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| I AM THE PRINCE OF PERSIA
FUCK JAKE GYLLENHAAL
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| There I am, an American among so many royal styles, holding someone else's champagne flute, not moving a goddamn muscle. They have me in these close-fitting jodhpurs that "pronounce" my powerful "hindquarters" quite "delightfully," the Duke's niece tells me with a coltish buck of her hips against my ass. That wascally wabbit! I think as I fumble to maintain the expressionless smile of polite society.
Later on in the banquet hall she interrupts a longwinded anecdote rivaling even some of the most tangential expositions of Gravity's Rainbow to excuse herself and slithers right down under the table. The Duke, meanwhile, just goes on with his imperturbable reminiscence. A minute later I feel her hands grab me from beneath the tablecloth. Ohhh boy. I know where this is going--instant hard-on! But, but the Duke...and his guests...and the banquet...and, and!
Well. She's salivating like one of Pavlov's hounds so that she has to slurp, quite loudly, to keep everything nice and tidy down there, I'm cutting my bloody slice of prime rib to pieces, and the Duke still hasn't gotten to the point, when all of a sudden a rampaging Tiger tank busts down the East wall, bringing its 88mm gun around to bear right down at me while Storm Troopers flood the hall carrying MP40s. OK, I guess it's World War II.
"Seine Penis ist der Schlüssel!" The Kommandant emits with thunderous furor, which I inexplicably understand means my penis is the key--the key to what?--"DER FÜHRER WÜNSCHT SEINE PENIS," the Führer wants my penis? OH SHIT. A hand seizes me by the wrist from out of the ensuing disorder and moreso than flee it feels like we--myself and this mysterious interloper--tumble madly through a disorienting series of impossibly long corridors, secret passageways, and winding staircases, Nazis in full pursuit...
Before I know it a burst of absolute white engulfs us, and no longer able to discern whether we're running down some sort of passage or falling down it, I suddenly find myself rolling over a gentle slope of soft turf in the arms of a beautiful Indian princess. I grab the streaming edge of her sari and start unwrapping...but soon find the length of the cloth extends beyond reason and probability. After some amount of time and still no end to it, I give up and wander off.
But then there's that Kommandant again, brandishing a shiny new P38 pistol. Well you, you got me, Kommandant. As I strain to muster enough nerve to face my demise like a man he levels the pistol at my heart, and "Oh! Wahnsinnstitten!" There my Indian princess comes, naked as a woodland creature and good golly the tits I had no idea!
She gets between the Kommandant and myself, arms thrown wide to receive me, face full of grievous ecstasy, and...oh no. Takes the bullet that was meant for me. Fuck this noise! I bolt out of there and hail down a taxi--anywhere but here, cabby--and we're off, the Kommandant standing there helplessly in the dust of our getaway. I fall back into the seat in relief and catch the cabby staring at me in the rearview mirror.
Well hello there, gorgeous. I'm just about to give her the 'ol sly wink when she makes a hard right turn, tossing me head-over-ass. We've pulled into the parking lot of some roadside motel with a blinking neon sign and a second later she's dragging me out by the scruff, this leggy brunette with a bob cut and finger curls, and an aggressive streak as wide as the English Channel. Into Room 16 we go, undoing buttons and clasps, displacing furniture, and tripping over our shed clothing.
Grasping me by the hair she descends to the bed. But that irresistible smoldering in her eyes seems suddenly to precipitate into something else...something terrifying: "Essen mein Geschlecht, Schlüsselhalter!" She pulls my face down and drives her shuddering quim up to meet it at the same time, which would have broken my nose had I not turned at the final moment before absolute, labial, blackout. As her wetness lubricates the side of my face I make out in mounting waves of horror, there on her garter clip, a Swastika--
And then I wake up.
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| If America is the parabolic apex of the screaming V-2 rocket that is Western Civilization, then California is ground zero. A pair of writers drink Wild Turkey out of the trunk of a car and in a rare moment without self-consciousness both look up at the night sky, glowing with the noxious lux of 62,000 sodium-vapor streetlights. They're more aware than most of that Big Picture in the sky--as transplanted New Yorker in one case and writer of sprawling Maximalist tendencies in the other, but most of all as hapless schlemiels in the Bay Area's often disorienting and always phantasmagorical dating scene--that cosmic symbolism, if you will, of the Golden State (though they don't believe in symbolism). At the end of a daisy-chain of empty and ill-fated romantic entanglements one finds himself at a loss except to go on with his Wayward amblings while the other succumbs to daily renewals of destructive Desire...They carry on, not led by Fate but not sure they're clever enough to outsmart California either. They carry on while an Era, a Mindset, a Feeling--Everything ends. Just a part of the Insanity. Just looking for their women. This is...Love in the time of the Apocalypse. That's California, baby. I fucking love this place.
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