DEVIL’S BREAKFAST: a new review

From Amazon…

Five starts out of five.

Love it! It made me laugh

ByMelina Riveraon July 15, 2015
Format: Paperback

Love it! It made me laugh, it made me cringe, it made me wonder, very descriptive flow I really enjoyed the dark humor and characters woven in this thrilling story, someone should make this a t.v. series. I would really enjoy it, very intriguing & entertaining had me wanting more. I highly recommend this book.

BUY IT NOW!

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JOY part 50

Before you think I hadn’t learned anything from all the glaring honesty Kristin and Nancy, and even Paul, had shed upon my confused little brain. It’s not true. I had listened to all of them very carefully. Weighed what each had to say. I’m not sure I liked what they were telling me. Not at all. Having everything of any note you’ve ever accomplished in your life…every meaningful relationship you’ve ever had…all reduced to “you like challenges,” somehow seemed to totally trivialize everything. Such an incredibly trite answer, even if there was truth to it. And there was truth to it, without a doubt. However, it was also not quite accurate. I knew that, now. I mean, I guess I always had. But Kristen had put the final piece into place for me. The full truth was more complicated. The full truth was even more sad and pathetic.

You don’t know how badly I wish I could end this tale, right here, and tell you that meeting Kristin that night saved my life. That fate had somehow served someone up from my past to shake me out of my self-absorbed little world. Someone to make me realize how every bit of life I had really was too precious to ever throw away. That would suit you, wouldn’t it? A cheery, uplifting, life-affirming message in the most literal of ways. Sorry, you lose.

I loved seeing Kristen that night. Hell, I loved seeing Kristen just because I loved looking at her. The fact that she sat out there even though she was freezing, had to piss, and really wanted to be home, should prove to you that my praise for her is about more than just being so truly-fuckable it makes me ache. But, if anything, seeing her and listening to her insights about me, and why I did things, just confirmed what I already knew. I couldn’t back out of this. I needed the ending. It was part of things. Part of everything I had ever done and ever would do.

All those things Kristen had said, and Nancy before her, about me creating challenges for myself was 100% true. However, their understanding of the reasoning behind it wasn’t nearly the full picture. You see, I created challenges because they created conflict. And conflict creates drama. That’s right, I’m telling you I am a drama queen. So sad. And a drama queen in the biggest of ways. I construct situations that I have a good chance of not coming out well for one simple reason. It makes me feel. No, I didn’t forget to finish that sentence. I’ll say it again. I do things that create drama because it makes me feel, period. Sick, isn’t it?

Bring on the misery. Bring on the longing and yearning and obsession. Bring on the joy and elation when I’ve fought the hard fought battle and won. Just let me feel with all the intensity and energy one can feel. Give me women I’ll never have. Give me career dreams I’ll never accomplish. Just let me feel all the pain and glory of it all. Just let me fucking feel.

It’s not this book that I want turned into a movie. It’s my life. A Major Motion Picture that makes you laugh and makes you cry. All the boring, mundane bits edited out. A swelling progressive rock soundtrack to heighten the emotions. Everything BIG. Bigger than the lame little lives that others are content to lead. Bigger than the life I could ever have if I didn’t give it an ending of appropriate intensity and drama.

Which is why we’re here now, you and I. On this road high above Los Angeles. A road named Mulholland with a sharp curve and a serious drop if you go off of it. A drop almost guaranteed to result in your death.

Cue music! “Muse” in all it’s prog. rock grandeur! Perfect. Perfect. Now, we rev the engine. The Mini waiting to play its part in the final scene. And finally, the tense close-ups. ME. My face, serious and determined. My hands clenched tightly against the wheel. My eyes. Hold on the eyes. That’s it. And now, as the music swells, I gun it. Head straight toward the edge of the road. One last shot of my face as the car is airborne. A long shot of the Mini hurtling off of the road and into the sky. It dances against the night sky. A ballet of death and destruction as it lands. Disintegrates upon impact. Flames. Flames everywhere. A fiery death. There is no way anyone could survive. It is done. We hold on the flames as we remember the man we have gotten to know so well. Remember a life that ended as it was lived. Cut to end titles.

Except for one thing. I didn’t do it. I’m still here (Duh. Who else do you think is writing this?). I chickened out. Actually, it was even worse than that. I was sitting there on Mulholland, trying to push myself that one final step I needed to, when a cop came. Nothing like the LAPD to fuck up a good suicide. The cop was actually this really burly looking, super-ugly chick that told me I couldn’t park there. She seemed to assume I was just looking at the view. Not even an “everything OK?” Just basically “get the fuck out or I’ll arrest you.” So, I left.

It’s hard to describe the emotions one goes through when one thought they were going to already be dead by their own hand. At least this one. All I can say is it leaves you relieved in a way, but even more than that, it just leaves you really, really tired. Fucking exhausted, actually. So, I did what any self-respecting-failed-suicide-attempter would do. I stopped by an In & Out Burger and got some really tasty fast food. Then I went back to the hotel and slept. I could always try to kill myself again, tomorrow.

And I did. This is it. The final scene. The final act of a sad and pathetic and pretty much wasted life. The real deal. The thing you’ve all been waiting for.

Once again, I found myself in bed, naked and alone. Only this time there was an empty pill bottle on the table beside me. A bottle I had procured a few days ago from an old film acquaintance of mine. A bottle now empty, as I had ingested its entire contents. It was better this way. No waiting for the Freaky Man Killer Gene to strike. A final act of control. Of creating the drama I craved so much.

Picture it, we start on a close up as my eyes begin to grow weary. The music starts soft and grows louder as we slowly start to track away. We gracefully pull back and see my sculpted, Adonis-like body sprawled naked atop the bed. My gigantic, horse-like member on display for women everywhere to worship and adore. And then…And then…Who am I kidding? This is the end. The real me. In all my pathetic glory. The naked truth, so to speak. I owe you that much. And by the way, thank you. Thank you for sticking with me. For being there through all this. Thank you.

So, back to our show. There’s no music. Only the sound of two Mexican maids out in the hall arguing. And, if a camera were really here, it would see the short, pale, out-of-shape, mushy body of a man who didn’t exercise enough, ate too many cold cheese burgers and farted a lot. And as far as his horse-like member, it would be a tiny little stub out there for the world to laugh at and ridicule. Something I’m sure will happen after somebody finds me here. When someone finds my body. After I’m dead.

But, no matter what, you have to give me credit for following through. All that talk about killing myself and ending it all wasn’t just bullshit. Even when I found myself having last minute doubts, I knew I had no choice but to follow through. If not for my sake, for yours. After all I’ve put you through. After all the crap I’ve made you listen to. It’s the least I could do, really. Besides, rules are rules.

I start to get sleepy. I feel the drugs course through my blood. And I find myself thinking of Nancy. I imagine her walking into the room and finding me like this. I imagine her looking over my naked body with a look of amusement on her face. Knowing that she had caught me. Enjoying my sense of embarrassment and excitement. I imagine a look of mischief in her eyes as she just keeps looking at me without saying a word. And finally taking mercy upon me and bending down close to me. And kissing me. Kissing me so perfectly I never want it to end.

And then I imagine her smiling as she undresses herself in front of me. Finally, letting me see the body I had pictured in my mind, so many times. Letting me see every wrinkle and flaw that only makes her that much more beautiful to me. That only makes me want her that much more.

And I imagine us making love. Of feeling so connected to her. Of it all feeling so incredible. So wonderful. So right.

And, most of all, I imagine the look in her eyes. A look which tells me how much she loves me. And always will. And how the phone rings.

The phone is ringing. A terrible, loud, shattering noise that pulls me down from heaven and back into a messy hotel room in Santa Monica. I don’t even know if it’s real or I’m still imagining things.

And I see myself pick up the phone. I’m not really there. I have no control. I just standby and watch as I say “hello.”

PHONE TRANSCRIPT, SANTA MONICA – DAY

MY MOM
Happy Birthday!

ME
What?

MY MOM
Are you OK? You sound funny.

ME
What? Why?

MY MOM
You didn’t drink too much or do
anything stupid, did you?

ME
It’s not stupid, Mom. It’s better
this way. I don’t want to die the
way Dad did. I want control. I want
to write the final scene.

MY MOM
What are you talking about?

ME
I’m sorry, Mom. I know this is hard
for you. I just don’t want to die of
the curse.

MY MOM
What curse? What are you talking about?

ME
The curse. The Freaky Man Killer Gene.
It would get me, anyway.

MY MOM
What gene? Oh, My God. You didn’t…?

ME
It’s better this way.

MY MOM
Listen to me. There is no curse.

ME
No, the Freaky Man Killer Gene. Dad.
The others.

MY MOM
Your father was a manic depressive. He
killed himself.

ME
What? No. The others. The death gene.

MY MOM
Alcohol or drugs.

ME
But you always told me…

MY MOM
I thought it would be easier for you to accept.
You were just a child. There is no curse.

ME
No, the Freaky Man Killer Gene.

MY MOM
You haven’t done anything stupid, have
you? Oh, God. Please, talk to me. Tell
me you’re going to be alright. Please…

I see my face as I still process all the information through my barely still functioning brain. I watch and wait like a silent witness. Just another passenger along for the ride.

ME
I’ll be fine.

And then I see myself put down the phone. And I see my squishy, out-of-shape body jiggling with tortured laughter. This ending is just too perfect.

FADE TO BLACK

CUE MUSIC: MUSE/”FEELING GOOD”

ROLL CREDITS:

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JOY part 49

And then something really strange happened. I ran into her. No, not Nancy. You would never believe that. It would feel forced, contrived and truly fictitious as opposed to the seemingly random, yet carefully constructed, pieces of brilliant writing you’re currently enjoying.

Anyway, as I was saying. I’m walking along the Santa Monica Pier by myself, pretty late at night. I guess it wasn’t real late. Probably somewhere around eleven. Whatever. I’m watching the white lights of the cars in Malibu and starting to think about all the time I used to spend here with my ever-so-hot-when-naked LA-X. This used to be one of our favorite spots together. And I’m remembering the conversations we had here. Thinking about how life felt so different back then. About how she used to look. All the details of her face. Her long, gorgeous hair. And then I actually saw her appear in front of me. For a second I really thought I was imagining it. Just totally off the deep end. But no, it was really her. Kristen, here, with me, on the Santa Monica Pier.

She still looked good. Not as good as she used to, mind you. She was older (don’t even bother getting into it again) and she had cut her hair really short. I don’t know what evil instinct it was in women in their late twenties that makes them all chop their hair off and try to look like their mothers. I mean, they all seemed to do it. It was really weird.

Something about them deciding they were really adults now or something? Beats me. Anyway, the point is that Kristen, my LA-X, was suddenly standing there in front of me.

I went over and talked to her and went through all the shocked reactions and small talk crap you say when you run into someone. I told her how I had been trying to get in touch with her, but had failed. And how odd it was to just run into her like this. Which it was, but not as much as you might think. L.A. is actually a really small town in some ways. Frighteningly so. L.A. is so scary in so many ways. It’s amazing I ever survived five years out here. I guess Kristen was a big part of that. Kristen who was with me again. Right here. Right now.

And then we sat down on the pier just the way we used to. She was married now. His name was Bill. He was in his forties, and he was a music video and commercial director (how perfect for her, which you would know if you knew her the way I did). She had been married to him for about a year and they owned a house together in this very hip (and expensive) part of L.A. (I would expect nothing less). And on and on. All of which I was genuinely quite interested in. The long and short of it was that she was doing very well and really happy with her life. All of which made me feel really good.

And then she asked me what I was up to. I told her in the most general, broad strokes I could about what I had been doing with my life. I reduced the entire Grand Plan to just a road trip I took because I was out of a job and restless (which I guess was kind of true) and left out all the details. She listened carefully, but didn’t press for anything I didn’t feel like getting into. It was all really nice. And then she said she had to go. And I realized I was about to let one of life’s little gifts disappear before my eyes. Fate or just the fact that Santa Monica was really popular, something had brought us to this place together, right now. Something special. And I was about to squander it.

Oh, you Dirty Devil, You. You think I’m talking about trying to get her in the sack, don’t you? Well, in all honesty, I wouldn’t mind that at all. She still was the most objectively gorgeous woman I had ever been with. Would ever be with. She was amazingly sexy, even now that she was old (she was hitting 27). And with short hair (such a shame). But that’s not what I meant. Although it would be a nice side benefit, indeed. Would you just look at that sweet ass? Yum. Man, it would feel good to fuck her again.

Anyway, as I was trying to say before you perverts got me all distracted, this was special. I told her I really needed to talk to her about something and asked her to stay. We had already sat out there for over an hour catching up. I’m sure she just really wanted to get back to her husband. But, Kristen always was so much more than just the most jerk-off-fantasy-inducing woman I had ever met. She really was a great person through and through. And after a brief look into my eyes, told me she would be happy to keep talking. After she found a bathroom, though, because she really had to go.

So, post-rest-room-visit later. Kristen and I sit on a bench looking at the string of white lights along the Malibu shore as I tell her all about Nancy. I tell her everything about everything except for the Freaky Man Killer Gene and my final, final plan. And then I ask her about what Nancy said to me that day in the park.

EXT. SANTA MONICA PIER – NIGHT

Tom and Julia, actually more of a Gwyneth type, but actually more beautiful than either, sit on the pier engaged in an intense discussion.

GWYNETH
It’s true. You do do that.

ME
Really? You agree with her?

GWYNETH
Yes.

ME
I seek out women who are unavailable?

GWYNETH
Absolutely.

ME
You weren’t with anybody when I went
after you.

GWYNETH
Right. But let me ask you something. When
you first saw me did you really think
I would ever agree to go out with you?

ME
That’s not a fair question. I’m always
amazed when anybody goes out with me.

GWYNETH
That’s Bullshit. But answer the question.

(I stop for a second and think about it.)

GWYNETH
Well? Did you?

ME
No, probably not. I thought you were out
of my league.

GWYNETH
But you pursued me, anyway. Why? And
don’t say because you liked me so much.

ME
But I did.

GWYNETH
That’s not the point. You put up with all
sorts of rejection from me for a long
time. Which is actually kind of funny
because I always really liked you.

ME
Then why were you such a pain in
the ass?

GWYNETH
Because I also knew that being with me
would be some sort of prize to you.

ME
Like a trophy wife? That’s not true.

GWYNETH
I was still a prize for you. You wanted
someone as your girlfriend you didn’t
think you were supposed to get. You did
the same thing with your screenwriting.

ME
Huh? You totally lost me on that one.

GWYNETH
There were so many times all you had to
do was be a little nice to people. Make
a few compromises and you would have
had these huge deals.

ME
Sometimes those little compromises made
the work pure crap.

GWYNETH
Right, so you kept holding out and holding
out until you had everything exactly the
way you wanted it. You had to make the
odds even more stacked against you than
they already were.

ME
Isn’t that what kept me from being
a hack?

GWYNETH
You write advertising, now!

(OUCH)

GWYNETH
Or at least you were, before you messed
that up, doing the same things all over
again. You need things to be difficult
or you get bored.

ME
Oh.

And there it was. The truth spelled out for me in painful clarity. And of course, my as-ever-eloquent reply, “Oh.” All of this leads us well into the night. The poor girl was obviously freezing that amazing ass of hers off and worried about getting home to her husband. But she stayed. She stayed to help me try to make sense of the messy, confusing thing that had been my life. And I would be eternally grateful to her for that night and told her as much. I thanked her as sincerely as I could for that night and all the others when we had been together, way back when.

As I watched her drive off in her BMW, my head was still processing all that had been said. As you know, these things take me a while. In any case, I had achieved one more thing on the list. I had thanked her. It was really a shame I wasn’t going to get to cross off that other item about sleeping with her again. It still shocked me that she ever did let me touch and kiss and fondle that gorgeous body of hers. GO ME!

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JOY part 48

The next few days, I spend playing tourist in Los Angeles. I go to the Museum of Contemporary Art, downtown. Which is two really great buildings containing not so great art. There was an Andy Warhol show in town, on loan from the Tate Modern. It was a pretty comprehensive show. I find myself really intrigued by the ones he did of accident scenes. Pretty pictures of death by car wreck.

It was fun for a while, but I had trouble really relaxing and enjoying myself. Shocker, that, isn’t it? I just really wasn’t getting into any of it. My birthday was in 23 days. Part of me wanted to wait until then, as the plan had dictated. It was just neater that way. Not to mention, more symbolic and highly literary. Which couldn’t hurt in such a rambling, immature, misguided tome like this one. But part of me just kept asking “what the hell are you waiting for?” Maybe I was just frightened. I mean, wouldn’t you be if you really thought you might be dead soon? I kept trying to tell myself I really didn’t have to go through with it. Maybe, the Freaky Man Killer Gene wouldn’t strike, after all. Then again, maybe it would. Probably, it would. As much as I supposedly liked to go against heavy odds, this was too much. A total no-win situation. Which put me right back at square one.

Oddly enough, L.A. is a perfect town for contemplating suicide. As much as I thought the idea of bright and cheery sunlight would just irritate me when I was feeling so shitty, it actually kind of seemed like a great setting for all this. Don’t get me wrong, it was still way too damn hot in this overgrown suburb. But, much to my surprise, the constant sunlight kind of added a modern wasteland kind of appeal to the place. All that concrete, fake tits, lips, traffic, pollution…It all worked. A dead city of soulless people surrounding the man that would soon be dead himself. Or something. You get the idea. Alright, I’ll stop trying to be writerly and get on with it. Kind of cliched, too, setting my final days in L.A. Fuck. I was blowing it. Maybe in the movie version they can change it to London. That would be cool. Then again, if cliches are cliches for a reason, L.A. would do just fine. Whatever.

And then, something else truly tragic happened. I found myself bored. Deathly bored, so to speak. I had already done anything remotely interesting that there was to do here. I saw Paul when I could, but the guy had a job he had to go to (which I vaguely remembered doing myself ever-so-long-ago). So, we met once or twice for dinner and/or to get drunk over the course of the next week. All of which was great, but somehow never as great as it should have been. None of it was quite as fun as that first night at the King’s Head. I mean, these really were my final days, right? Shouldn’t every minute feel precious? Shouldn’t I feel even more alive? I thought that’s what race car drivers and all those people facing death always said. It made you feel more alive. I mean, that was the single biggest part of formulating the Grand Plan, right? The paradox that to be truly alive you had to be dead. Or, at least, well on your way to being dead. That’s the genius that is ME. And it was pretty insightful, you must admit. Yet, I was bored. Bored silly.

I thought about moving up my timetable and just ending things sooner rather than later. But somehow killing yourself just because you were bored didn’t seem right. Nope, I would have to find some way to get myself through another two weeks, or so, before me and the Mini said goodbye to this world, forever.

You don’t think I’m going to go through with it, do you? For all this talk and rambling on and on about killing myself, you think it’s just that. Talk. Well, I could sit here and tell you over and over again that you’re wrong until my little fingers can’t type anymore. But what would be the point? I’m either going to do it or not. The fact of the matter is that neither one of us really knows. Not until that moment comes where I pull the trigger. Or hit the gas, in this case. That’s the moment of truth. The rest is only words, thoughts, and ponderings. Only then, when the action taken will be irreversible, will either of us really know for sure.

Not that this matters to you. Especially after what I just told you about how not knowing for sure. But I had scoped out Mulholland Drive several times since I had gotten to Los Angeles. I found the perfect cliff for my swan song. A sharp drop from a really high perch. Survival was highly unlikely. At least I hoped so. Don’t make me repeat myself about how I, like you, fear some things a lot more than death. Being a vegetable or suffering a slow, agonizing, excruciatingly painful death being up there.

Ah, what’s the matter? I’m bringing you down, again? Still harshin’ your buzz? Yeah, selfish me. How could I talk about something so trivial like dying soon when we have your good mood to worry about? But I can’t afford to lose you. You know that. I know you know that. As they say in Hollywood, you have hand.

Moving on…Let’s talk about Nancy. I was losing interest. Actually, it wasn’t so much about losing interest in her as in just losing interest in thinking about it over and over and over again. I did talk to her on the phone once or twice. The first time was really annoying because Josh decided to get on the line with us and we couldn’t really talk about anything. The second time wasn’t all that much better. Most of it was total small talk about Los Angeles and where I was staying and so on and so forth. The only remotely important part of the conversation was this:

PHONE TRANSCRIPT – NANCY AND ME, A FEW DAYS AGO.

ME
How are you?

NANCY
Good.

ME
Really?

NANCY
Yeah. Really.

And that was that. How could she say that? How could she say that she was good? After all that had been said? After all that had happened? I wanted to ask her but didn’t. And then, even more painfully, she asked how I was. I gave her exactly what she gave. I told her I was fine. Yup, that’s me. I’m just “fine.” Not that I expected to hear her break down and weep about how much she missed me and how badly this whole situation just sucked, but…OK, maybe I did want that. What’s your point? That doesn’t mean I expected it to actually happen. But at the very least, I wanted some ever-so-small acknowledgement that this was difficult for her and she was effected by it the way I was. But no. That’s not what I got. I got “Good.” She’s “good” and I’m “fine.” Perfect. Fucking perfect.

It was becoming more and more difficult to ever leave the hotel room. Part of it was that I had pretty much done anything remotely worth doing in L.A., which wasn’t a whole helluva lot (obviously). Part of it was that it just didn’t seem worth the tremendous effort it took to do anything. I guess it was lucky for me I had room service and restaurant delivery or I might have died of starvation. Not that I was really hungry very much. Not at all really. Funny how that works.

However, I couldn’t have been too far down that black pit of depression and hopelessness because, once again, I found myself getting bored of just lying there. It took a while but it happened eventually, just like it always had. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to get out of the damn hotel. I was filled with this incredible burst of energy and just kept walking for miles and miles along the beach. And sometimes I would just stop and listen. Listen to that sound of the waves which brought me so much comfort. Well, at least until I realized how hungry I was and went to get some really good and cheap Mexican food.

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JOY part 47

THE JOY OF SUICIDE, serialized on http://www.first100books.com

Repeat previous paragraph on self-pity and obsession. Four days pass before I can bring myself to leave the room, again. I even stop eating for a couple of them. Eventually, the stir-crazy feeling of being in the room starts to outweigh my urge to just sit in the chair and not move. Which is a good thing because I still had some things to do while I was here.

First, I had to see Paul. The long-suffering pal who had put up with my whining, bitching and moaning far more than you could ever stand. I mean, you’ve about had it with me just from reading this book. Imagine if you had years and years of this stuff. Sounds pretty hellish, doesn’t it? I mean, I have to say, I’ve been in rare form, even for me, since we started this journey together, you and I. But still. Paul had to be some sort of super-human to cope with the likes of me and I knew it.

Anyway, a few nights after my four-day, self-pity fest, I took him to dinner at the King’s Head. The British pub I had earlier referred to. I got the chicken curry and he got fish and chips. What, too much detail for you? I see, if it’s sex, you want all the detail in the world, but when it’s great food…I’m sorry, I’m just tired and feeling pretty shitty about things. I don’t mean to take it out on you folks. Really, I don’t.

Anyway, Paul spends the first twenty minutes of our reunion bitching about how I made him drive across town and how much he hated having to come all the way out to Santa Monica from Los Feliz (also a part of L.A.). It was a total pain-in-the-ass drive. But pretty much driving in L.A. anywhere to anywhere was. The roads here simply didn’t work. Broken. Not functioning. Useless. Well, at least there was that great mass-transit system you could use (Insert dripping sarcasm here. L.A. had virtually none since they tore out the street car tracks at the request of General Motors some fifty years ago). Anyway, as he went on and on about how much of a dick I was for making him do all that driving, I just kept thinking how much I was going to miss the guy. That’s about as gay as I’m gonna get, so don’t be looking for anymore on this issue.

After a fine meal, we start downing some fine, fine British Ales. Actually, he’s drinking Bud, which I’ll never understand, but he’s a great guy in spite of that. (For purposes of our story let’s pretend he’s drinking something that doesn’t taste like urine. Say, Newcastle or Fuller’s London Pride). Anyway, it has been a really long time since I had a good drinking night out and I really, really enjoy it. It feels good to be among the living again. The whole world seems kind of new again.

I tell him all about the trip and all the shit that had happened. I try to edit things out that might make him suspicious that anything is really up with me. Which isn’t too hard because he can easily see me having an early mid-life crisis and going a bit crazy. I make sure to tell him all about Sam and Mary and Michelle and Meagan and that Bible Humping Whacko and Ann. Especially Ann. As much as he loves to give me shit about it, he can really relate to the wanting-someone-as-more-than-a-friend-and-not-getting-it thing. I think any guy can. He really sympathizes. Which encourages me to bring up the real issue on my mind, Nancy.

I don’t know why I feel so nervous talking about Nancy to him. Maybe, because I care so much. Maybe, because I know how much it’s going to get to me when he makes some well intended, light-hearted joke about the situation. A joke that just really hurts and pisses me off instead. But he doesn’t. Again, he is total sympathy in the perfect best-drinking-buddy-in-the-world way. Which only encourages me to go further and further into the topic.

I tell him about the conversation I had with her. And how I told her I was in love with her. He just nods and doesn’t say anything. Then I tell him what she had said about me creating conflict and distractions for myself. And how I probably didn’t even love her, but was simply obsessed with her. Which Paul thought was total bullshit. Unless I was stalking her. Which I wasn’t, really. But which Paul makes sure to make some jokes about. I keep waiting for him to reduce the whole thing to me just wanting to get laid and being frustrated. But he doesn’t. He say’s something worse. Worse because it was such a guy thing to say. Worse because it made me really wonder if it was true.

Basically, he reduced my feelings of longing and obsession to this. He said I wanted to fuck another man’s wife mainly because she was another man’s wife. Pretty much just as Nancy had said. But even more evil. He didn’t mean because it was a challenge. He meant simply because she was a female that belonged to another male. As offensive as it sounded, I had to agree with him that there was some hard-wired thing in men to just feel the urge to take women from other men. Sick isn’t it? Some sort of Alpha Dog kind of thing, I would guess. Not that that means it’s OK to ever act on it. No more than pillaging, rape and murder are still acceptable. But, I really do think that it’s there in most men as some sort of misplaced natural instinct. It certainly was in me.

Oh, pa-leeeeze. Don’t tell me I just found something new to offend you with? Get over it and pay attention. Something else he said right after that might be even more important. It went right back to the heart of the matter. The core of what Nancy had said to me. He said, very simply, we all want what we can’t have.

Still don’t think that means anything, do you? “We all want what we can’t have.” Think about it. Or don’t. Whatever. Anyway, our drunken conversation moved on to something else. Something about how hot he thought the bar maid was. And how he thought she might like him because she was being so kind to us. So sad.

The most terrifying part of the night was the end of it. Paul insisted that he drive home, even though he was drunk as hell. Being L.A., and being that you generally couldn’t walk anywhere, driving home drunk was a frighteningly normal occurrence. I offered to get him a car service. I offered to get him a room at the hotel. I offered to pay for anything and everything. I offered everything I could think of to get him to stop from trying to drive in the condition he was in. I even tried to steal his keys from him. None of it worked. Although, it did piss him off quite a bit, that trying to steal his keys thing. He even asked when I had decided to be the older brother he never wanted. All of which pissed me off because he was just being an idiot.

The last thing in the world I needed was for him to be the one to end it all in a fiery car wreck in L.A. That was my job, God Damn it! Not his! But it was hopeless. He was going to get in that car of his and drive off, unless I physically knocked him unconscious. Which I really considered doing. But it was too late. By the time I had decided it was worth it to punch him in the face for his own good, he was already in his car. I tried one last time to talk him out of it. Useless. Finally, I just asked him to call me when he got home. He laughed at me and called me “Dad,” but said he would. And then he drove off.

As I anxiously waited for him to call me at the hotel, I realized I had forgotten to do something really important. I had gotten so self-absorbed and into this thing that Nancy had said to me, that I forgot to thank him. Fuck me. And now he was driving in a car plastered out of his mind and could be dead before I got to tell him. Well, I suppose if he were dead, that would be kind of a bigger issue. But that’s not the point. Assuming he did, in fact, make it home safely, I would have to figure out a way to tell him. Some way to say “thanks” without tipping him off about things. And then I waited for him to call.

I suddenly knew how My Mom or Lynn must have felt when I was out an hour past curfew. It’s nerve racking as hell. I don’t know how parents do it. All that wondering and worrying if your kid is out there doing something stupid. Doing something that could ruin their lives or get them hurt or killed. And what if it actually happened? How does any parent live with the death of their child? The death of the little creature they are biologically predisposed to protect at all costs? Protect even at the cost of their own lives? Oh, fuck me. How was I going to do this to My Mom. How was I going to be able to face the horrible pain I was going to leave her with if I died before she did? God damn it, this killing yourself thing gets so damn complicated.

So, time doesn’t move as I wait for Paul to call. And wait. And wait. And wait. Finally, I look at the clock. He should have been home at least fifteen minutes ago. I call his number. It rings and rings and…groggily he answers. Praise Be. And then he completely goes off on me for being such an asshole about him driving home and nagging him about calling me and on and on and on. All of which sounds like music to my fucking ears. And then I tell him to shut the fuck up for a second and listen to me. And he does. And then I tell him that it would kill me if he had gotten in a wreck because he is the best friend I have ever had. And as he calls me an over-emotional Pussy-Bitch, I feel so overwhelmed I could cry. But, of course, I don’t. Because that would just be too gay for words.

I am still drunk and can’t sleep. I feel really tired. And really horny. Which I take as a really good sign after the four days spent in this room where I know even Miss Heaven In Her Mouth couldn’t have done it for me. I lie back in the bed, naked and…and start to think of Nancy. Of what it would be like to be with her right now. The way she would feel. Of that conversation in the park. That fucking, God Damn, conversation in the park. I instantly shrivel up like a turtle going back into its shell. So much for things being back to normal.

Now, not only tired but frustrated, and not a little angry and depressed, I stare out the window into the darkness of the ocean. It’s dark. Not really a whole lot to see. Kind of like the lake view in Chicago from Ann’s room that time. Ann, my pretty little distraction. My pretty little warm up act for the real pain to come. Anyway, the ocean. You can’t see a damn thing. But I can faintly hear it. The sound of the waves coming in. I just lie back in the chair listening to the ocean. Looking back on how much had happened in the last seven or eight months. Thinking about how very strange it’s all been. And then I fall asleep.

THE JOY OF SUICIDE on http://www.first100books.com

JOY part 46

As I was saying, Nancy’s reaction to what I told her and her insight into me was just so huge I had pretty much shelved it at the time to deal with later. And later just happened to be right now, as I was driving down the PCH.

According to Nancy, I set my life up as a series of almost impossible tasks to achieve. Challenges. I then obsessed about said challenges until I achieved them or got so fed up and frustrated I gave up. Of course, I liked challenges. Who doesn’t? But I guess her point was that, more than most, I made them the focus of my life in a really unhealthy way.

Which made me think that maybe there was something else to it she hadn’t really come out and said. That unspoken thing being that I needed to create challenges because I needed distraction. Something to throw myself into. Something big enough and complicated enough to never have to deal too much with the real issues. And this was the big light bulb going off. The real issue was her. It had been for a long time.

For all her talk about how I had created an obsession out of her to give myself something to do, it ignored one huge thing. It was all designed to get over her. Which, honestly, made me feel pretty pathetic. But that’s beside the point. Just stop for a second, Dear Reader, and think of what’s on the list of things I need to do. By far the biggest and most time consuming tasks involve being with other women. Being with women who aren’t Nancy. Whether it’s to get laid or to say thanks or whatever bizarre reasoning I had created, it all gave me someone to pursue and obsess about besides her. ANYONE to obsess about, besides her. Duh.

Just in case you were wondering, by the way, you didn’t really miss anything of importance between Nancy and I before I left town. Well, it was important, very important, at least to me, to just be with her. But in terms of our saga, saying good-bye to her after that day in the park was an incredible non-event. A nice hug. Some kind, but not too heavy, words.

I did ask her how much Josh knew about things. And if she was going to tell him about our talk in the park. She said there was nothing to tell. Which kind of hurt in a way because although nothing physical had happened, a whole lot had happened. If you know what I mean. But, I guess it was her way of 1) reassuring herself that she had done nothing wrong 2) telling me that things between me and her would always just be between me and her. Or maybe not. I realize, as I’m telling you all this, that I really don’t know what the hell that meant. Oh, well.

Right now, I had more pressing issues on my mind. You tell me, how is a person supposed to know the difference between being in love with somebody and just obsessing over them? If you read any great romance novel or see a love story it seems to me that obsession is always a big part of it. Almost as much as being doomed. Romeo & Juliet, doomed. Anthony and Cleopatra, doomed. Sid & Nancy, doomed. Me, doomed. Yup, fits right in there. Obsession and doom equals great romance, right? Right? How come you’re not answering?

So, why was I headed to L.A. again? Right, to see Paul and to thank him. And…Yeah. That other thing. See, I do that doomed part down really, really well. But I still had time. I was a full month ahead of schedule from what I had originally planned. A lot could happen in a month. A whole lot. Was that a sigh of disappointment? You really want this thing to end, don’t you? Just skip to the last page then, if you’re going to get all impatient on me. Go on. Go ahead. You won’t do it, will you? You can’t. Because that just wouldn’t be right. And after all, rules are rules.

Don’t worry, I promise to kill myself as quickly as possible, just for your benefit. Happy, now? Fucker. I mean, Dear Sweet Reader. Now, where were we? Yes, just about to drive by some amazing rocky seashore along the PCH and head down to Southern California. Alright fine, I’ll pick it up, just for you. Now, entering Los Angeles…

Ventura, actually. Just across the County Line. It’s amazing how the geography changes as you keep heading south. The rocky cliffs give way to wide, sandy beaches. The air gets warmer. Hot, in fact. But it is beautiful the way the ocean stretches out around you.

I stop to eat at this seafood shack I used to go to once in a while. You pick out whatever fish, lobster or crab you want as it swims around in these plastic tubs. Then, upon your request, they kill it and feed it to you. It’s good to be the king. Beats being a fish, anyway.

Eating so much just made me feel really tired. Not to mention, creating the usual side effects it had on my stomach. Which, of course, I just mentioned by not mentioning just to torture you for pissing me off earlier. Anyway, I didn’t move from my little wooden bench facing the sea. I thought about how much Nancy would like this place. I mean, for one thing, that girl liked to eat. And I think she would just enjoy the vibe of the place. It was a weekday, so it was particularly peaceful and mellow. On weekends the place could almost (but not quite) get annoying. Anyway, after sitting there for the better part of two hours, I finally decide it’s time to get in the car and get to the hotel.

The drive along the coast through Malibu was great. I didn’t even let the site of The Country Mart get to me. For those ignorant of the ways of Hollywood, let me elaborate. The Country Mart is just a strip mall of no consequence except for one thing. All the Hollywood Power Players, real or in their own minds, hang out there on weekends. It’s not unusual at all to see a Multi-Millionaire Media Baron, or two, hanging out at The Coffee Bean in their shorts, shooting the shit. Most of them had a weekend place out in Malibu even though their “Main House” was only a half-an-hour away or so in Brentwood or Beverly Hills. So, basically, this stupid, banal, architectural-piece-of-crap becomes “a power scene.” L.A., you gotta love it.

Then again, unless you were in “The Industry” you probably would walk right by the type of powerful geezers I’m talking about and just go to The Country Mart to do your shopping and leave. But why, oh why, would you be in L.A. at all if you weren’t part of the Film Biz? Nobody’s here because they actually LIKE the place. In spite of what they may try to tell you. Alright, maybe a few. But they’re British and don’t know any better.

Actually, I was happy the Brits had colonized Santa Monica (which is in L.A. for those of you sad, sad people that didn’t know that). The only pub worth going to was there because of them. “Them” being the Brits I was talking about. The very pub I planned to go to once I was in Santa Monica. That is, if I could ever get through the Fucking-God-Damn-Traffic which had been making my life hell for the last forty minutes.

Finally, I arrive at the hotel. I stayed at Shutters not because it was necessarily the greatest hotel in the area. I mean, it was really nice but actually kind of boring. I stayed there for two reasons. 1) The location was great. 2) Many, many years ago, I had had one of the best dates of my life in the restaurant downstairs with Kristin, my ever-so-fuckable LA-X. Something which I still loved wallowing in the nostalgia of. I really wish I could find a way to contact her again. Oh, well.

Anyway, I checked into a “Junior Suite” with an ocean view. It was really pretty nice. I could also see the Santa Monica Pier from my room. The pier was this huge boardwalk-type-thing with restaurants and a small amusement park on it. It even had a good-sized Ferris Wheel on it, which they lit up really nice at night. Well, at least they used to. It had been a couple of years since I was out here last. But they must still light it.

I just sat there in a chair and stared out at the view as the sun began to set. I was still full from the crab I had ordered executed on my behalf. I was also damn tired. So, I sat some more. Perfectly content to not move for hours. I kept thinking about Nancy. What had been said. What hadn’t. How much I wished she were here with me. How much she would like the room. How the two of us would leave the windows open as we had sex on the huge king-sized bed. Catching a glimpse here and there of the view as we exhausted each other and did things to each other all night long. God, I must be tired. I don’t even feel like jerking-off thinking of this stuff. What the hell is wrong with me?

Yearning and obsessing. Obsessing and yearning. Woe is me. Woe is me. That pretty much sums up the rest of that evening other than a quick walk to get some food on the Promenade (a pedestrian mall thing they had here). God forbid, I spend too much time telling you things before I give you what you really want. And no, I don’t mean the sex. It’s the other part of the sex and death equation that I know you Sick Fucks are really waiting for. Death. Mine. Don’t worry, we’re getting there. Hold on just a little bit longer and your bloodlust will be satisfied.

THE JOY OF SUICIDE at http://www.first100books.com