go to tend to his stir fry. The rest of the evening stretched out before me like the big, bleak, vast San Fernando Valley. I’ve never been there (who has?), but I know it’s large and stretches out pretty far, because I looked at it once from a friend’s mansion on Mulholland before I realized I was far better than that, and stared back into my martini glass instead. Why was there no one left to call? Perhaps it was because I am such a busy professional that my lifestyle is intimidating to others, who seethe in jealousy when they hear about all of the $14 ham sandwiches I have eaten, and how nice my veranda is. Nobody will ever understand how difficult my life is. It is a burden I will carry with me forever, and very few people will ever be lucky enough to understand.

gene autry — i’m thinking tonight of my blue eyes

I’m always in awe of people who create characters and stories that are so engaging that people send them death threats and scathing hate mail when they tinker with their creations. Of course, this is in many ways the highest form of flattery — your fiction lights people on fire with rage! — but skimming hash tags for #ihateryanmurphy is also sort of sad. When did Ryan Murphy stop Googling himself? That’s what a person does after a few dips into the pool of lye that dribbles from the poisoned hearts of former fans and born haters alike and collects in a puddle on the internet. I hope Ryan Murphy is made of steel inside. I hope he gets his rear-entry scene. Keep scandalizing me, Mr. Murphy. I love that shit.

Here’s a sampling of Murphy hate I collected over at Grantland. I stopped Googling myself a while ago. It felt great.

sweet — wig wam bam