Welcome to Acerbia; population: π
This is the archive of the many and fabulous adventures of . Like a hard-bitten son of Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius taught to write by William S. Burroughs; continually reincarnated, debated over by intellectuals and literati at cocktail parties the author can't get invited to, the target of scorn and ire from women everywhere, frequently mistaken for a former member of the Warsaw pact, named after the Italian explorer Giuseppe Acerbi, slowly rewriting the Book of Cataclysm, this is postmodern fiction at its most playful and creative.
Synchronicity
I found myself alone in the waiting room at my therapist's digging through the pile of magazines searching for something calming when I uncovered a leather folder full of headshots and descriptive notes. It appeared to be something of a therapist's portfolio, as if she frequently showed off her patients. On the left page would be the headshot and even a few candid shots taken in public places and on the right page would be the hand-written notes and case history.
Obviously the first thing I did was flip through the pages looking for myself, finding myself towards the front (I assume this to be a good thing, that she's either proud of our progress or thinks I'm a unique case) and wincing at the headshot. The candids were good though, I don't often get to see myself naked from those sorts of angles.
The handwritten notes confirmed everything I suspected about myself already and added a few long-winded words I'd have to remember to pull out in conversation sometime soon. With the initial naughty thrill of finding something I obviously wasn't meant to I decided to flick through the other patients, some of whom I recognised from group therapy and others complete strangers to me.
Like the fat biker guy who was having to come to terms with his elation he no longer had to hide that he was gay and yet suffered from depression he'd been ostracised by his friends; a bi-polar bear.
Or the young woman who had become obsessed with watching CSI and had started taking on traits of the characters she saw on screen, sometimes passing herself off as a genuine medical technician; a psychopathologist.
Another page showed a Camden Goth, preened to perfection and looking like a nouveau rich panda. The case notes described a heightened rebelious nature within acceptable social parameters such as listening to punk music at low volumes and spitting at people after they'd long passed by before hand delivering a polite apology letter to their home address; neo-neuroticism.
And then I found her. She was gorgeous. The headshot alone would have guaranteed her a contract with Storm and I quickly stole the candids for later obsessive-compulsive behavior. There were pages and pages on her condition, which I scanned quickly and realised that this wouldn't be an easy project. She suffered from occasional hypomania with a four day up cycle, stress-induced palilalia which would make conversation difficult, very difficult, yes indeed conversation would be difficult, accute achromatopsia prevented her from spending much time outdoors and coupled with her copropraxial insomnia meant that she was generally abusive to everyone during the course of the day.
I calculated I had a three day window to meet her, seduce her and bed her before she would attempt to kill me. I took a quick consensus from George Peppard, Sogdianus, son of Xerxes the first by concubine Alogyne of Babylon, a small wooden painted duck and an embodied memetic unit of cultural transmission as defined by Dawkins' genetic analogy and we all agreed that she was a very sane choice indeed.
Trouble and Strife
I have a life I don't talk about, a secret life that only people like Carrie Henn and Stuart Sutcliffe would understand; I had a shot at the big time and I missed it because I didn't see what was right in front of me. Like those women you see hunched over bars who didn't support their crazy inventor husbands and instead slept with the next door neighbor only for their husband to divorce them and invent the Eroscillator (look it up).
Back in the seventies I hung out with a guy called Stig. All new kids at our school were called Stig. Stig loved his rock music so I introduced him to some friends of mine who liked to jam, they had influences like The Who and The Stones so they knew how to hold a good tune and the girls were total babes. It was really just an informal sort of thing, although Benny had had some success back in his home country we were just doing it for kicks.
It was Stig who suggested we make a proper band and try and get some paid gigs.
Obviously when you have five band members with different backgrounds and influences you're going to have divergent ideas of where you want to go... musically I mean, we all knew we wanted to go straight to the top. Aggy was more folksy, Benny more rocky, personally I wanted to try exploring the emerging electronica scene.
Writing sessions would turn into shouting matches, with equipment being smashed and lyrics shredding in each others faces, but fortunately Stig knew what to do; in the spirit of cooperation we would name the band after all five members.
We were going to be successful, we knew it now, everything was coming together, the melodies, the lyrics, the look and feel of the act. I wanted it to work, I really did, and I tried my hardest, but eventually I had to admit to the band that there really was no place for me in DABBA.
The Andy Warhol Effect
"D, I'm going to count backweards from ten, and as I do so I want you to expel all your stress and worries until you feel totally relaxed, okay? Ten"
Aw jeez man, where do I start? I mean its not like I've had the most stable upbringing, there's always been this pressure to acheive and to actually make something of my life. I just look at the parents who raised me and see these people who have gotten themselves everything they wanted and they're still not happy somehow.
"Nine"
And then there's my career, if you can call it that since I seem to just bounce around from company to company without ever really seeming to make that much of an impact.
"Eight"
The people I work with think I'm just some monumental joke, always the one with the quip and the useless facts but never the one they actually confide in or like. I'm the comedy relief in someone else's movie of their life.
"Seven"
And I always feel like I'm playing catch-up, struggling to measure up, just killing myself with effort and always feeling like my head's only just above the water.
"Six"
Then there's my girlfriend, she's great and all but it seems like I'm paranoid and insecure about everything and it undermines the relationship leading to problems which just engenders more paranoia and insecurity.
"Five"
Like last night we argued about Superman wearing his pants on the outside of his costume and whether there are degrees of suspension of disbelief or not. How does anyone argue about Superman's pants?!
"Four"
There are all these obligations to family and friends and it seems like I'm always trying to make other people happy and I have no time to myself, no quality time to sit down and write that book or redesign a website.
"Three"
Appointments that just suck time out of my life and...
"Two"
You! You're the problem! You make me express all my anger and issues and you just sit there counting backwards, what the hell am I paying you for? You never resolve my problems or tell me what I'm supposed to do, you just listen and smirk and answer everything with another question! You smug bastard, I'm gonna...
"O... eurk!"
Hot dog, jumping frog
So I'm fortunate enough to have been given an advance copy of the Kermit the frog autobiography by an editor friend of mine and I thought I could share a few extracts here that I found to be particularly revelatory.
I have to admit that sometimes we'd theme the episode of Sesame Street on whatever the drug of choice was that week. I can remember one time Sesame Street was being brought to you by the letter E and I was zoning out watching that cartoon segment over and over, you know the one? One three four five, six six eight nine ten... whatever, I forget how it goes, anyway Grover comes on set and he's mashed and he's supposed to teach this kid how to tie her shoes? Well obviously he couldn't so they got these Grover gloves and put them on Maria, and Maria ties the shoes but the camera cuts back to Grover right as he's barfing up everything he's ever eaten since he was conceived. They got Big Bird on camera pretty damn quick to explain it away but the clip's still available on the Internet somewhere.
The part about running the Muppet Show from behind the scenes was particularly revelatory.
Man, Mark Hamill was such a dick, thinking he was top dog on my show and demanding the biggest dressing room. I had to talk him down and explain that the whole point of the show was that it was supposed to be a run down disused theatre but he was unrelenting and we eventually got a private trailer parked out back for him. Yeah Mark, where you at now, huh? Bitch. All you get is voice work now because nobody wants Luke Skywalker in their show.
Life was tough on the show though and as a stress outlet I'd go beat on Marvin Sugg's Muppaphone. I know I wasn't the only one that did that, and it was a sad day when Marvin came in and told us that all the Muppaphones had fatal brain damage. After that I had to go hit Piggy up for some relief, she really liked it when I wore my raincoat and press hat, I tell you.
And later when he talks about marrying Piggy in 1984
That was such a publicity stunt and she knows it. We were filming Muppets Take Manhattan and the guy they got to play the minister officiating the ceremony was for real, like properly qualified to marry us. I stuck to the script and there's this moment when you see Piggy's eyes sparkle when we exchange vows. Course that's the one they used in the movie, cause right after we got through that first one she filed for divorce and tried to take 50% of everything I had.
On rehab
Betty Ford, yeah, Betty Ford was tough. I didn't go through it alone either, Animal was there being treated for ketamine addiction. I knew I had to clean up before we restarted with Muppets Tonight and the new movies and I was seriously trying my hardest and then guess who walks into my room one morning; Red Fraggle. The bitch was fighting nymphomania and painkiller addiction but had managed to smuggle an entire Bible soaked in LSD into the place. She'd trade pages for favours, and let me tell you there was an orgy the night she gave out the entire gospel of Luke.
On the Swamp Years movie
What a crock of Hollywood bullshit that was. They didn't even let me play myself in that saccharine retelling; they got a Kermit impersonator in. I mean, sure I had an agent and I was trying to break into movies, but it wasn't through some stroke of luck. I had to squat on the casting couch just like everyone else.
And finally on what it was like to be regularly fisted by Jim Henson
Everyone has their insecurities and with Jim everything felt so right, you could just let yourself go and be yourself, y'know? No pretense, no masks or having to uphold a public image. Its not easy being green.
Question
Tell me what you think about this, was advertising always so inquisitive? So nosy? So quick to pry into my affairs? Or is this a recent state of affairs, a ploy by ad agencies to play on my insecurities and interrogate me? Make me feel like I'm missing out on something everyone else knows the answer to?
What's in my wallet? Why should you care? There's some cash and a few plastic cards and a signed photo of my beloved. How much money is none of your business and the cards are there because if I leave them in my pocket with the loose change the magnetic strips get scratched and people withold money from me.
Where do I want to go today? Are you offering me a ride? I want to go to the beach, but I know I have to pay the rent at the end of the month so I'm going to work, now leave me alone. I'll go to the beach some other day when I've scrimped and saved enough.
How high can I try? For God's sake Donkey Kong, give it a rest! How many times do I have to beat your hairy monkey ass down and rescue the princess before you'll stop kidnapping her? Its not like she can take your konkey dong anyway; she's the size of your hand. Honestly, between you and Bowser constantly snatching her away and Toad endlessly yanking my chain about wrong castles I never get any plumbing done.
Love, Mario
The Epiphany
When the realisation struck I was in the middle of the dancefloor, bathed in an orange spotlight. I had been dancing with my eyes closed and in my mind I was the best on the dancefloor, although considering how many people I had bopped in the shoulders or on the nose with my flailing arms I'd have to wonder how many other people would have agreed.
I had always known I would be special and that there was something just waiting to happen to me, if I held out long enough it would take care of itself. I had waited patiently for years and now, here it was.
Hemmed in on all sides by drunken dancers, leary lads, darling dollies, mashed-out clubbers and party animals I couldn't save my revelation until I would be better placed to share it so I grabbed the nearest person to me.
"I love you!" I screamed at him as loud as I could over the music. His face broke into a blissful grin and he told me he loved me right back.
"I love you!" I shouted to a woman dancing around her handbag in white stilletto heels and a leather miniskirt and she gave me a smile back and said she loved me too.
Could this be? Had everyone else reached the same epiphany as me? Were we somehow cosmically linked in this time and place and bound together in a mutual love and affection that transcended the petty differences that would normally have driven us apart? Had we reached enlightenment by simply letting go of pretence and judgement and allowing ourselves to have our inner beauty expressed and liberated through dance?
"I love you!" I yelled at a passing bouncer as he dragged an unconscious youth towards the front door.
"Piss off, stoner"
Sub Rosa
I slipped the bellhop a $20 bill as he deposited the suitcases and told him I'd be needing an extra pillow later.
"Certainly Sir" he said with a wink.
When I got back to the room after dinner though the girl who knocked on my door hadn't brought an extra pillow so I rang the concierge on the front desk, asking him for an extra pillow, explaining that the bellhop had failed to provide one despite very clearly understanding my request.
"I do beg your pardon Sir, he's new. I shall arrange one for you immediately."
About a half hour later there was a knock on the door but the second girl hadn't brought an extra pillow either so I rang the concierge and asked to be put through to the assistant manager, telling him I didn't know what sort of hotel he was running but could he please sort out an extra pillow as I had no intention of going to sleep without one.
"Bien sur, m'sieur, it shall be arranged right away."
Another knock on the door and a third girl without a pillow meant I had no option but to go down the hall, take the elevator to the ground floor, storm up to the front desk and demand to see the manager who asked what seemed to be the trouble?
"Look, its very simple, I want an extra bloody pillow and somebody to remove the three prostitutes from my room, immediately!"
Bit Player
The conversation dries up at the table and everyone takes a drink from their beer. Kathy is first to finish though and between sips has thought of one of those questions intended to kick-start the conversation again.
"If you could re-enact any scene from a movie, which would it be?"
This one is easy, I've practically got it memorised already.
"I'd be Pacino in the scene where he sits across from De Niro in Heat, talking about his dreams and telling him to his face that he's going down" I say.
Kathy looks to her new boyfriend who doesn't seem to have understood the question.
"I'd be..." he hesitates "I dunno, some guy who doesn't have to act much or do much work but gets paid lots" he finally says, completely missing the point.
She's had enough time to think about it and decides upon her answer.
"I'd be Ingrid Bergman in the end scene of Casablanca, when Rick tells her to get on the plane."
"Haven't seen it" grunts her squeeze who is eyeing up the waitress as she walks past.
"Its brilliant, she's had an affair with Bogart but then her husband turns up alive, having escaped from a concentration camp and they all reunite in Casablanca trying to escape to the U.S. and although she loves Bogart he does the honorable thing and puts her on the plane, sending her off with her husband... christ... what's the husband's name?"
I try to help; "Well Bogart plays Rick of Rick's Café Americain and you've got Claude Raines as the French cop, Bergman plays Ilsa... Ilsa... can't remember her married name."
Kathy and I sit almost nose to nose, extolling over the plot and intricacies of Casablanca as her boyfriend yawns and watches the crowd. We talk of the letters of transit and Ferrari at the Blue Parrot bar and neither of us can remember the name of Ilsa's husband. I do my Peter Lorre impression and she quotes Sacha the barman "Yvonne I love you, but he pays me" and for a moment we both forget that her boyfriend is right there, absorbed in our connection.
"I'm going for a slash" he says and heads off to the bathroom.
I lean in close to Kathy and tell her that I've remembered the name of Ilsa's husband and I'll tell her in exchange for a kiss. Her face flushes red and she looks away guiltily. She can't. Its not that she doesn't want to, she does, but she can't. And yet she desperately needs to remember, needs to fill that mental void. She can picture him but she can't name him, and the longer she waits the greater the chance that she could be caught kissing another man.
She finally makes a decision but before she can act on it he's back at the table, standing over it expectantly.
"Shall we go?" he says, bored of the scene and more than a little threatened by me.
We do the round of goodbyes and as I kiss Kathy on the cheek I whisper to her that she's got herself a Victor Lazlo.
Blocked
You read words you wrote weeks or months ago and you hate yourself. How did you formulate such sentences? Where did the images come from? The scenes are populated with exotic women and sincere gentlemen rogues, heart-rending injustice and a love that crossed the stars, trials and hardships endured in the name of honour and now... now nothing. Your mind has become the empty club after all the interesting characters have left and there are just the drunks propping up the bar and giving the cocktail waitresses a headache.
Oh don't look at the cocktail waitresses buddy, they're not paid enough to become bit players in your stories, they've been on their feet all night and pinched, prodded, molested and besmirched with constant innuendoes and insalubrious comments from the lonely characters you brought in here. They earned their tips tonight and you know it so let them go get changed and drive their shitty cars home to their shared apartments and get a good night's sleep before they're back to class in the morning.
Now you're eyeing up the barman, but believe me, there's no story to be had there. He mixes a mean mojito and he's pretty proud of his Cosmos but really he doesn't want to get involved, he's the custodian of too many other stories and has nothing original to say for himself. He's the guy who soaks up the atmosphere and makes up the details necessary to fill in the blanks. While you're watching him he's watching the catatonic drunk who passed out after his tenth drink in a shower of tears, wracked with some dark guilt that has worn his face like the trickles of spring water that etch out paths through granite. Don't be jealous but the barman's got a better handle on that guy's story than you do right now.
One of the bouncers is encouraging you towards the door by sheer physical presence alone, since you're the only upright remaining customer who could conceivably drive himself home without the bouncer feeling like he'd run you off the road himself. All the others he's going to have to turf out by hand but he's already decided that the first one who pukes on his shoes goes in the dumpster out back. You can't even summon the energy to try and imagine the guy an original name so you head outside to find your car.
That's where you see her. She's wearing a dinner jacket over a red sequined dress that sparkles and bulges in all the right places. She's holding a gun to the head of a man who has just pissed himself and is fumbling for his car keys in his drenched pocket and she's screaming at him. This, you can write about, this has potential.
Interlocutor
I was sat on the top deck of one of London's famed double-decker buses when it stopped at a red light. Through the window I caught sight of a girl with raven-black straight hair sitting atop a ten foot tall red brick wall. She was sitting cross-legged on the wide concrete slabs overlooking the pavement below. On the other side of the wall was a railway line or a canal.
I saw her and she saw me.
Then she did something strange; she got out her mobile phone and waved it at me.
All fingers and thumbs I did my best to signal to her what my mobile number was before the lights could change and I miss my chance. She was dialing as I flashed up sevens and fours and eights with both hands and a few seconds later as the bus set off again my phone rang.
"Hi" she said.
"Hi back" I replied trying to seem mysterious and sophisticated with a debonair nonchalance that would sweep her off her feet.
"You looked pretty bored"
"I am, I'm stuck on public transport with nary a book nor magazine to entertain me."
"I'll entertain you" she said "why don't you come meet me?"
"I dunno, my mother said not to talk to strangers. Well not unless they have puppies or ice cream... or puppy-flavored ice cream"
"Then why did you pick up when I rang?"
"Cause I was bored" and I hung up.