Yesterday was the 4th ever Gamepocalypse, hosted by my buddy Josh. I did not prevail at the top of the heap. I was near the top. I blame the fact that I was sober for the fact that I did not win. You see kids, performance enhancing drugs are great. If you don’t believe me just look at Cpt America, before he took the super soldier serum he was just a scrawny dude. I did nab second place, losing to the Mighty Earl in a rousing game of Super Bomberman, which is what they based Hurt Locker on. I won a Pacman hat, which is great, the hat is ok, but it’s symbolically great. I, much like Pacman, eat fruit I find all the time. Plus every once in a while I take pills that make me feel way better about myself. And let’s not mention being constantly chased by ghosts. And for sure I wander around in mazes made out of darkness, pulled to and fro by forces that are far beyond my ken, screaming. What’s up with Pacman and Ms. Pacman? Are they married? How do they fuck, where are their genitals. Somehow they have a kid. The real winner of the night is my brain cells, since because I wasn’t boozing it up, survived more or less intact. But you know.
Check out these excerpts from Et, Tu Babe by Mark Leyner:
As you know, I’m not your average Author. I dress like an off-duty cop: leather blazer, silk turtleneck, tight sharply creased slacks, Italian loafers, pinky-ring. I drive a candy-apple red Jaguar with a loaded 90-mm semiautomatic pistol in the glove compartment. When I walk into a party I’m like this: my head is bobbing to music that only exists in my mind. For our seventh anniversary, I gave my wife, Arleen Portada, a rotating diamond-impregnated drill bit-the kind that German and Russia geologists use in their deep drilling programs-programs that produce ultradeep holes with depths of up to 15 kilometers. But that’s the kind of guy I am. Dynamic. Robust. No nonsense. A steak and chops man. Double scotch rocks. A man who makes things happen. Big hairy hands. A powerful fist that comes down on a conference table with peremptory authority. Then there’s stunning Arleen Portada. Mystic. Sensualist. Why is she covered with centipede stings? If you spent all day on a sun-baked prairie wearing a sizzling orange minidress supervising a platoon of beefy workmen as they paint immense grain silos vibrant yellow and fuchsia, you’d be covered with centipede stings, too.
The four-foot hermaphroditic organism from a distant solar system twitched in my arms as I soul-kissed it. The laboratory director would have me killed if he’d know that I’d snuck into the Galactic Lifeform Chamber with a bottle of wine, a cassette players, and an eclectic selection of tapes (Felix Mendelssohn, Steppenwolf, Barbara Mandrell) for a clandestine tryst with the cylindrical being whom the lab technicians had christened “Kitty Lafontaine.” I pipetted a few drops of 1982 Napa Valley Zinfandel into its alimentary aperture. Its synesthetic sensory apparatus was distributed evenly across the entirety of its shiny outer sheath so it could see, hear, smell, touch, precognize, etc., from any point on its body. To say that holding Kitty Lafontaine in my arms was like nestling a large holiday beef log from Hickory Farms would certainly not convey the spine-tingling xenophilic libidinous awe i felt, but it would accurately convey the shape, mass, and weight of this fascinating creature who would irrevocably change all our lives that summer.
I read in this National Geographic article that tomorrow night’s performance by Ringling Bros. circus will be their last one. I don’t like that circuses keep animals in deplorable conditions, but it still saddens me a bit to see the big top forever fold up the tents. As someone who is intrigued by the grotesque and outre there’s a place in my heart for the circus. But then again I’d rather have elephants roaming around wild and free, tigers hiding in the grass, and lions out on the savannas. That NG link also features a couple of really weird/creepy old timey circus pictures, which are always good to lift my mood.