Blame It On Serge: Requiem For A Jerk

FIN

Screen fades to black.

(Credits role.)

Vincent Cassel as                                                                                        Jacques Mesrine

Vincent Cassel as                                                                                                               Vinz

Monica Bellucci as                                                                                                              Lisa 

Catherine Deneuve as                                                      Séverine Serizy/ Belle De Jour

Eric Elmosnino as                                                                                    Serge Gainsbourg

Laetitia Casta as                                                                                          Bridgitte Bardot 

Anna Mouglalis as                                                                                           Juliette Gréco

Anna Mouglalis as                                                                                              Coco Chanel

Jean-Paul Belmondo as                                                                             Michel Poiccard 

Juliette Binoche as                                                                                                          Elise

Romain Duris as                                                                                                            Pierre

Gérard Depardieu as                                                                                                     Guido

The last note of Les amours perdues fades out. I sit for moment in silence at the DVD kicks back to the main menu. I switch off the television, and reflect. The clock reads 1:07am. I lock up the house, and proceed upstairs to my room. I hit the lights, scramble around for my headphones, scroll down to ‘Serge’ on itunes and hit play - Requiem Por Un con – That should set the mood just right. I’ve successfully managed to stay lost in the world created by one of the half dozen French films I’ve watched over the past couple of weeks.

“Monsieur, monsieur?” says the imagined concierge standing across the desk from me, “do you wish to check out of this fantasy?” "No merci", I reply, “another bottle of le chateau Toulon six huit. and vite vite monsieur. Vite vite.”

I start to fantasize about what my life could be. How my life should be. Why couldn’t I or shouldn’t I live a life as chic! as tragique! as hédonistique! as the likes of Serge Gainsbourg or Vincent Cassel. The modern day equivalent of Bridgitte Bardot is just waiting for my warm embrace. With a little tinkering to my everyday goings on I could become the next Serge Gainsbourg. Bar the fact that I can’t play the piano, paint, speak French or write paradigm-shifting lyrics I’m almost there. These are just mere speed bumps on my way to having a scandalous love affair with Mrs. Bruni. 

I imagine myself five years down the line, standing on a small fire escape balcony, in the bohemian quarter of Paris, sucking on the remains of the cigarette, reflective, as I observe the chaotic street scenes below. Hysterical cackling and the sounds of les flics disrupt the silence of night as un con chases another into the darkness. Inside incense mixes with the smell of burnt tobacco and expensive perfume.  A Smith Corona deluxe sits at my desk, next to a half completed manuscript. Remnants of hash and papers lie strewn across the small coffee table, which holds on top of it a bottle of cognac and couple of bottles of uncorked red. A record collection with enough serotonin to kill the likes of Lester Bangs, clings for dear life to the shelf above my bed, on the verge of collapse.

“Come back to bed my love” says the beautiful Amber Heard. I turn around the face her. Her gorgeous, naked body lies entwined in a sea of white Egyptian cotton sheets (thread count 1500). Rolling over she notices something under my pillow. She reaches under and pulls out a revolver. “What’s this?” She asks, terror running across her angelic face. I grab the gun from her, spin the cylinder and bring the barrel to my temple.

“Oh god, what are you doing?” I cock the hammer back.

“No! No!”

CLICK! I start to laugh.

“Oh my god, asshole!” She hits me with a pillow.

Shock still in her eyes, “Is it loaded?!” She looks inside the guns cylinder and sees five bullets in the chambers. She gasps. “You’re crazy!” And tackles me back onto the bed. We continue to make love for the rest of the night. That is until tragedy strikes….

The headline reads:

COUPLE DIES UNDER A TIDAL WAVE OF GREAT MUSIC

Better still…

UNE VIE TRAGIQUE

2016-05-20 17:18

Neil Solomon was pronounced dead today in his small apartment in Montparnasse. Paramedics conclude the cause of death was exhaustion from a seventeen hour-long orgy with eighteen runway models.

Neighbors alerted police when the cacophonic sounds of orgiastic delights were replaced by mournful sighs and wailing. On arrival Inspector Depardieu found eighteen scantily clad women scattered around the apartment in various stages of mourning.

One model, (who preferred not to be named), sobbed uncontrollably as she recounted the events: “We had just finished Jean Paul’s (Gaultier) show. Neil had invited us all back to his apartment for some drinks. Seventeen hours later and…. this. I’m sorry I need, I can’t…”

Another said, “It’s so sad. C’est tragique. I was number eighteen. You understand? I was eighteen! I never got the chance to… I’m sorry, I need… I can’t…”

Informed over the phone of the tragedy, Neil’s father, Peter Solomon, asked as to how his son had died? “He died of over sex exhaustion monsieur. A seventeen-hour ‘session’ with eighteen… well, very desirable women.”

“That’s my boy!” responded his father in an eerily optimistic tone and promptly hung up.

Tributes flew in from across the world. Canal Plus have already optioned the script to his biopic, (suspiciously written by the deceased). It’s said to star Vincent Cassel and Amber Heard. 

By Anonymous

But perhaps prophecies cooked up at 2:43am are no sure path towards clairvoyance. The following morning I wake up tired and alone. No Bridgitte in sight to spoon with. No Alizée to caress. Later I find myself scrolling through the channels stopping on Seinfeld. It soon occurs to me that I have more in common with George Castanza than Serge Gainsbourg. I’m unemployed, I live with my parents and I guess a receding hairline is not entirely out of the equation.

My chief concern that day was to find helium for a remote controlled floating shark while Serge lies in bed making Bridgitte the Bonnie to his Clyde.

This has always been my problem. Delusions of grandeur verging on pure solipsism. The inability to distinguish the difference between fantastical European films and my own life. But so what? We’ve all at one stage or another imagined our lives as one big epic film, starring ourselves in the lead role. These delusions of grandeur are necessary. Its what lets us escape from our mundane existences, whether it be for three minutes, or three hours. It lets us believe that we’re a little more exciting then our day-to-day lives suggest. 

Alas, the time is now 3:07 am. Tomorrow I begin my path towards ‘chic’dom. I’ll rid myself of all forms of technology. Begin an epic vinyl collection. Take up smoking two packs a day, drinking three bottles of wine, embrace a life of hedonism and get off all forms of social networking. After all, no one checks-in (online) at the Chateau Marmont despite what The Eagles might have you believe.

And as I become increasingly more pretentious, trapped in my own self-delusion don’t pass judgment or blame me. Blame it on summer nights in November. Blame it on French New Wave Cinema, on Bardot, on Gréco, on Cassel or Serge. After all, this is a requiem pour un con.

Breaking Up With A City

Dear Fellow Burners,

The five stages of grief read like the last few months of my life. These stages are: denial, anger, bargaining*, depression, and acceptance. What’s worse is I haven’t quite reached acceptance yet. I’m still wallowing in the depression phase of it all with brief interludes of extreme highs, disguised as denial. In fact, I’ve been in denial so long that I’ve had to skip past anger, done a little bargaining in the form of booking a trip to New York, and now I find myself wallowing in a black hole of depression. I guess the only consolation -the light at the end of the Holland tunnel if you will - is that thing called ‘acceptance,’ not to be mistaken with New Jersey. Being that as it may, due to city wide power outages, (#3rdWorldProblems), the light is currently not working and I find myself stumbling along in the dark, with no direction home.

There being no light I spend most of my days living in some empty nostalgic haze dreaming of what once was. Baz Lurhman said in that ‘Sun Screen’ song that nostalgia is a way of fishing away the past from the disposal, whipping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more then its worth. Or was the advice? Either way, New York and my two-year love affair with her, didn’t really have too many ugly parts. Oh sure, she’s got her problems. Garbage bag aromas on a stinking hot day in August that manages to ruin that perfect Marilyn Monroe moment, as some unsuspecting beauty steps over a subway grid; the fire engine catching you off guard as it blasts its horn into your ear, causing your head and heart to throb like an obese woman caught in a lasso; the jerk who jumps in front of you to steal your cab on a freezing January night; February in general; Wall street preppy’s; the tattooed up hipster in your local coffee shop who insists on playing Regina Spektor all day – I know she’s quirky and so are you. We get it! Now return to your old school game boy strapped around your neck, and throw something on the speakers that doesn’t resemble your non-prescription glasses or ironic moustache. (Oops there’s some of that anger).

But for me our time together was just mostly good. Free comedy shows with Zach Galifianakis; watching The Dude abide on the Brooklyn promenade with a lit up Manhattan skyline in the background; Method Man crowd surfing; Julian Casablancas crowd surfing; The Gorillaz at MSG; The Black Keys at a ‘secret location’; James Blake in Williamsburg; Woody Allen films on opening weekend; The Yankees in the Bronx; supporting Spain in a German beer garden; Halloween; Halloween again; Santacon; Christmas and a desperate, yet ultimately feeble attempt, to find small town girls in fur boots, huddled around a roaring fire, with whiskey filled coco and an inviting smile; joy riding around the city in a coupe; The Frying Pan on a sunny weekend evening; conversations with ‘pizza’ girl; watching an ‘ex-cheer leader’ demonstrate her ‘skills’ in a closed off Thompson’s Square Park; Boom Bar; the girl that got away at Boom Bar; cheering on Luis Goodman as he makes his way down St Marks; Hurricane Clemze; Sasha visits; Emma visits; screening my thesis to a bunch of strangers and some friends; porn star conversations; singing ‘Where The Streets Have No Name’ on an empty Wall Street without even a hint of irony; Summerstage; being ‘caught out’ at the Standard; The Standard Beer Garden; dinner and breakfast with the face of Africa (thanks pops); Ludlow street; rooftop bars; Chelsea market; fake plastic trees on fake plastic beaches; pub crawling with the rugby team; the return of Lauren Hill; Wu Tang, Wu tang,  the list goes on and on. 

Like any relationship there are far too many memories to recount them all into something manageable. But it’s never the big events that one remembers most. It’s those moments in between. Life is what happens when you’re making plans. Closing a restaurant over shallow or heavy dinner conversations; watching the city being reduced to a small town by massive snow storms and the snowball fights that ensue; walking home on a Friday evening, ipod in hand, a cold beer or whiskey waiting for you when you get back; the first bite into a chipotle burrito, (never did get to the last); sitting in a plunge pool on a mates roof; bike rides up the Hudson; sitting on 2 Gold rooftop talking shit; watching the boats go up and down the Hudson as Lady Liberty gives you a cheeky wink; dolphin taming and dolphin training conversations; mancunian swagger; retelling stories of the previous night with old pals on couches, while you slug back a couple of myprodols and prepare yourself for another adventure filled day; brunch by yourself; brunch with friends; people watching at BUA; people watching in general; meeting some of the craziest, coolest, most full of shit people I’ve ever come across,  MOMA days and nights; beer pong; flip cup; flip pong; the Manhattan skyline; having an accent – “Why yes I do have an accent and yes I suppose it is kind of enduring the way I use words like ‘inconvenient’ and ‘howzit’. By Jove look at the time. Best be putting the kettle on the boil. I’m yearning for a fresh cuppa. Freshen your drink guvna? Howzit bru. Your place or mine?”

I encounter these memories on a daily basis all of which seem to come flooding back on some idle week night. I’m tempted to text New York. Send her inappropriate messages that I’ll end up regretting in the morning and sometimes I do. The only consolation is that one day I won’t get horribly drunk, stumble into New York again in some dive bar, and make an ass of myself, saying, “Look at me now New York. Look at what I’ve become. I’ve found a new woman, that’s better then you. She has more fire, more excitement, more charisma then you’ve ever had. Her names Wanda.  Rrrrrraaaaa wanda to you!”

But I guess I’m slowly coming to terms with the ultimate burn. New York was never mine to begin with, even though she made me feel that way. The moment I stepped off the tarmac she’d moved on. She’d already made plans for that night and weekend ahead. Cavorting with her many other lovers. Slut! But I guess that’s why I was attracted to her in the first place. I’m always been attracted to ‘free spirited women’ I can’t have…  

And while I still refuse to accept that we don’t ultimately belong together I’m not going to revert to anger. There’s nothing to be angry about. New York City and the people in it have given me the best years of my life. How could I be angry with someone like that? She might have moved on a little, her inhabitants changed, her tastes evolved, but her glorious, imperfect, edifices remain and will for some time. Her intoxicating energy will endure through thick and thin, and one day I shall return to continue my love affair with the city that’s given me all of her greatness and then some. 

Wait, I think I see a light….

*Bargaining refers to: trying to establish a new relationship. This usually involves trying to be friends with your ex which generally doesn't work out. 

The Deep Burn - Gym

Note: This post might make more sense if you have seen the music video to System Of A Down's "Chop Seuy" - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CSvFpBOe8eY

Dear Fellow Burners

Recently I started attending the gym located at the bottom of our building. And with each visit something unexplainable happens to me. As I enter that cold dark arena of grunting, snorting and all around male bravado an unknown aggression inside me builds. The sound of metal clunking together, the sight of teeth gnashing. Crazed beasts marching up and down, ipods in hand, chests puffed out, only broken by the sight of a couple of girls jogging effortlessly on treadmills in the background. Their bosoms rolling like vast swells in a violent ocean. Its impossible not to notice them as mirrors surround you in every direction you look. As a result you unconsciously find yourself competing for their approval

In the mist of all of this the atmosphere could only be described as ‘tense.’ So much so that at any moment all hell could break loose kicking off into some sort of chaotic mosh pit reminiscent of a Metallica concert or the video for System Of A Down’s ‘Chop Seuy’*.

On one such occasion I founded myself more aggravated then most. I’d already made a dismal attempt at the bench press. Now to move on to curls. I walked over to the weight shelf, eyes down, trying to keep my feelings of angst toward my fellow ‘gymers’ to a minimum. 17.5 will do just fine for curls today. The Japanese version of Hercules stepped up next to me. We glanced at each other. He looked down at the 17.5’s smirking arrogantly. I wanted to knock his head off right then and there, but in my heart of hearts I knew I didn’t stand much of a chance against this pumped up bastard. Move along you sonofabitch, I thought. Go do some stretching. Yeah that’s right. Run along. Amber on the treadmill was now in clear view so naturally I skipped over the 17.5’s and moved straight to the 35’s. Way above what I am capable of lifting, but I got caught up in the moment. I struggled over to the only free bench located in amongst the ‘chamber of mirrors.’ Japandroid from earlier was sitting on the bench next to me. Great I thought. What exactly is he doing? Mocking me? Taunting me! He’s certainly not doing any 'gyming.' The desire to fight him grew stronger. I envisioned tearing off my Nike ‘dry fit’ shirt and in one brisk movement ripping his head off. Amber on the treadmill having seen my brute strength would wonder over, at which point we’d ravish each other right there on the bench.

Snap out of it I thought. Ignore these horrible urges. Just concentrate on the task at hand. Lifting a mountain of weights without shitting out your own intestines.

But still that bastard starred at me. He expected me to fail but by god man I wasn’t about to give up now. Not today. Amber on the treadmill will be mine. Oh yes, she will be mine.

All right that’s it. Get your back straight. Arms rigid. Looking good. Now easy does it… ‘Onnnnnneeeeeeee.’ That’s right baby. You’ve got this. ‘Spaniard, Spaniard, Spaniard. Channel Gladiator.’ “Tttttttwwwwooooo.” Almost there. My arm felt like it was going to snap at any moment but I kept my eyes on the prize. Eyes on the price? Who says that? Who am I?

“Threeee,” My face was slowly turning the color of a turnip. “Fouuuuur” Almost half way. “Fiiiiiiii” My right arm collapses under the weight, inciting laughter from Jerkulese who’d been watching all along.

Are you laughing at me? I said.

“What?” Replied Jerkulese.

“Yeah that’s right. You! You think I’m funny? You think this is a joke?

“Well…”

“Cause if you think for a second that the girl from 4501 likes you, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“What?” said Amber in astonishment, “how do you know where I live?”

“Whatever,” responded Jerkulese, “Amber’s been eyeing me out all week. Amber needs a real man. That can lift ‘real weights.’ Not a skinny boy like you.”

“How do you know my name?” asked a bemused Amber.

Ignoring her I responded, “Amber doesn’t need another beefcake. She needs a man with style. With intelligence. With substance.

“Oh really,” says Jerkulese, “and I suppose you’re the one to give it to her?” I rose up to meet the Goliath. We squared off like two cowboys in a dual. I could hear The Good, The Bad and the Ugly score whistling through my head. “Waaa, waaa, waaa”.

“What was that?” Said Jerkulese.

“You shut up!” I snapped, and with that I lurched at him. He elegantly moved to the right, sending me crashing into a giant inflatable stretch ball. I rebounded back off the ball as if in a wrestling ring, and hurtled towards him, arm out. “Close line. Bam!”

He lay helplessly on the cold ground. But I wasn’t done yet. An excitable crowd had built up around us, and I was going to give them what they wanted. I climbed up the weight shelf, standing on top of it, ready to jump onto the barely conscious Jerkulese.

“Jump” one shouted. “Crush him,” yelled another.. “Spaniard, Spaniard,” they began to chant. I looked around at the rows of gnashing teeth and clenched fists. What was I doing I thought. What had I become? I looked down at them with distain. “Are you entertained?” I asked them. “Is this not why you are here?” There was much grunting but no discernable response. I leapt forward. There was a hush as I flew through the air. I came crashing down next to Jerkulese's lame body with a thud. Fortunately a mat was there to cushion my fall. The crowd sighed, disappointed by my change of heart. I got up and offered out a hand of support, “Let me help you up my friend.”

He smirked and kicked violently at my ankles. I went tumbling down. Jerkules jumped up, rising over me. “Finish him” they cried. His fist came down like a hammer hurtling towards my face. I moved out of the way just in time, grabbed him in a headlock and in one brisk movement sent a knife slicing through his well-groomed ponytail.

“Last Samurai my ass” I said, holding up the loose ponytail in triumph.

There was a moment of silence. A look of pure disbelief swept over the crowd as the ponytail swayed in my hand.

“Well, that’s incredibly racist,” said one onlooker.

“He’s not even Japanese!” said another.

“Where did he get the knife?” inquired a third.

What have I become, I thought. Dear God what is this place turning me into. “You have disgraced yourself and your family,” said Jerkulese. I looked around at the sweaty men, judging me. “Its this gym.” I said, “These weights. All this testosterone clogging up the air. It’s messing with my head.” I broke down onto the ground, looking up to the heavens in despair.

“Father,” I sang, “why have you forsaken me? In your eyes forsaken me, in your thoughts forsaken me.” Jerkulese looked at me with pity, seeing the utter despair in my eyes. He dropped to one knee and joined in, “in your heart forsaken me”. All the men inspired by this moment of camaraderie embraced. Like a choir, we looked up the heavens and sang the chorus to Chop Seuy, “trust in our self righteous suicide, weeee cry when angels deserve to die, in our self righteous suicide. We cry, when angels deserve to die.”

There was an eerie, silence as twenty or so sweaty men, arm in arm stared toward the ceiling waiting for some kind of divine revelation but nothing came.

Eventually the door to the gym opened and in came a vision far more inspiring then an angel. The girl from 3604, clad in light blue hot pants and a white tank top. Men broke off quickly so as not to appear awkward, returning to their gym equipment with gusto. Much grunting and snorting ensued.   

“She looks like fun ey?” I said to my disheveled looking comrade.

“She’s mine you son of a bitch”

I looked down, clenching my fists in rage, and made for the showers.

End