(Untitled)
My dearest darling readers of savvygambols who have been with me through thick and thin, through Carl/Thom Yorke and Alex Turner/Jarvis Cocker. Changes are no good. But maybe these changes won't be too bad.
-Everything on savvygambols is now public ( Read more... )
-Everything on savvygambols is now public ( Read more... )
“I don’t,” said Carl.
And he went back to searching for his whisky, day five of an end-of-American-tour-celebration, day five of a socially-acceptable-(for a rockstar)-drunken-stupor, day five of a record-breaking Carl’s-an-asshole-streak. Timmy couldn’t believe anyone could stay drunk for that long but here he was in Carl’s hotel room, watching Carl phase in and out of consciousness, always, always, coming to just as Timmy decided to leave, once and for all. Not that the rest of the band were any better off. Didz was passed out in the adjoining room, naked for reasons Timmy couldn’t ascertain. Anthony had been missing for two days now, and Gary had flown home with Josh. The two were, by all accounts, ravaging Hull with the rest of the Paddingtons.
“Seriously Tim, have you seen my whisky?” asked Carl. “Fucking. . .I can’t find it.”
“Maybe you left it in the other room,” said Tim who’d been up for 72 hours without sleep and was decidedly not drunk. Anymore.
“Why the fuck are you still here?” asked Carl, shaking as he stood to go to the other room. Tim got up the bed and assisted his friend to the other room. Carl went on, growing crueler by the step. “Why are you. . .you don’t give a. . .I’m not yours. You don’t belong to me.”
“Shut up Carlos,” said Tim, guiding Carl to the bed next to Didz’s limp form.
“You don’t know me,” insisted Carl. “You bastard, you. . . done fucking nothing. Useless like someone’s grandmother. . .”
Timmy helped Carl pull off his shirt, socks, and trousers.
“You’re not Peter,” Carl said, climbing under the covers, next to Didz. Timmy pulled up the blanket to their chins. “I don’t love you one bit.”
Timmy brushed the hair off of Carl’s forehead. “Cunt,” he said, but Carl had already passed out.
Later that night, he ended up in some trendy bar nearby, filled to overflowing with boys and their skinny jeans, sidekicks, gratuitous eyeliner, greasy hair. He was decades older then most of these young men, older still in his buttoned-up shirt, lilting British accent, and a request for a scotch.
“Jesus Christ,” said a young man sitting on his left. “People still drink scotch?” And Timmy just looked him and drowned the shot.
“I don’t drink,” said the young man. “It gets out of control. You get out of control. You know?”
Timmy was torn between telling the boy to fuck off and asking him why he was in a bar if he didn’t drink. He ended up with “I’ve been up for three days and drunk for two of them, my best friend just passed out in a hotel bed next to his naked bassist, telling me I’m a useless sack of shit and someone’s old grandmother.”
“Are you in a band?” said the young man sympathetically. “I am too. It fucking sucks, doesn’t it? My band is full of bastards. But I still love them.”
“He’s not in my band,” said Timmy, “and I’m in love with him. He’s a drunken buffoon.”
“Ever been to Chicago?” said the young man. “Your problems sound like my scene.”
Timmy smirked, “I’m too old for you kid.”
“Not me,” said the young man. “I’m taken. But you sound like you could use a break from this shithole of a city.” He put his hand out. “Chicago pisses all over this place. LA sucks.”
Timmy shook the young man’s hand. He liked him already. “Tim Burgess.”
“Pete Wentz. But you can call me Pete.”
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