By the year 2020, New York City will consist entirely of
businesses for dogs.
I will not complain,
as long as my pet's apartment building
I am often asked by studios to evaluate the potential of their movies to become franchises, based solely on how many sequel titles I can come up with. I gave "You, Me, and Dupree" a ten on the franchise scale. The titles I came up with were:
Two, Me, and Dupree
You, Me, and Du-Three
You, Me, and Bride of Dupree
You, Me, and Dupree: Dupree Harder
You, Me, Dupree, Three Men, A Little Baby, A Guy, A Girl, A Pizza Place, and A-Half Men
Who?, Me, and Dupree (In "Who?, Me, And Dupree," Dupree experiences memory loss)
Oh, YOU, Me and Dupree (In "Oh, YOU, Me and Dupree," Dupree regains his memory)
Jew, Me, and Dupree (In "Jew, Me, and Dupree," Dupree experiences anti-semitism)
Joo, Me, and Dupree (In "Joo, Me, and Dupree," Dupree is a Hispanic stereotype)
You, Flea, and Dupree (while Me is away, You and Dupree take up with Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist Flea)
Meet The Fockers
Man was it great being a hacker from 1994.
Modern-day hackers don’t know what they're missing. Pretty much all you have to do to be considered a legitimate hacker these days is launch a denial-of-service attack on some website. It’s enough just to get it to stop working. Man, if all I had done in 1994 was crash websites, they would’ve laughed me right out of the subterranean hacker lair!
That’s the first thing you gotta know about hackers in 1994 as opposed to today: you can pretty much be any teenager in your room or your college computer lab these days. But in ’94, we had subterranean hacker lairs. They were slathered in glo-paint and lit by black-lights. They almost always had a skateboard ramp, because in 1994, all hackers were skaters, and vice versa. The sound system was HUGE, and was either playing Cypress Hill or generic techno. How did we afford all this stuff? Hacking. Who or what did we hack? It doesn’t matter, and I’m not sure. What matters is we did it in style.
If you got hacked in 1994, it wasn’t simply a matter of calling your credit card company or restarting your server. You got HACKED. You would boot up your computer and the first thing you’d see would be a big flaming skull, totally animated, and the skull would say, “YOU’VE BEEN HACKED BY BLOOD-REVOLUTION!” or something. I used to spend whole weekends trying to decide which flaming skull I should use! I had over 5,000, each with very subtle differences in flame color and bone structure. Don’t even get me started on my collection of flaming death-fonts! It wasn’t enough for us back then to break your computer. We broke your computer and turned it into a heavy metal album cover.
That Blood-Revolution thing reminds me: even hacker names were a totally different game back then. Hackers these days have names that are either boring or juvenile, like BrettThaDude or DickStorm19978. But back in ’94, you had to pick a name that showed you were simultaneously an anarchist, bloodthirsty, and cutting edge, like GrungeKnife, or DeathStorm1994! My hacker handle, for instance, was ErnestoCheGuevarannihilator. If you see that on your screen in a flaming death-font, you say to yourself, “This is BY FAR the worst day of the year 1994!”
For those brief glory days of 1994, we could do anything. Special agents, detectives, and rogue journalists would always come to us needing impossible favors. They’d comment skeptically on our Mohawk or our piercings, or, for the couple weeks where it was the style, our pierced Mohawks, and then tell us what they needed. “No problem,” we’d say, then turn to our hacking terminals (which always had no less then seven monitors; “no less than seven is hacker heaven” was the saying we always said) and type REALLY fast. To the layman it just looked like we were just banging the keys really hard, but here’s the secret: We WERE just banging the keys really hard. In 1994, it wasn’t about what keys you hit, it was about how hard you hit them. Hit them hard enough, and you could bring down Senators, have corrupt newspaper editors pushed into a swimming pool, get a robot wearing sunglasses to shoot paintballs at a balding record executive. Anything!
In 1994, the world was our oyster, and that oyster had a Mohawk, and that Mohawk was on fire. Hackers these days just don’t understand.
I hope you guys respect that I'm don't force music on you all the time. I mean, all posting whoever the mp3s blogs are all unanimously championing this week only to discard them the next for some dude whose music is all yodels, gut-bucket, and a sampler; who everyone in Brooklyn will pretend to like for six months. I mean, clearly I'm too busy self-promoting to promote anybody else.
So I hope you will take it to heart when I tell you Springfield, MO's Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin is an awesome band.
Mina and I went to see them in Hoboken last week. We were schmancy enough to get on the guest list because their new drummer, Warren, is a DERRICK fan. (Self-promotion pays off!) So Warren and I flirted over mySpace for like a week and he was kind enough to put us on the list for their gig opening for Tapes N' Tapes.
What a bunch of supremely nice dudes! We talked to Warren about comedy, then one of their singer/songwriters, John Robert joined us and we talked about (what else) Wu Tang. Then it was time for them to go on. Warren is such a new drummer, in fact, that he wasn't playing with them on their trip to NYC (I guess it was their old drummer's last hurrah). So he hung out with Mina and I some more. Then it was time to ROCK.
You guys: this is a good band. They are precisely up my alley. Jangly sunny power-pop with dope lyrics (no indie-rock mush-mouthed nonsense talk). Hell of catchy. One of their songs has been on The OC, that's kind of the vibe. You will like them if you like sunshine, reading, and girls. Or if you like sunshine, reading, and are a girl. So buy their record, be their mySpace friend, and see them when they come through your town.
They even brought their friend JR who's in another band in their town along just to play the cowbell and the tambourine. And man, he played the SHIT out of that cowbell and that tambourine. Good dudes, and I can't wait 'till they make a return trip so we can further seal the pact between moderately successful indie bands and moderately successful comedy groups.
Shoutout to Springfield:
The ancient door screeches like a banshee as you open it, giving way to the oppressive silence of a tomb! Your torch winks out, pale moonlight is the only illumination! You hear a rustling somewhere among the stacks: is it a cat? A book-eating insect? Some cursed scholar trapped forever in the twisting passages of occult knowledge? The only way to find out is to go onward, but the real question is: Dare you enter THE LITERARY CRITICISM LIBRARY OF HORRORS?
Around the first maddening bend, you encouter NEW FRENCH FEMINISMS: AN ANTHOLOGY. Not even a basic grasp of feminist theory’s generalities, or even a close reading of Toril Moi’s sexual/textual politics can prepare you for the atrocities contained within. Also contained within: BRAIN-EATING GHOULS who will DEVOUR the part of your mind which classifies French feminist Luce Irigaray as an essentialist! Take care! Beware!
If you have escaped with your brain un-devoured, past the next shelf over you will hear a fluttering: surely, you think, a bat, or some other be-winged night-creature. WRONG. It is the fluttering of the pages of Roland Barthes’ ELEMENTS OF SEMIOLOGY, a maddening tome which would be more accurately titled ELEMENTS OF DEATH BY CHAINSAW. Mr. Barthes shares with his ideological contemporaries the idea that criticism is an attitude, not an act. He also shares with his ideological contemporaries a set of glistening wolf-fangs and a thirst for human blood! Beware! Take care!!!
If you still have blood pulsing through your veins, you have escaped Mr. Barthes and his devious vampire-volume. But you have gone, as they say, out of the frying pan and into the fire. But this isn’t just any fire: it is the all-consuming inferno of criticism that is PRACTICING HISTORICISM by Catherine Gallagher and Stephen Greenblatt! This fire burns texts, and EVERYTHING is a text: paintings! Religious ritual! YOUR FLESH! Before you can think, historicism will melt the flesh off your bones! You will try to stamp it out with a blanket of ahistorical 20th-century New Criticism, but Gallagher and Greenblatt will merely cackle at your naiveté as your fat drips sizzling into a puddle on the floor! YOUR PAIN IS COMICAL TO PROMINENT CULTURAL CRITICS CATHERINE GALLAGHER AND STEPHEN GREENBLATT, and when your bones cool, they will use them to make furniture! TAKE CARE! BEWARE!!!
But if you manage to get past them without your flesh being blackened like a salmon recipe concocted by a Cajun madman, around the next corner you will come face to face with DEATH. Not DEATH himself, but rather DEATH OF A DISCIPLINE by Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, innovator of post-colonialism and CACKLING RED-EYED WITCH. In a black ritual marked with candles, goat-blood, and opposition to migrant alterity, Ms. Spivak MURDERS Comparative Literature with a sharpened dragon-tooth through the heart, then resurrects it as a demonic familiar which engages the dominant episteme, re-evaluates cultural erasure, and EATS THE EYEBALLS OF BABIES. It will eat your eyeballs too, if you haven’t already dashed them out yourself rather than witness the terror of Ms. Spivak’s satanic lit-crit. BEWARE! TAKE CARE!
Also: The librarian is a FUCKING WEREWOLF!
Kids on various YouTube comments and message boards have been responding to the DERRICK videos by saying xD. I had no idea what it meant. I googled it. Apparently it is an emoticon indicating "a smiley that's laughing." So that's good. They don't hate us.
Your dad is still hip, kids.
Me and the rest of the Hoboken Poontang Squad (that's me and my boys Al, Vinny, and Geo) are so fuckin' psyched for "Lady In The Water" to come out on Friday. We always get fuckin' PUMPED AS HELL for the new Paul Giamatti joint. He's the man. Fuckin' GIAMATTI!
We got it all planned: Al's gonna drive us into the city in the CRX and we're gonna go to the midnight showing at the AMC 25 in Times Square. But get this: there ain't no Thursday midnight showing, so we're just gonna find the nearest club and party it up Giamatti-style! We only gonna drink pinot noir in honor of his Oscar-winning performance in motherfuckin' "Sideways!"
Usually when we hit the clubs, Vinny's a hardcore pussyhound, and that desperation scares off all the chicks. But last week when we were at Scaffold, he played it totally fuckin' low-key with this one girl, and he ended up banging her behind a dumpster! When he told me that story the next day, I was like, yo, that's so fuckin' GIAMATTI! And he was like "whyzat?" And I was like, 'cuz instead of bein' flashy, you played it totally fuckin' subdued and in the end it was that very subtlety that got you the fuckin' PRIZE, and he was like, "what prize is that," and I was like "POONTANG!" and then he was like "GIAMATTI!" and I was like "GIA-MAAATI!" and we hi-fived and everyone in our fuckin' community college accounting class looked at us like they never saw two bros hi-five about a critically lauded character-actor-turned-unconventional-leading-man before!
This is an excerpt from an IM convo I had with Geo a little while back:
cinderellaFan55: yo im watchin american splendor on showtime
geoInThaBoken: oh shit son
cinderellaFan55: yea our boy is on sum crazy nuanced characterization
geoInThaBoken: yo dats so giamatti
cinderellaFan55: yo we say that shit so much we should jus say "DSG!" for short
geoInThaBoken: DSG! DSG! DSG!
cinderellaFan55: fer realz kid...yo i read this interview where giamatti was all like it wuz easy to portray harvey pekar cuz harvey is already portrayed so much in his comix
geoInThaBoken: yo i would not even know who the fukk harvey pekar is without the G-MAN
cinderellaFan55: DSG to expose viewers to mad subcultures wit his detailed portrayals of the introverted denizens of those subcultures
geoInThaBoken: for sure
cinderellaFan55: yo are you goin to wet t-shirt night at ScooterPies?
I been reading mad advance reviews of "Lady In The Water," and they all pretty much are like, yo, this movie sucks, but Giamatti fuckin' rocks! That's his SHIT, all transcending mediocre material, all bein' the best thing about a bad movie, yo! Yo I would type more but I'm too fuckin' excited! I'm gonna go watch my specially edited copy of Big Momma's House that's just the parts with fuckin' GIAMATTI, and maybe work on my hair, or lift. Even though I know cuz of Giamatti that looks ain't totally everything.
Oh shit! What if he's at the movie screening on Friday? I bet if we asked him for an autograph he'd be totally fuckin' nice about it: unaffected humility in the face of unexpected fame is SO FUCKIN' GIAMATTI!!
We get picked up by a mullet-headed dude named Tadd five miles out of Abeliene. Alan rides shotgun and Tom and Danny and me ride in back.
“He’s going to want some of the weed,” Danny said when the guy pulled his blue 1980’s ragtop sedan over and we all let our thumbs drop. Danny has weed in his pants.
“If nobody mentions it, it shouldn’t be a problem,” I say.
“He’s going to kill us,” Tom says, but nobody pays much attention because Tom has said this about every hitchhiker since Arizona.
“You boys shouldn’t be out here doin’ this,” Tadd says, right after he tells us his name is spelled with two D’s. It’s not very worrisome because everybody who picks you up when you’re hitchhiking tells you you should know better than to be hitchhiking.
It does worry us, though, when he pulls over, takes out a big shiny gun, and asks us if we want to play a game.
We all start crying or going “Holy shit! Chill out! It’s cool, man!” or stuff like that, which he takes to mean, yes, we want to play a game. He drives the car a football-field-length out into the wasteland, leaves it running, and motions for us to get out. Tom, blubbering in the front seat, needs Tadd to scream “GET THE FUCK OUT!” at him before he will move, but he does.
Tadd brings his smell of potato chips and sweaty hat-band around the car with him when he herds us all to face the trunk.
“I told you he was gonna kill us,” Tom whispers when Tadd turns back and ducks into the driver’s seat for a second to pop the trunk.
The trunk light flicks on. Inside the trunk, laying on top of normal trunk things like a tire iron and some road flares, are three fluffy white dresses, a fluffy pink dress, and a powder blue tuxedo. They are nicely folded and laid out one next to the other. The clothes make Danny and I, who weren’t crying already, start crying for some reason. I assume they were the clothes of his previous victims. Maybe Danny assumes the same thing.
Tadd makes his way back to where we’re standing. With the hand that doesn’t have the gun, he lights a cigarette. He exhales. He says: “Put ‘em on.”
Alan reaches for the tuxedo. Tadd pins it where it is with the barrel of the gun. “Mm-mm,” he says, “Not that one.”
Tom ends up with the pink dress and the rest of us, the white ones. None of us have ever put dresses on before. If we were having to put dresses on in a situation where we weren’t in the desert at night with a gun to our head, we might make fun of the guy who got his dress on first. Like, say that he must have a lot of experience with dresses because he’s a drag queen. But tonight, Danny getting out of his clothes and into the dress while the rest of us are still crying and struggling with straps and zippers and big puffy shoulders just makes it seem like maybe he wants to live more than we do.
Meanwhile, Tadd has finished his cigarette and is attempting to put on the tuxedo while still holding the gun. It is another thing that would be funny if we thought we were going to leave here alive.
Once we’re all done fumbling, Tadd motions for us to go around the car again, into a clearing lit up by the headlights. He throws his cap into the driver’s seat and starts parting his hair to the side with his gun hand. Then he starts positioning us like we’re going to take a picture or something: Tom, in the pink dress, in the center, the rest of us in a sort of semi-circle around him. “Very nice,” Tadd says, “Now hold on.”
He goes back into the car, turns the radio volume WAY up, then starts searching the dial. Farm reports and oldies stations whiz by: I wish the radio was two-way so we could scream and they would hear us. He stops on a mariachi station. “Perfect!” He comes back drinking a fifth of something clear.
“You.” He points the gun at Alan.
“…yea?” says Alan, wincing.
“You’re Nena, Ivalise’s cousin who eats too much.”
He points the gun at Danny. “You’re Maria, Nena’s sister. You’re not as fat but you’re getting there.”
“Whatever you say, man--“
“And you.” He points the gun at Tom. “You’re Angela, Ivalise’s bitchy older sister.”
“And you.” The gun is now pointed at me. “You’re Ivalise.”
“Nena…Angela…Maria...wish Ivalise a feliz quincinera.”
“Quincinera?” Tom says. “You mean like the Hispanic girl’s coming-of-age ceremony?” I met Tom in high school Spanish class. He always did way better than me.
“ANGELA ALREADY KNOWS WHAT A QUINCINERA IS, SHE DOESN’T NEED TO ASK!” Tadd screams. “Now wish Ivalise a FELIZ QUINCINERA.”
“Feliz Quincinera, Ivalise,” they all three say at once.
“Uhm…Gracias?” I say, hoping that’s something Ivalise would say.
“Now let’s eat cake,” Tadd says.
We all stand there bewildered for a second, tears drying on our faces, wearing dresses in the middle of the desert after midnight. I half-expect Tadd to pull out an ancient cake from between the backseat cushions. Instead leans down, gathers some dirt in his hand and extends the hand to Alan.
“Cake,” Tadd says. “Nena, you eat the most.”
Alan eats Tadd’s handful of dirt.
“Everybody eat some cake! It’s a party!” For some reason Tadd’s voice is suddenly an octave lower. He starts waving the gun around and we all start eating dirt.
“Angela, share with your uncle,” Tadd says in his new, low voice.
Tom makes to give Tadd whatever dirt he hasn’t swallowed. Tadd says, “No, not that…something else,” and touches Tom where Tom’s boob would be, presumably, if Tom were really Angela.
“Now you,” Tadd says, pointing the gun at me and speaking once again in his normal voice, “you say ‘Get your hands off my sister, Uncle Ramon, you’re embarrassing everyone!’”
“Get your hands off my sister Uncle Ramon you’re embarrassing everyone,” I say as fast as I can without screwing up.
“Whassa matter,” Tadd says, in what I guess is his Uncle Ramon voice, “issa party, we just having a good time!” He takes a hit off the bottle and stumbles toward me, instantly drunk. “You’re fifteen now, you’re a woman, you could have a drink with your uncle! Here, have a drink!” Tadd offers me the bottle. I start to take it when he puts the gun right in my face.
“You don’t take it! You say, ‘You’re disgusting, I wish I wasn’t a part of this stupid family!’”
“You’re disgusting I wish I wasn’t part of this stupid family.”
“Thassa way you talk about your family, huh?” Tadd says as Ramon. “Is that the way your fucking gringo boyfriend teach you to talk?”
“Then you say, ‘He’s not my gringo boyfriend, he has a name!’”
“He’s not my gringo boyfriend he has a name.”
“Oh yea? Whas your gringo boyfriend’s name?”
I don’t know so I don’t say anything.
“’Tadd,’” Tadd says as Tadd.
“Tadd,” I say.
“That’s a stupid name. What a fucking gringo name. TADD,” Tadd says. He scoffs, swaggers backwards, and takes another hit of what smells like tequila. In mid-swig he coughs, spits, and bursts into tears. He falls on his knees. He sits there for a minute or two, clutching the gun and crying, and we really don’t know what to do.
And before we can do anything, he gets up like nothing happened, goes to the car, puts a tape in the tape deck. Then, at gunpoint, we do the Electric Slide while Tadd simultaneously gropes Tom’s ass and whispers in my ear that he’s going to tell my mother about my stupid gringo boyfriend Tadd.
There was a dinner party at Dan/Meggie/Dominic's Saturday night. Dawn and Helen cooked; the party had been advertised to me thusly: "Come to Dan and Meggie's tonight! Dawn and Helen are cooking!" It came out later that both cooks were unaware of each other's plans to cook, but since one made an entree (Dawn, ranch chicken) and one made a salad (Helen, Israeli salad) it worked out just fine. I cannot stress enough what a sensation of completely unearned adulthood the whole night gave me.
Helen, Donald, and I went to Trader Joe's for ingredients; I ended up getting some mangos to make a dessert thing. Then we went to the Trader Joe's wine store, which is both absurdly well-priced and A WINE CULT. Everyone there is a little too friendly and a little too helpful. Anywhere else, pleasant. In Manhattan? Suspicious. Helen and Donald consulted with some woman about what would go well with the entree. I forwent consulting anyone and just got a lot of different stuff, because of course one is going to match. This is known as "Shotgun Wine-Matching." I invented it because I like red wine and gun metaphors.
I didn't make dessert, I had the idea for dessert (mango slices with lime juice, salt, and chili powder, Chelsea introduced me to it via this street vendor in Union Square). Helen did all the actual work, since I was ignorant both of how to tell if a mango is ripe and how to peel it. I probably could've cut them up, but there are some things the let the kid do so he learns, and some things you just do yourself because that way it will get done faster, and well. Chopping mangos belonged in the second category.
Drinking! Talking! Eating food made by someone sitting nearby whose first and last name you know! I felt so mature. Not once did I drink beer out of a non-traditional container, or draw attention to a fart. Combine the affinity for wine and banter with my love of Joni Mitchell, Steely Dan, and Stan Getz, and I'm essentially my dad.
Probably the least mature part of the evening involved Steve and I turning our nerdy firehose of enthusiasm for "Sandman" on Helen; presumably adults don't browbeat their close friends into submission on the subject of comic books and how great they are.
But other than that, a classy evening for classy people.
Also: Through tracking who's linking to and watching Bro Rape, I discovered probably the greatest site on this internet or any other: Busses And Babes. Old hippie-style busses. Friendly, fully-clothed women. I can't figure out what the audience for this is, but apparently that audience also likes comedy videos. Rock.
I wrote half a story tonight, but ended up spending most of my time on YouTube hitting the "refresh" button. The good folks at CollegeHumor linked the DERRICK video Bro Rape, which naturally sent a retarded amount of views our way. I tried to see who was watching the video, who stuck around to watch OTHER videos, but mostly I just sat slack-jawed at the incredible amount of people watching a thing we did in Donald and Dominic's rooms the other weekend.
It's funny, actors and writers used to sit in Sardi's all night waiting for the early reviews to come in. Now they sit in their underpants in their dorm rooms hitting REFRESH REFRESH REFRESH and following referral logs to see if kids on message boards are doing bits from their comedy video in their posts. (They are!) It's a brave new world of people killing time, kids.
PS, the second bro in the bro-sting portion of the video is Bobby Moynihan. He is an insanely gifted dude who will take your script and make it 90 times funnier and more human than you ever thought it could be and if you're in the city you should go see his improv group The Stepfathers on Friday nights at UCB. They bring serious pain.
Hey Tron! I thought I’d just drop by and see how my favorite super-producer is doing.
What are you listening to? Is that a new beat? Is it yours? It sounds amazing. Let me all the way into your apartment so I can hear it.
The lady in 4C buzzed me up. I couldn’t remember what apartment number you were in so I just started hitting random buttons. I TRIED calling you but you probably couldn’t hear over your phone over that AMAZING beat. Seriously, is it yours?
What do you mean “I look tired?” That’s a terrible thing to say to a woman: “You look tired.”
I KNOW you were just trying to be sympathetic, but it just comes across as “You look old.”
I KNOW I don’t look old. Why would I look old? I mean, I’m not. Anyway, it’s probably just the terrible lighting in the hallway. Let me in already, silly!
Oh, guest shmest! I’m sure whoever’s in there would be just thrilled to say they met ME. Like, “I was at Tron’s apartment--yes, THAT Tron--and guess who dropped by?”
I mean, unless it’s, like, a hookup thing. But if you listen to your own beats while you’re doing THAT, I have to say, Tron, that’s pretty narcissistic. Anyway, that sounds like more of a club jam than a slow jam. Ohmigod, that totally reminds me, I could really use a club jam for my new album!
Well if she’s not naked then what’s the PROBLEM!?
I’m not HIGH! If you would read the parts of Us Weekly that don’t pertain directly to YOUR social life, Tron, you would know that I’m four months sober and hard at work on¾
It’s NOT a comeback album. My publicist told me not to call it a comeback album because that implies that I have something I need to come back from. I thought we should call it my “still here” album but she didn’t like that because she thought it would make people think of some depressing person hanging around at the end of a party who won’t leave, and I would NEVER hang around where I wasn’t wanted.
Why are you laughing? What’s so funny about that? And what’s this new track that’s playing-- it’s even better than the last one! YOU CAN TOTALLY SPARE ONE OF THEM, CAN’T YOU?
I’M NOT SCREAMING!
Oh, hello, Myra.
Listen, sweetheart, you can put whatever name you want on your albums, I read in the New York Post that your real name is Myra.
I’m not TIRED. It’s just the terrible lighting in this hallway.
Why am I standing here? Tron just wanted me to hear his amazing new tracks in the hallway it’s a totally unique acoustic setting, isn’t that right, Tron?
Tron, you’re such a kidder. Of course that’s why I’m still standing here. The question is, why are YOU standing in there?
What do you mean, tracks for your new album? You just came out with a new album! It’s in the top freaking ten, not that I pay any attention to things like that- my publicist says the charts are like, totally not representative of what music people are actually listening to.
This song that just started playing-- I call this one! This one is mine!
Okay, well, the first one to touch their nose gets this song for their new album! HA, I win.
Of course you’re not playing. I wouldn’t touch your nose either, if I were you, it’s probably all raw from coke and stuff.
OW! Tron, are you just going to let her hit me?
Fine, fine! Keep all the songs for yourself! There are plenty of superproducers in this town who would love to have their beats on my TRIUMPHANT RETURN album. I’ll just call DJ Tripwire, or The Gandhis!
Hey Tron…do you have the number for DJ Tripwire, or The Gandhis?
Shut up, Myra! I didn’t ask you! If I need the number for some producers, I ask Tron. If I need the number for Coked-Up Underage Skanks Anonymous, I’ll ask you.
OW! Tron, you know, you’re legally responsible for her assaulting me! This is your property!
Well, no, the hallway’s not your property, but once you let me in, if she tries anything, I swear to God--
No, well, it’s a good thing you’re not letting me in! Because I would destroy that bitch! That’s right, go hide, MYRA!
But seriously…after she leaves, I’ll come back and you can play me your REAL beats, not just these second-rate ones you’re playing for what’s-her-name in there.
Really? Well, you can just make up some new ones. I’ll go to Starbucks and walk around a little and come back tonight.
You won’t be here tonight? How about later this week?
You’re in Paris all week? That sounds fun. Can I crash here while you’re gone?
Can you still hear me through the door?