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Who is Jeff Goldblum?What. . . is Jeff Goldblum?
This past week I set out to answer these questions, but there's very little to be found about him on the internet. Jeff Goldblum is very much like a ghost; whenever celebrities start dying off, Jeff Goldblum gets thrown into the mix, like some hopeful journalist out there thinks that if he writes of Jeff's death, it'll come true. For a while there, before its confirmed that he's still alive, Jeff walks around just like a ghost, he walks around and nobody cares, he saunters this away and that, unnoticed and given not even the slightest bit of eye contact. But then the news report comes in he's still alive, and then they say oh, he survived, he's alright he's alright, so Jeff goes on walking and he's not a ghost anymore but still nobody cares, still nobody notices him; not even a look.
Those who do notice him are almost like the kid in The Sixth Sense, they can see dead people, but to see Jeff requires a greater and more finite instrument - The Seventh Sense.
Lack of information left me with only one choice, one which I dreaded. I would have to fly out to Pennsylvania.Even now I glance back on the notes of that wretched flight... This was hardly a vacation.
Fuck I hate airplanes. Sitting next to an aging old woman who won't stop expelling mustard gas. She expels it and doesn't say a god damn thing, like she doesn't even notice the smell that burns nose hairs, they're probably gone from years of expelling. Wonder what she ate. Maybe this plane food. Little kid won't stop kicking my seat. Fuck I hate airplanes. Sisterhood of The Traveling Pants is the only on-flight movie. Fuck I hate airplanes. Some baby is screaming. Fuck I hate airplanes. Fuck I hate airplanes - can't even get shitfaced. 2 drink limit. . . 2 drink limit. . . Looking at Pennsylvania below, from 20,000 feet it aint bad, but soon I'll be ground level in that shit. . . "in the shit." 20,000 feet - maybe a gremlin will come and kill us all, or maybe just me - I deserve it for coming here. . . but gambling is legalized - they say so, they say a lot of things, lots of rambling, lots of pointless conversations, I'm surrounded by em - people who love to talk but have nothing to say. . . Fuck I hate airplanes. Its just unfair. Ear pops and crying babies as we begin a gradual decent to land - should get use to the sound, Goldblum's voice is just as annoying. Flight attendant - blond - gone - ready to spawn -
When I got off the flight there he was, Jeff Goldblum, standing as inconspicuous as ever, even though he was standing amongst a crowd of limo drivers and teary eyed relatives waiting for the sight of their kin so they could start all the crying and hugs and kisses. Even though he's an actor and Broadway star - no, no attention given to Jeff Goldblum.
I was beginning to think he really was a ghost.
"Jeff?"
"In the flesh!" He laughed. "Isn't it great! Yes, uh... umm.. yes... Wait, I'm going to uh... disappear... and uh materialize. . . and uhh. reappear over there. . . Well uh yes. . .uhhh. . . umm" He started to ramble, a thing he did to make it appear like he had a great deal of wonderful intellectual things he was trying to say, but first he had to formulate it in his mind and make it simple enough for you, the dumb simple minded listener to understand. . . The truth was his mind was a jig saw puzzle of odds and ends of different shapes and sizes so strange it took him awhile to put all the pieces together and form them into thoughts and in turn sentences. He'd have these odd moments where he'd ramble and you could see him thinking, you could see the words trying to come to him, and they'd come out like he literally had to cough them up. When he did, it was always some strange idea, or plan, or random thought that managed to work its way out of him. I stop him before he starts, and we leave and drive sixty miles to his home, I took notes the whole time.
He seems to drive the quickest through the warehouse districts and construction zones - a certain disdain for the working man peeks its way through sometimes when he talks. He talks he talks he talks he talks. He does a lot of talking. His house is the biggest most ostentatious one on the block. He's eying me as I write this. Through the gate and up his drive way. Sloping lawns on both sides. Gardeners tend to them, they ignore Goldblum - they must not have the seventh sense. He's yammering again - something about aliens and independence day - Will Smith and the like. Up to the doors of his rotten house, I step through and my face goes blank. Its cold... suffocating. Who is this ugly bat staring at me?
"Ahh honey hello!" He went to kiss her but she moved forward and never looked at him. "Josh. . . this is my wife."
"Who are you?" She asked, like she didn't even hear him.
"A guest of Goldblum's. . . surely you heard. . ."
"Oh another one of you loonies. . ." She sighed. "I never know what to do with your kind. Well do what you must, look around, just leave me alone." She said, and then walked off, disappearing somewhere into the bowels of the house.
I looked to him for an answer, he started stumbling his words and laughing nervously.
"Well uhh. . . umm. . . you see I'm not home much. We uhhh don't get. . . along." And that was that, he showed me around his house, pointing at this and that, with particular devotion spent to an old ugly oil painting of his father he kept over the mantel piece. He suggested I write it down, describe it in detail, and then he went on a long story about the man, long and slow, and frustrating. At times I thought to slap him, to just tell him to "Get on with it already!" but I let him talk. I let him talk because I'm use to having to listen to people go on about stupid boring things - sometimes there's nothing you can do to stop them, you've just got to wait it out, like a rain shower of quarter sized rain droplets that shows up uninvited on a clear day and you've got no cover. Their words are the rain droplets and they just shower over you, they baptize you in everything that is them, in everything that bothers you about them, and there's nothing you can do to get a way - you could walk away but the cloud would just follow you - no sir, you just got to wait it out.
So I waited it out and it rained retardation till dinner rolled around. We sat at the dining room table, one which could seat 30 people easily, and Goldblum took to immediately bragging about the suaires he would hold in this room. "Uhh. . . girls. . . uhh. . . whiskey, balloons, balloons, uhhh elephant rides. . . I'm going to uh. . . disappear, right, and then uhh materialize, right, by reapearring over there." He always had a way of repeating himself - it was almost like he wished it were true, its almost like he wanted to be transparent, to be able to disappear, and although he never vanished right before my eyes, he may as well have been invisible, judging by the way people ignored him so. "Uhh. . . uhh. . ." I took to waiting it out again, Goldblum took to raining again, with more stories and "hilarious anecdotes" not even he found all that funny. An hour went by and no food came, there was no smell of it, no sounds in the kitchen, no trace of a meal anywhere.
"Uhhh. . . . Hello?" He called out. No answer. "Hello?" No answer. "Uhhh Hello?" No answer. "Hmm well uhhh it seems I've been away so long, uhhh everyone seems to have forgotten that dinner. . . uh, uh, is at eight." He went to investigate dinner, but there was no one around, no chef on duty, he couldn't even find his wife. "Uhhh. . . it seems we've. . . been forgotten." He apologized, he seemed downright embarrassed. He tried to cheer me up with some of his music, something which he claimed was expression at its finest:
I was cheered up, but I'm sure for none of the reasons he intended.
The next day, breakfast was much the same - there was none. It was quite clear that he was even a ghost in his own home. The maid ignored him, but eyed me like she thought at any moment I would snatch up some retarded Goldblum artifact and make a run for it, which is quite ludicrous - I hate running. His wife was nowhere to be found. His home was an empty shell that echoed when you would talk - it didn't seem lived in.
"So uhh. . . maybe you should interview me. . . thats the whole point of all of, uh, this. . . right?"
"Don't you think its strange all these people not acknowledging you? Fame and fortune aside, your a human being, aren't yah? Don't all people deserve at least that - a little acknowledgment, every once in awhile?" I asked. The question made him laugh.
"Uhh. . . no . . . no. . . uh you see its like crystals. . . crystals, they're uh, amazing uh examples of. . . of. . . of the wonder of nature. . . and-"
"No." I cut him off. I was hardly in the mood for another stream of retardation disguised as something intellectual. "I mean, they don't even look at you, they don't say a thing. . . They don't say a thing and you just go on, unphased, like its the normalest thing. . . Even your wife didn't say anything when we came in, she looked at me like I wasn't welcomed, like I wasn't suppose to be here, man. Your maid gave me the same look - and the food - its been twice now that we've sat at this table and nothing came out - the kitchen didn't even have all the sounds of food being made. They didn't forget us. Its like you're a ghost, and walking around with you is making me feel like a ghost too, and I just don't like it. . . not one bit."
"A. . . ghost? A uh uh, uh disembodied spiritial being? An, uh, apparition?" His eyes darted back and forth, he was trying to process the word, to define it. "A Ghost. . . uh."
"You know all them months ago, when everybody was devastated with news of MJ passing, and then Faccet, well, you were grouped in with em too. You were reported dead for 4 whole hours, Jeff. . . But it was retracted, it was said you were ok, that you survived, just like you had all those other times, when the news came out false. . ."
"Survived. . ." He was reliving the event.
"But they were wrong this time Jeff. This time you didn't survive." He had turned milk-white, a wilting daisy. "Sometimes, ghost are just people who don't know they're dead, ones who just go on living. . ." I paused and eased the words out of my mouth. ". . . just like you."
"Just like. . . me. . ." He looked down and saw what I had already seen - his white shirt stained crimson. Blood poured out of his abdomen like the wound was fresh, made new. "So. . . that. . . that uh, prostitute, she really did. . . kill me." His eyes had glossed over, he looked more like a ghost than ever. "I remember her shooting. . . uh, the bullet. . . the white flame. . . dead. . . dead. . ." His eyes dropped. "But, uh, how?"
"You died, Jeff. But it all got mixed up. You didn't believe it, no one did. . . The newspapers have claimed you to be dead so many times before, and they were always wrong, you always just went on living - you survived the accident or weren't really in harms way at all. This time you really did die, but no one believed it, not even you, so you kept on living - a ghost. So people thought you survived but you didn't Jeff." He looked so cold. "You know what you must do. . . you must cross over Jeff. . ." (corny)
"I don't know. . . uh, if I believe you."
"I didn't believe it at first either Jeff. . . I thought everyone was ignoring you because you're lacking of talent and always seem to act like an ass. I figured it was because you're a Broadway star, and nobody really cares about Broadway, and that you haven't done anything prominent since those iMac commercials, which you did so long ago and are so forgettable. But it wasn't all that Jeff, you really are a ghost. . . I started to see it last night. . . "
"How can you see me?" He asked.
I paused, and looked up at him very intendly.
"The seventh sense." Pause. "They can't see you because they don't have it. . . I do. And that is why you must go. . . I'm sick of seeing you."
"I know. . ." He solemnly said. The room erupted with light, a blinding light from the "Heavens." "Pop?" Jeff looked into the light, and saw that old man he showed me the painting of. "I'm coming." He turned to me.
"Thanks." He said.
"No Jeff, thank you."
IN MEMORY OF JEFF GOLDBLUM. . . 10/22/52 - 6/22/09
iR
The next day, breakfast was much the same - there was none. It was quite clear that he was even a ghost in his own home. The maid ignored him, but eyed me like she thought at any moment I would snatch up some retarded Goldblum artifact and make a run for it, which is quite ludicrous - I hate running. His wife was nowhere to be found. His home was an empty shell that echoed when you would talk - it didn't seem lived in.
"So uhh. . . maybe you should interview me. . . thats the whole point of all of, uh, this. . . right?"
"Don't you think its strange all these people not acknowledging you? Fame and fortune aside, your a human being, aren't yah? Don't all people deserve at least that - a little acknowledgment, every once in awhile?" I asked. The question made him laugh.
"Uhh. . . no . . . no. . . uh you see its like crystals. . . crystals, they're uh, amazing uh examples of. . . of. . . of the wonder of nature. . . and-"
"No." I cut him off. I was hardly in the mood for another stream of retardation disguised as something intellectual. "I mean, they don't even look at you, they don't say a thing. . . They don't say a thing and you just go on, unphased, like its the normalest thing. . . Even your wife didn't say anything when we came in, she looked at me like I wasn't welcomed, like I wasn't suppose to be here, man. Your maid gave me the same look - and the food - its been twice now that we've sat at this table and nothing came out - the kitchen didn't even have all the sounds of food being made. They didn't forget us. Its like you're a ghost, and walking around with you is making me feel like a ghost too, and I just don't like it. . . not one bit."
"A. . . ghost? A uh uh, uh disembodied spiritial being? An, uh, apparition?" His eyes darted back and forth, he was trying to process the word, to define it. "A Ghost. . . uh."
"You know all them months ago, when everybody was devastated with news of MJ passing, and then Faccet, well, you were grouped in with em too. You were reported dead for 4 whole hours, Jeff. . . But it was retracted, it was said you were ok, that you survived, just like you had all those other times, when the news came out false. . ."
"Survived. . ." He was reliving the event.
"But they were wrong this time Jeff. This time you didn't survive." He had turned milk-white, a wilting daisy. "Sometimes, ghost are just people who don't know they're dead, ones who just go on living. . ." I paused and eased the words out of my mouth. ". . . just like you."
"Just like. . . me. . ." He looked down and saw what I had already seen - his white shirt stained crimson. Blood poured out of his abdomen like the wound was fresh, made new. "So. . . that. . . that uh, prostitute, she really did. . . kill me." His eyes had glossed over, he looked more like a ghost than ever. "I remember her shooting. . . uh, the bullet. . . the white flame. . . dead. . . dead. . ." His eyes dropped. "But, uh, how?"
"You died, Jeff. But it all got mixed up. You didn't believe it, no one did. . . The newspapers have claimed you to be dead so many times before, and they were always wrong, you always just went on living - you survived the accident or weren't really in harms way at all. This time you really did die, but no one believed it, not even you, so you kept on living - a ghost. So people thought you survived but you didn't Jeff." He looked so cold. "You know what you must do. . . you must cross over Jeff. . ." (corny)
"I don't know. . . uh, if I believe you."
"I didn't believe it at first either Jeff. . . I thought everyone was ignoring you because you're lacking of talent and always seem to act like an ass. I figured it was because you're a Broadway star, and nobody really cares about Broadway, and that you haven't done anything prominent since those iMac commercials, which you did so long ago and are so forgettable. But it wasn't all that Jeff, you really are a ghost. . . I started to see it last night. . . "
"How can you see me?" He asked.
I paused, and looked up at him very intendly.
"The seventh sense." Pause. "They can't see you because they don't have it. . . I do. And that is why you must go. . . I'm sick of seeing you."
"I know. . ." He solemnly said. The room erupted with light, a blinding light from the "Heavens." "Pop?" Jeff looked into the light, and saw that old man he showed me the painting of. "I'm coming." He turned to me.
"Thanks." He said.
"No Jeff, thank you."
IN MEMORY OF JEFF GOLDBLUM. . . 10/22/52 - 6/22/09
iR
Jeff Goldblum isn't dead, that was a rumor.
ReplyDeleteAgain, my blogs are works of gonzo journalism. Had you actually paid attention to my blog instead of coming on here to talk shit you would know that. You're looking kind of silly here.
DeleteHad my comments not bothered you, you wouldn't be here trying to hurt me with your comments have no basis whatsoever.
You're right. I apologize for overreacting and not reading the fine print.
DeleteHowever...I was actually pointing out that there was a Jeff Goldblum death rumor over the internet a long while back.