!!!!!!!!!FISRT HALF OF THE ABSOLUTE END OF SEAN'S DAD!!!!!!!

[iamseansdad]

HERE IT IS, ETCHED IN STONE:

“Innumerable persons with whom I had conversed had represented to me that spirituous liquors and intoxicants generally had an adverse effect on the senses and the body and that those who became addicted to stimulants in youth were unhappy throughout their lives and met with death at the stair-bottom in a welter of blood and puke.”

I closed Flann O’Brien’s novel, At Swim-Two-Birds, and gazed out the window of the train. Outside the hills of upstate New York passed beneath a charcoal sky. Glancing at the cover of the novel, which lies beside me on the maroon hound’s-tooth upholstery of the seat, I noticed little cutouts seemingly arising up off the page. As the train shook itself over the next hill, an illusion of movement was created in these cutout paper creatures. I raised my hands before my face and shook them with some embarrassed restraint. There was no one near me; the closest person was asleep. This odd little excited ritual/compulsion of mine (which I affectionately refer to as the Shaky Hands), is something I have done since childhood, even before my introduction to the odd habits and compulsions of my half-mad mother, Brandy Warhol, and her sycophantic entourage, the Irrational Revolution. I’d even make little warping-blasting-exploding sounds, like those accompanying toy spaceships in the hands of imaginative minors. “Pshoo! Phhhhthzzzz…. Pshughh!”

I picked up the book frantically and turned again to the inside cover and read the author’s note:

“All the characters represented in this book, including the first person singular, are entirely fictitious and bear no relation to any person living or dead.”

Beneath this was scrawled the following in red ink:

“As an airline stewardess she would flaunt her flatulence while she passed out gingerbread cookies.”

Then in blue ink:

“This is genius. Love, your guide, The Jarhead”

All of this confused me greatly, but the momentum of this journey had reached a fever peak which caused me to become giddy with delirium as the train sped further and further north towards Lilly Elaine’s mansion. It was there that this mysterious New Years Ball would commence. It was there that these strange names, Darvel Chillfro, the Jarhead, and others I had dreamt of in between chapters of At Swim-Two-Birds would be illuminated. Perhaps nothing would be illuminated. I could not care less. I was as far from Brandy Warhol as I could be, embarking on an adventure into the unknown.

Without fearing madness I allowed the strange voice to speak it’s words into my ear without source, “I have watched from a far distant blue star; which one is the grossest of ‘em all? THE NEXT ONE: ME” I knew this was the voice of the mysterious Jarhead who had left his book on the train as a gift to me. For I had found it by sitting on it.

Chach Von Chach would be arriving separately, after having procured the necessary weaponry. I myself was armed with a Rueger. I had no permit, as he did, so boarding the train had been rather nerve-wrecking. Once onboard, however, all was fine.

The final destination of the train was full of surprises for me, the first of which was the sight of the entire original crew of Viennagram inventors: an overly armed and menacing Chach von Chach, a slick and spry Darby Denton, and my tuxedo-clad brother Denty Creep. Denty and Darby both hugged me vigorously, assuring me that they were also off of Brandy’s radar for the moment. I would not have trusted this assurance of theirs if not for the presence of the walking arsenal Chach von Chach. In fact, I still don’t trust that the two of them aren’t on Mother Superior’s payroll, but being armed and knowing for sure that Chach von Chach has my back… well, that makes any threat of a bounty on my head nearly meaningless.

They led me to a large white hearse.

They led me to a LARGE WHITE HEARSE.

I started to back up and Chach von Chach turned and said, “It's okay, Lamia Bruja knows that if she does a single sketchy thing, I’ll blow her fucking brains out with this pump shotgun.” As he said that, the pale witch opened the door and stepped out. Like a polite chauffer, she opened the rear doors to allow us inside. I reluctantly dipped my head down to step inside. There was champagne. There was whiskey. There was Uconn Jack.
We sped off towards the mansion of the mysterious Lilly Elaine.

23 YEARS EARLIER:

After graduating from Merrymen University, Lilly Elaine Warhol went to audition for the New York City Ballet. The first time she tried out she was immediately rejected. Being of strong will and great ambition, she knew this would only be one of many attempts at achieving her “holy grail”, so she practiced relentlessly and took many jobs in small off-Broadway productions. Most were simple theatre or conceptual dance productions which barely served to pay the rent. She had to sing occasionally, which was certainly the weakest link in her repertoire of talents, but work was work. Eventually she took a part-time job as a waitress at an upscale restaurant in the Upper East Side. She was good at making pretty steep tips due to her excellent acting skills. Ever since she was young she was very capable of making anyone feel like she found them interesting, even when she loathed their presence. Her sister, in a rare show of emotion, once referred to her as “perfectly fake” and it almost made Lilly Elaine want to cry. Of course, holding back tears was something she’d mastered very early on, so her face remained unaffected. This came in handy when some rude pervert called her “babe” or “doll”. She’d return these mild epithets with “Yes, hon…sweetie?” and earn herself a great tip.

Ironically her first big break to show off her classical dance skills came via her sister. Brandy had disappeared to the west coast for most of the years. Lilly Elaine had been at Merrymen. Then one day, out of nowhere, she returns with the sheet music and script for an avant-garde ballet entitled, The Shameful Cough. Within weeks of being back she has already found a small, recently renovated old cinema in SoHo, to put the production on, along with a small crew, assistant director, and casting supervisors. During all of this pre-production, Lilly Elaine remained out of the loop, continuing to balance plates and return cold filets for finicky old businessmen. Then her sister called and asked her the most important question of her life.

“Would you like the lead in my ballet? I wrote the part for you.”

“Brandy? Is that you?”

“All other parts have been cast. We’re ready to begin rehearsals next week, if you are up to it.”

“Brandy, quit joking. Where the hell have you been, all this time? I mean, Christ, girl, it’s been over 4 years!”

“I was writing you a ballet.”

“For four years?”

“It’s a good ballet.”

And the curtain between Economy class and First class is pulled shut. A gin on the rocks rests on the plastic fold out table, in the circular indent at the upper right corner. On the rather small screen overhead there plays a movie which quickly influences the beginning of this very sentence, as well as it’s rather redundant end. Helen Mirran’s new home conjures up “memories” of a locked room somewhere, holding artifacts of a faded matriarchy at bay. I feel an uncanny need to once again be “in the presence.” Suddenly a hint of alkaline at the back of the throat and something is rising… rising in the Eastern sky… ridges and twists… elbows… I’ve left a party behind me. Sickening layers of illusion cover my eyes like mucus with each hundred miles. Guilt waits ahead, not memory. Guilt and fading ideals. Behind is everything I know and love… and… and… trust. I’m tired. No. No. I won’t let these delusions take me! NO! Off with their heads! Whose heads? Oh, I’ve lost it again, it slipped. No. Few more fragments: Time to change the old guard.

Flashing cursor.

Word.

“The Shameful Cough is the most successful use of ballet on the small stage in New York theatre history. Brandy Warhol, who has virtually waltzed onto the scene out of nowhere, has written and directed a visual and musical experience more captivating than any grand opus of Balanchine, himself. Aesthetically unique to the genre, The Shameful Cough attempts and succeeds at duplicating the look and feel of a 1930’s silent film, particularly the Lon Chaney classic, Phantom of the Opera. The costumes, sets, and make-up are all done in grey-scale to simulate this lack of color. The effect is startling for such a simple production technique.
The talent of the ensemble is respectable but not profound. However this is wholly compensated for by the incomparable skill of the lead dancer, the formerly obscure Lilly Elaine Warhol (the writer-director Brandy Warhol’s sister), who steals the show with the natural elegance of a prima ballerina assoluta. Even at her young age she shows signs of ability on par with Cynthia Gregory. Schooled at Merrymen Academy, Young Lilly Elaine has been working hard to get ahead in the industry for two years now. However, nothing will serve as such an excellent stepping stone as her sister’s masterpiece. Book your seats early for the final showings of The Shameful Cough; after its run you may be hard-pressed to get a ticket to either of the sister’s future endeavors.”

This review appeared in the New Yorker, at the front of the arts section with a color photograph of Lilly Elaine en pointe, which wound up looking black and white because of the color scheme of the production. A humorous note to this extent was the caption to the photo. All of the reviews in other publications were just as positive. Most began by marveling at Brandy Warhol’s out-of-nowhere burst onto the New York theater scene, but, finding it impossible to get an interview with Brandy, wound up on the equally fascinating topic of her Lilly Elaine. There was no mystery to Lilly Elaine, however, she was simply very very good at dancing. She had worked hard and practiced endlessly to reach this point and all agreed that she would have made it to the top even without her sister’s help; it just would have taken longer. In interviews, Lilly Elaine explained that the reason this was such a big break for her was that it was the first time she danced publicly in a performance in Manhattan. Every prior performance had asked her to act, sing, and even dance in a chorus line but no ballet. And Lilly Elaine WAS ballet.
The next few years went by without much word of Brandy, but plenty of Lilly Elaine. She was everywhere: in the Nutcracker, Swan Lake, the Sleeping Beauty, eventually she was the resident Prima at the New York City Ballet working under the great George Balanchine and with choreographer Jerome Robbins. Hers was a perpetually rising star and the critics could find no weakness.
The critics, though stunned by Lilly Elaine’s relentless reign, were actually more interested in her sister, who had disappeared completely. It was well known that Lilly Elaine was the only person who communicated with her anymore, but Lilly Elaine’s lips remained sealed. Occasionally she would say something like, “She is well, and that is what matters to me and all that should matter to you. Good day.” Of course, her health didn’t matter one bit to the journalists begging for more scraps on the elusive master. Sure, Balanchine was a genius and fully capable of getting the best out of Lilly Elaine, but there was something entirely unheard of in The Withered Hand, some magical connection of kin… the kin of an unparalleled talent with an unparalleled visionary. Where was Brandy Warhol? What was she working on? What was her master plan?
After a while the scales tipped. Lilly Elaine was so perfect, it no longer merited mention in the papers. Soon every question posed to her was in reference to her sister. Seven years had passed since the first performance of The Withered Hand and now Lilly Elaine had adopted a general aloofness towards the media: wearing a cowl, a black lace veil, and surrounding herself with body guards whose sole joy in life was breaking other people’s cameras. She had take on the air of a person always being rushed between expensive black vehicles by a dark and protective entourage. The world’s lust for more Brandy had taken a big bite out of Lilly Elaine’s innocence.
Then, to the relief of Lilly Elaine, Brandy resurfaced. She had reappeared to unveil her latest project, The Yessy Lindon Cycle, in Central Park. This consisted of a series of photographs of women from all over the city hung as curtains along the paths within the enormous park. The project was immense, asking all residents who wished to pass through the park, to pass through each of these women’s visages one by one. The effect of the display was amazing. Some people wouldn’t walk through, and chose to walk on the grass, while others ran gleefully through face after face later describing the experience as “being ever New York female at once”. The critiques were extremely varied, some calling it “utter shit” others proclaiming it as “the dawn of a new era of art”, but all agreed that Brandy Warhol had revealed her true colors: She was a very versatile surrealist. Unfortunately she was still also something else: An extreme recluse. Nobody knew where she lived, nobody got an interview. So as soon as The Yessy Lindon Cycle came down, the microphones and cameras once again turned towards poor Lilly Elaine Warhol.

I slept during most of the ride there. Having decided that no one in the hearse was working for Brandy Warhol, I could let down my guard, which was great since I was incredibly tired. I awoke with that sick groggy feeling of dehydration and muscle fatigue. This sensation only got worse as I opened my eyes and spied the sight before me: a massive stone castle-like mansion surrounded by winter-barren trees. It was dark out and the gravel driveway was lit up by several brass lamp-posts. With a crumbling, grinding sound we slowed to park just before the huge wooden door. My door opened and Chach von Chach helped me out of my dilapidated position and onto my feet. I stood with jelly-legs upon the gravel and glance up at the main tower of the building. This caused me to experience sudden vertigo and I would have fallen backwards, had it not been for Darby Denton, who caught me with a little laugh. Looking up at his face I saw a big toothy grin on his face.

“Careful there, Doc,” he said as he propped me back up into a standing position. Catching sight of Deny Creep now, I realized they were all dressed in black, with white armbands. Shit, I thought, they look like Nazis. Looking closer at one of the armbands I saw a face on it.

“Paul Buxton,” Denty explained, “Actual inventor of the Viennagram. We just adapted his theories with Brandy’s funding. She insisted we ignore his role in it… since he wasn’t very interesting.”

“Typical of mom,” I said, mostly to myself.

We turned to Lamia Bruja, who was just coming around now to us. She quickly looked us all over and spun on her heels. We followed her to the hulking wooden door. With a deep dull creak it opened and we entered. Upon crossing the threshold, a leavening occurred. The interior was covered in a million points of light, all candles, dotted throughout an intricate latticework of red and white lace and green ivy. Mistletoe hung everywhere, which caused me to smile, thinking of the huge hall as a romantic minefield. A melancholy I had been carrying for some time suddenly lifted then; I felt young and, excuse me but this is the best word, frisky.

Music from the Charlie Brown Christmas Special was being played by the pianist, who was seated at the far center of the hall, flanked by huge twin staircases. Servants came up from behind us to take our coats and jackets, which caused Chach von Chach to jerk his hand towards his holstered .45… he stopped abruptly, shrugged, let his arm down and mouthed the word “instinct” to me with an embarrassed smile.

“Please make sure the gentlemen’s coats are taken care of,” Lamia half-whispered to the help, who sped off dutily as she turned to us and spoke, “Now gentlemen, let me take you to the cigar room.”

Darby and Denty grinned at each other. Denty loved cigars and Darby always smoked a pipe, a habit he had picked up from me and perfected. Too often I’ll just have a cigarette, despite the taste and aesthetic superiority of a pipe. As we walked, Darby began packing the bowl of his cherry brown pipe with Sultan’s Leaf, his favorite tobacco. Thrilled by the freshness of this environment, I followed dumbly like an obedient dog.

The smoke room entrance was a glass door with a dark wooden frame that featured ornate gold-leaf vine patterns running up both sides. The handle was brass with a large L stamped into the front of it. Lamia turned this and opened the door, letting us pass into the smoky interior. Once inside, Darby lit up his pipe with a few short puffs, each sending a small grey cloud up towards the ceiling. Denty pulled a couple Cubans, clipped the ends and handed one to me. I accepted and he lit both with a silver Zippo bearing the inscription 1/17, our mutual birthday. It was, of course, delicious. I looked around the room as I puffed on my cigar. Against the back wall, near a glass case containing a solid-gold croquet set, a girl was standing alone. She had a petite figure and wore a black blouse with a bright red mini-skirt. When she turned I noticed… I’m not sure that’s the right word, more like “was startled by”… she had no mouth! Beautiful features; high cheekbones, dark brown doe-eyes, button-nose, but NO MOUTH! Before I could investigate, a hand pulled my shoulder back, spinning me around to face the short, stocky man who had accosted me. Glancing back at that corner of the room, I saw she was gone. Frustrated, I turned back to face this short, rude little man.

“Sean Magee!” he blurted at me, spitting. He was clearly quite drunk. “Whatever happened to me? No appreciation, no appreciation. Oh sure, we all know what happened to you, but what the fuck happened to me?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re getting at,” I honestly replied.

“Oh sure. Well ain’t that convenient for you? But it don’t do me much good, does it? Ah fuck you, Magee.”

The slurring, belligerent man wandered off through the crowd to a door at the back of the room. I turned to Denty Creep.

“Who was that?”

“Carl Prather,” he explained, “You don’t remember, but he was pretty important to you at one point.”

“Well if he was so important to me, why don’t I remember?”

“Nobody knows.”

“Brandy always told us not to bring it up,” Darby added. “Beats me why. Shit like that made her lose half her followers.”

Not aware until now that there had been such major drop in Irrational Army loyalists, this came as good news. As I thought this, a beautiful girl walked by and I couldn’t help but notice that she looked incredibly familiar. The sensation was uncanny, she reminded me of every woman I’d ever met. Obviously, Denty had felt this as well, as he immediately followed her out of the room. I turned to Darby inquisitively.

“Donna Dear,” he said, “Denty’s been in love with her forever. She’s an Aquarius.”

We walked forward a few steps and soon found ourselves comfortably mingling with the chic crowd in the Smoking Room. After my cigar was done, I gave in and accepted a cigarette from an elderly man with a very noteworthy voice. He introduced himself as Royal Danno and explained that he had once done an extensive amount of voice-work for Disney, including the voice of Lincoln in the Hall of the Presidents at Disneyworld.

“I knew it was familiar,” I exclaimed, “I spent a year hiding in Orlando and there was nothing to do but go to Disneyworld. The Hall of Presidents was one of my favorites. In fact, you made me cry as Lincoln. I’ve never felt so patriotic in my life. In fact I spent most of my life fighting a group called the Patriot Club.”

He laughed. “I didn’t make you cry, Lincoln did.”

“Yeah, but you brought him to life for me. That deserves some credit.”

“I suppose,” he conceded, “What were your other favorite attractions at Disneyworld?”

“The Tiki Room, Spaceship Earth, and the Carousel of Progress. That song… ‘It’s a great big beautiful tomorrow…’”

“‘-shining at the end of every day,’” he continued.

“‘Oh it’s a great big beautiful tomorrow,’” we harmonized, “‘and tomorrow is just a day away!’”

After this absurd sing-a-long, we both cracked up laughing while most of the people in the Smoking Room turned to see what was so funny. Nobody was glaring reproachfully, just looking on with interest. Denty came back in through the door he had previously gone through, following Delly Ulver. He had a severely disenchanted look on his face.

“What happened?” I asked knowingly.

“I asked her to marry me again.”

“And she said…?” Darby mocked.

“Cut it out,” I said, smacking Darby across the chest, “Leave the man to his delusions.”

“We did that with you for a decade,” he said to me, “and you turned out just great.”

Rarely did Lilly Elaine go out on the town anymore. Being hounded for details about her mysterious sister was not her idea of good nightlife. Thanks to her new bodyguard, however, she had found a way around such hassles. Paul Buxton, a former art teacher at the Rhode Island School of Design who had made a dramatic career shift by becoming a body guard for celebrities, had just recently found employment with the Prima Ballerina of the New York City Ballet. When Lilly Elaine expressed her frustration at not being able to enjoy the many clubs on the island without paparazzi ruining her night, Paul came up with a foolproof plan. The transition job he had held between Art Teacher and Celebrity Bodyguard had been Bouncer (at Lupo’s Heartbreak Hotel). He knew well enough that when a celebrity came in, more oft than not, it was the bouncer who played the fink. There was good money in alerting the press to celebrity whereabouts. To avoid this Lilly Elaine just needed to go incognito. Really convincing incognito. Being a former bouncer also meant that Paul knew where to get the most convincing fake IDs made. So they got her a wig, blue contacts (her eyes were naturally brown), a new name, Elle Gorey, and a fake to verify all three. Elle Gorey was ready to hit the town.
She went wild for a month. Elle Gorey hit up every club she’d ever dreamed of visiting: Studio 54, Danceteria, Xenon, The Morocco, Max’s Kansas City, and was even occasionally invited to the Factory, home of the artist who’s name rhymed with her sister’s. But it was at the Nursery that she soon found her favorite watering hole. There she met John Belushi, who introduced her to heavy drinking and hit on her relentlessly. She wasn’t interested, but found John hilarious, nonetheless. It was at the Nursery, however, that she did meet her first love, Lieutenant Timothy Terror.

He was a young sailor boy who wandered into the Nursery by himself one night in June of 1977. She was still young then and had only dated one boy in high school, but the moment she saw Lieutenant Terror she was dumbstruck. He sat beside her, while she gaped at him, and ordered a Mojito. He sipped on it nervously, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Elle Gorey, who was drunk and unscrupulous and therefore staring. John Belushi had passed out in the men’s room from doing shots with her earlier that night, and she was now the sole survivor of that depraved endeavor.

“I’m sssorry. Am I bothering you?” she attempted to ask sweetly, failing.

“No, no, Mam, not at all.”

He had a southern accent. He had called her “Mam”. She chuckled to herself.

“You’re not ffrom around here arrre you?” she slurred.

“No, Mam. Louisiana by way of Singapore aboard the U.S.S. Integrity.”

“Sssailor boy. Mmmm…”

They walked back to her place and his demeaner changed drastically. He sang to her,
“Buffallo gal won’t you come out tonight,
Come out tonight,
Come out tonight.
Buffallo gal won’t you come out tonight…
And dance…
By the light…
Of the moon!”

She recognized the song. It was from the Jimmy Stewart film, It’s a Wonderful Life, when he walks the girl home from the dance. Soon Lieutenant Terror was re-enacting the whole scene for her. He pointed at the moon and said if she wanted it, he would throw a lasso around it and reel it in just for her. This won her over completely. He was so charming, and she really felt like if she wanted it… he COULD lasso the moon.

The film is over. Thank Eris. The damned headphones are defective. They’re always like this. One earpieces works, the other goes on and off. You have to jiggle it inside the socket, then hold the wire at the right angle. Which is a pain in the ass. Apparently you can only have one alcoholic drink per flight. Wish I had known that during my last three connection flights. Oh well. Where am I going? Back to Ft. Guilt? Holy shit, that’s the worst idea ever. That’s exactly what she wants me to do. There’s steam coming up from the earth below. Not like the clouds, but going through the clouds. It’s not smoke, it’s almost purple. What is that? Ridges and twists. Gotta stay strong-willed. Was a jellyfish before… now… how about a Tanooki? Like the ELO song, Turn to Stone. Miyamoto, I love you; thank you for Wii-bot. He is my only friend. That’s not true. I just got my memory back and I’m already writing over it. Jarhead. Not just a vague God-like presence… the man’s got a full name: Jarhead Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Manley. My old friend. And Chach von Chach. Didn’t meet him through Brandy. Met him in Preschool, I think. Preschool? When and WHAT was that? Oh, I can’t go back to Ft. Guilt.

The warrior… my final meeting with the Gods… the grey monkey broke through the clouds and spoke… “Go to the cockpit… grab the two pilots, who have already made the sacrifice… grab the controls, and PUT THAT PLANE INTO A NOSEDIVE, SEAN MAGEE!”

Ah. The seatbelt light has gone on again. Turbulence. Hmm.

“This is Jarhead Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Manley, you’re second oldest friend,” Chach von Chach introduced the black-haired man in front of me. I didn’t quite grasp how I could be introduced to my oldest friend.

“You probably don’t remember me,” this Jarhead character began to explain,
“Considering how your mother pretty much lobotomized you. We’ve actually known each other since elementary school.”

“Really?” I turned to Chach von Chach in disbelief.

“Yes, really,” he replied, “And I’m you’re oldest friend; we’ve known each other since preschool.”

At that moment, my sister, Martha Curran came up to join the conversation. Chach von Chach produced a shotgun and a pipe with some wacky-tabbaccy and we all took shotgun hits the old-fashioned style. It was great to see my sister. I feel all incesty when I’m near her, but she says that’s okay since I’m a product of the most supreme incest anyway. I feel like insest might be the secret to great family lines of total megalomaniacal lunatics. The more stoned I got the more I pondered these claims that Chach von Chach and this Jarhead character had known me for much longer than I remember. Jesus, what if they’re right? What if Brandy really did lobotomize me? Took whole huge chunks out of my memory? Christ almighty.

Dr. Gross came up with a microphone and tape recorder plays a bit of Michael Jackson singing, “When you’re down and out and you feel no hope at all”. He then asks me to reproduce that. I protest, saying it’s too high a pitch for me to hit. He tells me to just sing it and don’t worry about the pitch. So I do. He runs off, out of the room.

“What was that all about?” I ask those around me.

“Beats me, Magee.” Martha coughs, smoke obscuring her face.

Chach von Chach comes up with a silver box and two hi-ball glasses. Placing the box on the table, I notice that it reads Chivas Regal, aged 25 years. He explains that it was aged 25 years… 35 years ago. So it’s 60-year-old whiskey. He pours us each a glass and we sip. It’s delicious; and so begins the drinking.

He said he’d call. He was a sailor. How could she have been so stupid? Obviously, in retrospect, she realized that he had just been on shore leave looking for some ass. And he found some. Now she was pregnant and her career was ruined. Oh sure, her agent had told her it would be great for her image to be a mother and THEN return to stage. He didn’t seem to think it was an issue that the child would be born out of wedlock, despite the fact that most of her audience was a much older more conservative crowd. That bastard had jeopardize everything she had worked for. That little cunt, Nelly, the “up-and-coming, rising-star” ballerina would probably usurp her status as the Prima of the New York City Ballet.

She had the child, a girl, named her “Enr” after the painful groans she had made while giving birth. She resented the girl and blamed her for the end of her career. Lieutenant Terror never paid child support, in fact he was impossible to reach. She put the girl in a private school in Cambridge, MA and tried her best to forget about her. Dance was out of the question, she no longer had the stamina, so she began investing her money in thing the stock market. Back at her mansion in New York, she went through every book in the library and piled up all the fiction, philosophy (minus Ayn Rand), and any else she deemed as useless and irrational and burned them. Nobody could lasso the moon, so there was no point in talking about it… or writing about it… or singing about it. She destroyed all her records. She would no longer surround herself with irrational bunk like this. Daydreams and delusions had gotten her in the mess she was in now, and they would not get a chance to ruin her life again. From now on all that mattered to Lilly Elaine Warhol was RATIONALITY.

Reporters still bugged her about her sister, who she decided was the real cause of all this tragedy. He sister’s life was entirely irrational. She decided to sever ties and exile herself from the Warhol legacy. At this point she took on a combination of her nightclubbing pseudonym and her real name, creating L’ELLEGONY. One word, no last name, no sister, no past. Nothing but a clear, clean, sensible, RATIONAL future.

That’s when she met Michael D. Rockefellar, owner of International Solutions, Inc., an 89-year-old billionaire who cherished rationality as much as she did. It was a strange subsititute for love, but it was certainly something; something that got her in his will, something that got her Presidency of what would soon become the infamous Rational Sulutions, Inc., the company that would pit itself against her sister’s Irrational Revolution. The company that would produce Lillybot and conspire with the Patriot Club to bring down her sister Brandy and her nephew Rev. Dr. President, Etc. K.S.C.

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All this interaction was nice, but I began to remember my main concern: Who had thrown the ball? Who was Lilly Elaine? I asked many of the people around me and nobody seemed to know. I also asked how they had heard about this function and it seemed they had all been invited by Lilly Elaine in the same fashion as I had. Most were worried about showing, considering the possibility of it being a trap. So they had done what I did and checked with other Irrational Revolution exiles. When they found that these other folk were also on the guest list they decided it would be safe to attend, although I sensed that they safety was not the deciding factor for most. Instead, like for myself, it had been curiosity (and we all know what that does to cats).

I was once again standing beside Jarhead Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Manley, watching the crowd. I began to think that it might actually be true that we were best friends once, from the nature of our dialogue. It was smooth and quick, with a warm appreciation for each other’s sense of humor that indicated years and years of conversations like this. We were talking about writing, a mutual passion, but one which he had clearly pursued, while I had never had the time. He explained that my continual “updates to the loyal readers” was in fact writing, whether I viewed it as such or not. I disagreed, claiming that writing a journal is something anyone can do, writing a novel is NOT. Every point he would counter by claiming that what I thought my memoir couldn’t be… well, it already WAS. We decided to agree to disagree and then Royal Danno came up to introduce himself to Jarhead.

“Oh yes,” I said “This is the illustrious Royal Danno, voice of Abraham Lincoln! And this, Mr. Danno, is my apparent old friend, of whom all memory has been erased in my mind, Jarhead Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Manley.”

“Very nithe to meeth you,” Royal slurred and spat at Jarhead, who wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. “I heard you talking ‘bout the good Reffferend Doctor’s tirethome neverending memoir?”

“Uh yes,” I replied nervously, I’m terrible with criticism, “If that’s what their calling it these days.”

“Theeeth dayss? Ha! Theeth days your miserable Doctor here,” he said gesturing to me while once again spitting in Jarhead’s face, “ is alwayth grovelllin’ at the feet of some wind-up robot doll. Quite franky, itth pathethic! Get a thpine, man, get thome backbone, you… you jellyfith.”

After this triumphant pronounciation of the invertabrate’s name, he toppled over, falling flat on his back, fully blacked-out. While I was digesting his unsavory remarks, a couple of loud laughs caused me to look up. Darby and Denty were before us, cracking up at what they had just witnessed. Seeing them laughing allowed his drunk comments to quickly fade from memory.

“He’s a lot nicer when he’s sober and talking about himself,” Darby explained.

“All right Doctor Jellyfish,” Denty spoke, “Lamia says it’s time to move to the ballroom.”

She stood before the mirror in her little black dress. It was almost time. All her life (if it could be considered much of a life at all) had been leading up to this moment. Everything she had been taught had been a cultivation of the skills needed to pass this trial. This trial which she had no details concerning, only that she must be beautiful, well-behaved, well-mannered, capable of dancing, and above all else, graceful. She straightened out in the mirror, forced an elegant composure. I look like a stork, she though, and laughed. There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” she said.

Lamia Bruja’s pale face appeared through the crack.

“It is time, my dear.”

The ballroom was enormous. Everything was dark green marble, including five huge columns in a pentagonal shape around the room. Dark heavy crimson curtains with gold braided tassels hung at the back, framing a huge paned window overlooking the terrace and a hedge maze. The guests were numerous and overwhelming. A quick glance around revealed hundreds of familiar smiling faces: Andy B, The Grache, Captain BiPorches (who had a bunch of green bottles in front of him), Dr. Pepper, Humpty Dumpty, Kid Bolton, Lt. Billiam, Soccer Tennis Wilson, and many many more. A small Argentinian girl came up and hugged me. I looked down and realized it was the infamous Castratina.

“SEAN! How are you!”

“Good, good, how are you Castratina?”

She moved over to Darby Denton and held his hand.

“Darby and I are engaged to be married. You just MUST be the best man.”

“If I’m alive, sure.”

She laughed at this. I didn’t mean it as a joke. As the immortal bard said many times, “There is no such thing as paranoia,” and someone in my position knows that death is always just around the corner, or behind some door, dressed up as a mirror image of you, holding a handgun, waiting for you to open the door.

Music began. Orchestral versions of hit songs being performed by a large band against the left wall. In a sense… high-class muzak. I had to smile at this, since it gave away that whoever was throwing the party, had tailored every detail just to please me. When Dionne Warwick’s hit, “Do you know the way to Santa Fe?” was followed by “Sunny” I got goose bumps. A green bottle found it’s way into my hand via Denty Creep’s. He had On the side of the bottle was a sticker of Paul Buxton, just like their creepy, almost fascist armbands.

“Drink up, Seanie-boy!”

And so I did. It tasted like licorice and was clearly very strong. There was something floating in it.

“What’s that?,” I asked, indicating the foreign object.

“Wormwood. What you’re drinking is Cpt. Biporches homemade absinthe.”

“Really?” I nodded to myself an drank some more. I began to feel lightheaded, the world became tinted slightly green, and “You’re so vain” was suddenly being blasted by the band, when there she was, directly in front of me, in a little black dress. Somehow the crowd had parted so as to allow some monumentally dramatic meeting to occur. She was beautiful. A slender fair face framed by dark brown, almost black curtains. Dark kind eyes. Oddly enough, she looked somewhat like a young Cher. We were walking towards each other at equally slow speed, as if we were mutually entranced. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Martha Curran with her hands together as if praying. Behind Lilly Elaine lurked Lamia Bruja who appeared as some kind of bird of prey. And then we were only a foot apart. I spoke first:

“Um… hi.”

“Hello, Sean?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Heh.”

“I’m Lilly Elaine, it’s uh… nice to meet you… I was told you were the guest of honor.”

“You were told? I thought this was your party.”

“It is.”

“I’m confused.”

“Me, too.”

Nervously, we both looked around the ballroom. All eyes were on us. Faces revealed their involvement in this odd affair (Denty’s, Martha Curran’s, and Lamia’s, of course), still other faces revealed severe distrust and caution (Chach von Chach had the look of an eagle and was clearly fingering his .44).

“Um,” Lilly stuttered, “D-do you want to dance?”

“Sure.”

The band stopped and immediately began playing a waltz. I don’t really know how to waltz, so I let Lilly Elaine lead. Something strange was happening. I felt an electric sensation all over, like the scar on my chin tingles when I eat chocolate. At times we were dancing like 1950’s Catholic school kids, leaving plenty of room for the Holy Ghost. Maybe it was the absinthe (and all the other liquor I had imbibed), but time began to blur into itself, whole sections of songs washing into each other until I felt black velvet against my ear an cheek, realized I had my head on her shoulder, then looked up to see who was singing. It was Pink Pete, that queer cowboy assassin that killed General Terror… “Don’t talk; Put your head on my shoulder…” Holy shit, I thought, that’s Kevin Ayers singing backup… in fact, the house band is Soft Machine. Jesus Christ, this whole thing has been so specifically tailored to my aesthetic sensibilities. Yikes. I bagan to drift off with the intense drum solo that, although it certainly shouldn’t have, complimented the song perfectly…

Suddenly I had to relieve myself. I excused myself from Lilly Elaine, who smiled as I allowed Denty Creep to cut in. I asked Lamia Bruja where the bathrooms were and she pointed to a door at the far left hand corner. As I walked down the corridor, Neil Diamond’s “I’m a believer” was playing through some speakers somewhere. Or I was imagining it. I thought back on how much I had had to drink: 60-year-old Chivas Regal, several glasses of Cortijoz wine, some sherry, Framboise, Colt 45 (Yech.), and plenty, if not wholly too much absinthe. Oh and then there was a bucket full of crayola-colored macaroons. It was a miracle that all I needed a bathroom for was to take a leak. Out of the ladies room came Donna Dear and Delly Ulver, who winked at me as she passed. In between the ladies room door and the men’s room door stood two plain looking fellows. The one to the left, a man with shoulder-length black hair looked at me and said bluntly,

“Did you fuck Yvonne?”

Obviously, despite inebriation, I was quite taken aback. The song on the speakers changed to “Red, Red Wine” and I thought for a split second, hmmm… Neil Diamond wrote this song, too?

“Who?”

“My ex-girlfriend Yvonne. I just found out she fucked around behind my back, when we were dating, with just about everyone, so I figured she probably fucked you, too.”

“Um,” I carefully replied, “I can honestly say I did not fuck your ex-girlfriend.”

They both disappeared in a puff of pink smoke.

A green haze came over my eyes and I was then spinning Lilly Elaine on the dancefloor. Everyone around was twisting, jumping, sliding with their partners or by themselves. Lilly Elaine was laughing a familiar laugh. She was so sexy. I just noticed her green shoes. When I spun her back into my arms she put her lips up to my ear and hastily whispered:

“I’m going to run out of here… follow me!”

She returned to arms length with a mischievous grin on her face. Her eyes sparkled for a second and then she bolted towards the door. Awkwardly, I looked around the Ballroom. Everyone was drunk and oblivious, except Lamia, who had been keeping her eye on Lilly Elaine the whole night and now stared me down intensely. I stuck my tongue out at her and ran.

I had to run pretty fast to catch up with her. When I finally did, she turned frantically and kissed me on the cheek, grabbed my hand, then, with a mighty tug which almost pulled my arm out of its socket, dragged me up the huge marble staircase. At the top we encountered one of the mansion wait staff carrying a case of six bottles of Dom Pérignon ’53. Lilly Elaine grabbed two and shoved one into my chest which besides winding me, I almost dropped. Then we burst through the huge double doors before us. The night sky filled the glass dome above us and an enormous brass telescope filled most of the room.

“This is my observatory!” she proclaimed, “Ha! My observatory! Funny thing is, I don’t remember purchasing it.”

“I don’t remember anything,” I sympathized.

“I don’t even know who I am!”

“Don’t feel bad. Once again, neither do I.”

“I don’t feel bad. I feel great. So… you don’t know who you are… and I don’t have a dang clue who I am…”

“We could be, quite possibly, the luckiest people alive,” I concluded.

After this I don’t remember much. Just feeling something similar to the giddy elations of young cousins playing, running rampant as the adults chat and get drunker and speak in adult tongues… like the gayest moments of bliss with Lillybot, but without that undertone of aggression, jealousy, and resentment… and why? Because we were nobody. Because Lilly Elaine and I lacked only restraint, a cumbersome commodity which was traded in abundance between Lillybot and I. At some point we were naked an running around the library. I found an odd little pamphlet marked SCUM by someone named Valerie Solanas and began to giddily read it aloud to Lilly Elaine, who applauded and cheered each segment:

“"Retaining the male has not even the dubious purpose of reproduction. The male is a biological accident: the y(male) gene is an incomplete x(female) gene, that is, has an incomplete set of chromosomes. In other words, the male is an incomplete female, a walking abortion, aborted at the gene stage. To be male is to be deficient, emotionally limited; maleness is a deficiency disease and males are emotional cripples…

Although completely physical, the male is unfit even for stud service. Even assuming mechanical proficiency, which few men have, he is, first of all, incapable of zestfully, lustfully, tearing off a piece, but instead is eaten up with guilt, shame, fear and insecurity, feelings rooted in male nature, which the most enlightened training can only minimize; second, the physical feeling he attains is next to nothing; and third, he is not empathizing with his partner, but is obsessed with how he's doing, turning in an A performance, doing a good plumbing job. To call a man an animal is to flatter him; he's a machine, a walking dildo. It's often said that men use women. Use them for what? Surely not pleasure.
Eaten up with guilt, shame, fears and insecurities and obtaining, if he's lucky, a barely perceptible physical feeling, the male is, nonetheless, obsessed with screwing; he'll swim through a river of snot, wade nostril-deep through a mile of vomit, if he thinks there'll be a friendly pussy awaiting him. He'll screw a woman he despises, any snaggle-toothed hag, and furthermore, pay for the opportunity. Why? Relieving physical tension isn't the answer, as masturbation suffices for that. It's not ego satisfaction; that doesn't explain screwing corpses and babies.”

“Whoa,” I remarked in awe.

“Yeah,” Lilly Elaine agreed, “That’s pretty crazy. Read on, Christian Soldier!”

“Okay…Okay, this is good, ‘The affect of fatherhood on males, specifically, is to make them `Men', that is, highly defensive of all impulses to passivity, faggotry, and of desires to be female. Every boy wants to imitate his mother, be her, fuse with her, but Daddy forbids this; he is the mother; he gets to fuse with her. So he tells the boy, sometimes directly, sometimes indirectly, to not be a sissy, to act like a `Man'. The boy, scared shitless of and `respecting' his father, complies, and becomes just like Daddy, that model of `Man'-hood, the all-American ideal -- the well-behaved heterosexual dullard.’ Wow, I could talk at length on the subject of fatherhood myself and probably be the only person to sound more fucked-up than her!”

Lilly Elaine laughed at this, then grabbed the book out of my hands and began reading more about Valerie Solanas’ personal Utopia.

“ ‘The few remaining men can exist out their puny days dropped out on drugs or strutting around in drag or passively watching the high-powered female in action, fulfilling themselves as spectators, vicarious livers*[FOOTNOTE: It will be electronically possible for him to tune into any specific female he wants to and follow in detail her every movement. The females will kindly, obligingly consent to this, as it won't hurt them in the slightest and it is a marvelously kind and humane way to treat their unfortunate, handicapped fellow beings.] or breeding in the cow pasture with the toadies, or they can go off to the nearest friendly suicide center where they will be quietly, quickly, and painlessly gassed to death.’”

“Man, she’s ruthless. This is your book?”

“Oh yeah, this is ‘my’ book,” Lilly Elaine made quotations with her fingers in the air. Then she read on, “ ‘Rational men want to be squashed, stepped on, crushed and crunched, treated as the curs, the filth that they are, have their repulsiveness confirmed.
The sick, irrational men, those who attempt to defend themselves against their disgustingness, when they see SCUM barrelling down on them, will cling in terror to Big Mama with her Big Bouncy Boobies, but Boobies won't protect them against SCUM; Big Mama will be clinging to Big Daddy, who will be in the corner shitting in his forceful, dynamic pants. Men who are rational, however, won't kick or struggle or raise a distressing fuss, but will just sit back, relax, enjoy the show and ride the waves to their demise.’”

“Beautiful,” I said, meaning it, “That last bit… a big part of me genuinely agrees with her.”

“Really?” She threw back her head with a raucous laugh and then pounced on me. We made love in a mad haze for a long long time…

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Jarhead Fingal O Flaherty Wills Manley, here, to finish up where Sean Magee left off. You can call me Jarhead, and I’m sure you know Sean as Reverend Doctor President, Etc. and all that hogwash. Well I’ve none Sean for a long time, and before Brandy split his brain in three, putting his memories in two other bodies and then ordering their termination (slick move convincing you’re kid he’s got multiple personality disorder when he doesn’t), I knew Sean as Sean. A snot-nosed kid with big ears who used to play “Doggie Star Wars” with me and our friend Kevin in our three backyards. Don’t ask what pretending to be dogs has to do with Star Wars, but we did it anyway. We also played a great game called Pac, I think quite possibly our greatest contribution to Philosophy; the game was much like Sean’s life would become… the point of the game was to lose and the rules were made up on the spot. When we grew older and Brandy came to return his “birthright” to him, taking him away from the Avellar’s (his adopted parents), and taking him under her wing, she became the referee in a huge horrible game of Pac. Well, Sean played for a while, became that abomination of meaningless titles you all know him as, and then tried to quit the game. Of course, that is exactly how you win the game of Pac. All you have to do to win is lose. And Sean Michael Avellar Magee finally lost on January 17th, 2007: his birthday.

What most of us attending the New Years Eve Ball at Lilly Elaine’s witnessed began simply as Sean and Lilly disappearing from the dance floor for several hours. They missed Timeship Earth and Euromotion, who had traveled from different planes of existence just for the occasion, and they missed the triumphant climax of this double-set: Denty Creep, Darby Denton, and Chach Von Chach joined the onstage super-group for the new song, “Eris Rise” which ended with the New Year countdown. The lyrics proclaimed the Rising of Eris in the Eastern Skies, the sudden and unexpected end of the Age of Aquarius and the Dawning of the Age of Discord (sorry for the Caps, but every time I try to write them lowercase, something burns my fingertips, so I’m just going to do what’s least painful and call it even). All of this seemed so suitable for Sean’s taste that many were disappointed he had missed it, but then the idea that he had been missing anything was squelched by what we all witnessed next.

There was a loud yelling of an hysterical woman, followed by peals of laughter, a man’s laughter, Sean’s laughter. In through the back door, completely naked, appearing crazed and oblivious to everyone around them, they burst with Lilly in the lead, reading loudly from a small pamphlet.

“Men who are rational, however, won't kick or struggle or raise a distressing fuss, but will just sit back, relax, enjoy the show and RIDE THE WAVES OF THEIR DEMISE. AH HA HA HA!"

She was standing on a table now and just as I got a glimpse of what the pamphlet said, “SCUM”, Sean leaped on her like a leopard toppling her delicate form to the floor and proceeding to fornicate in front of everyone. They were enraptured, completely delirious beasts devouring each other in public. Many guests were repulsed by the scene and moved to the smoking room or simply left the party. Others, the more perverse (which, of course, was most of us), stayed to watch the scene. It was at once horrific and nasty, like an open wound, but in the same sense, nearly impossible to turn away from. They saved us the effort, however, by running off giddily to room after room.

In the smoking room, where many people had sought refuge from the tempest of these lunatic’s passions, Lilly and Sean found their champagne bottles (left there earlier in the evening), which they proceeded to shake and shake and shake. Mostly everyone had left, but Dr. Gross stayed to witness a hilarious scene which he related to me later: When the second bottle of champagne was opened, Lilly’s, the cork flew up and shattered the light bulb, both bottles were dropped and mad fornication continued. To put it bluntly, they were fucking in a puddle of champagne and glass, which soon became pink with the blood from multiple tiny cuts now covering both their bodies. Apparantly, at one point they were both spooning each other and mumbling/humming cryptic lyrics. Dr. Gross took the opportunity to harness this moment by repeating a line from “We are the World” several times in Sean’s ear until he began to sing it in his daze:

“When you’re down and out and you feel no hope at all…”

Dr. Gross noted that this was not exactly the line that Michael Jackson had sung on the original recording, but you can’t exactly get a madman in the rapture of absinthe and passion to get a line right. “Recording beggars can’t be choosers,” he remarked.

After this the animalistic lovers once again chased each other up the stairs of the main hall back to the observatory. They locked the door behind them and stayed in there for 16 days. For the first three days horrendous grunts, growls, howls, and yelps came from behind that door, during which most of the guests left, at least two-thirds of them. Then it went quiet and for the next 13 days, there was no sound. Lamia Bruja insisted that everyone simply enjoy the hospitality of the wait staff, and leave Lilly and Sean alone, but of course, Denty, Chach von Chach, Martha, Darby, and myself could not resist putting our ears against that door. I mean, shit, they could have been dead for all we knew. Lamia’s super-secrecy was grating on all of us. I think Chach von Chach was ready to blast her out the window with his pump shotgun and blow the lock off the door at that point. We waited and waited and waited. Eventually the only people in the manor besides Lilly and Sean were the four of us and Lamia Bruja. It became simultaneously dull and paranoid. Chach von Chach and I were almost certain Sean was dead while Darby had days of optimism and days of horrible pessimism. Denty seemed almost as removed and secretive as Lamia occasionally making cryptic hints that “the prophecy was being fulfilled…” I found these comments to be incredibly aggravating. At one point I thought I might jump up and choke Sean’s adopted brother, with that goddamned fascist-looking get-up, when Chach von Chach did the deed for me, almost. He just pulled out his .44 and pressed it right against Denty Creep’s forehead.

“Do you want to play Russian Roulette, you fucking traitor?” Now he REALLY looked like DeNiro in Deerhunter. “If Sean doesn’t make it out of that room, I’ll blow your fucking brains out, Denty.”

He slipped the gun back into the holster. Denty grinned slightly, but it didn’t mask the fact that he was genuinely scared. Denty and Darby did a lot of playing it cool, but you could still shake them up just like anybody.

At one in the morning on January 17th, the doors opened. The two ravaged, ripped, shaking forms came out and we all stared at them from the bottom of the stairs. They were no longer naked, but were wearing, old faded wedding outfits. Sean began to lean forward, someone behind me shouted, Lilly fainted and fell back, and Sean toppled over, tumbling brutally down two flights of marble stairs. The ragged bride in a heap at the top, the ragged groom in a bloodier heap at the bottom.

This didn’t kill Sean Magee. After all, he’s never missed his own birthday and there’s one thing I’ll say for the guy: He loves his birthday.