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The written word has been losing a long battle with other mediums since the invention of television and other institutions which require "less thought." Yet still, magazines thrive, as many people still enjoy them while waiting for the torture of dentistry, or the vain efforts of a hairdresser. It has always been a mild distraction, to be picked up in times of utter boredom--perhaps when the cellphone is out of battery life, or the institution being visited is void of any free wifi. Sure, many magazines have folded over the years, to be forgotten forever by everyone except for a few die-hards, but Rolling Stone has been the written gospel for many a pompous music fan, and High Times has been a porno mag for stoners all across the country for just over forty years. Quality has never been a precursor to whether or not a magazine survives, its all dumb luck and stupidity, a sort of survival in the coming waves of what is trendy and popular. People has survived under this distinction, and has for a long time been America's sort of secret, dirty obsession (beside torture, slavery, war, and robbing the poor).
In this light, People has been given the rather bullshit and unimportant task of naming The Sexiest Man Alive for many years, and during that time not a single scientist or working mind has been mentioned--only celebrities--the nonexistent and unimportant. Its obvious and understandable when one considers People only writes about celebrities, but when considering such an umbrella term as man, its just plain stupid. America's obsessions with these fools have been showcased over the years, and now it has finally turned ugly. . .
November 16, 2011
Sylvia Wormwood, aged twenty-eighty, sits at her kitchen table, with a legion of like minded followers surrounded around her in a ring of stupid. Their faces carry a shock and morbidity that would lead one to believe that they are looking at old LIFE photos of the Vietnam War, or the motorcycle hoodlum gang called Hell's Angels. But they aren't gazing at a story of any real importance, they're looking at People's latest distinction of The Sexiest Man Alive, and quite frankly, they're beside themselves with terror and hurt.
"Bradley Cooper?" Sylvia scoffs. "Really? Bradley Cooper?" She shakes her head as one of her friends, with less than an iron stomach evacuates the room to vomit. It sounds like her soul is being wretched out, and the smell of it proves she has quite an ugly soul indeed.
When her friend returns she finds everyone quiet, brooding. Though the sun is coming in yellow through a front window the Vomit Girl can no longer see the sunniness she once knew in all her friends. They seem grey. Sylvia seems black with darkness and shadow. Vomit Girl is concerned for the very air itself seems heavy, and every face she peers into seems heavy, and her legs feel heavy, and the clouds outside the window look heavy. Everything looks heavy. Heavy, heavy, heavy. So heavy she subconsciously mouths the word HEAVY. Something big is on the horizon.
"Well, we can write letters!" Vomit Girl blurts out, but no one seems to notice. She looks around at all the faces with her small head, with its small eyes and tiny nose like somebody pushed it in long ago and it just stuck. Her minute frame suddenly tries to be bigger than it is--a defense mechanism, her chest filling with air, the hands like tiny birds moving up to rest on her hips. An air of authority. "We can write emails!" she amends. "We can take to the power of the internet. Blast them with how wrong they are. Start a real smear campaign. With users and message boards and chat rooms and everything," she says, growing bigger with every word.
"Emails and message boards are for kids. . ." Sylvia replies. Vomit Girl deflates and steps back to hide behind the others. "Or for your loving local congressman light with the wind of an upcoming reelection. This is bigger than that."
"We can make a website!" Another of the group adds.
"No, Eve." Sylvia speaks quietly, as if to keep from going into a total rage. Her painted lips curl down at the corners, hinting at that rage, and the trembling of her hands show how hard she is trying to suppress it. "No, we must show our strength, our numbers." She rises up in front of the girls, speaking with the authority of a troop commander. "They must see us, physically. Not with emails or websites. Those are intangibles. They are nothing--nothing compared to people--to the flesh. Can a email scream? Can a website cry? Can a forum actually hurt? Can any of these things exist outside of the realm of the internet? Like real things? Hmm? We must organize, we must show our strength, our numbers," she repeats.
"I don't know. . ." Vomit girl says. She is worried. She knows what Sylvia could do when she lost her head--enough nights drunk at the club with Sylvia told her that. "Look, I'm just as upset about this as anyone else--but let's not do anything rash. It is just a magazine. It is just a silly little title anyway. I know my love for Ryan hasn't been hurt one bit by it. He probably doesn't even care."
"Maybe she's right," Sam, the only man present says softly, for not only Vomit Girl is feeling the tension building up in the room. "I love Ryan as much as the next gal but. . ."
"But nothing." Sylvia snaps. "Harsh times call for harsh measures." The look in her eyes makes Sam turn to jelly. "Imagine how hurt Ryan is." She pauses and the group thinks about it. "Imagine how hurt all the other Gossling fans are. That's a whole lot of hurt. Just a magazine? Just a silly little title that means nothing at all?! People* has a lot of nerve with a name like that. They aren't for the people--clearly not. This is so much bigger!"
*People magazine boasts a circulation of 3.75 million readers, as of 2006.
She points to Molly, the group's 'fat friend' whose tears are still rolling down her face, and have been ever since she first saw the cover, like a leaky faucet that just won't turn off. Molly blows her nose, a lawn mower. A lawn mower and a leaky faucet, that is Molly.
"We must show our strength, our numbers." Sylvia says as if it were her personal mantra, and in the coming days would become the official motto of our nation's first and only Vespa gang. "And we start now."
As the day passes and the sun sinks down beyond the trees and the buildings built still higher with man's vanity, the Wormwood home undergoes tremendous change. The Notebook had been put at the start, and though many of the group are big fans (including Sam), many don't listen. The voice of Sylvia would not be denied. The table is cleared, and from around it the group gathers as Sylvia lays out pictures of Gossling and those abs of his they so adore. Their preferred beverage of wine coolers is brought out, and the binge drinking begins. Many of them are not regular drinkers, but due to the severity of the situation many feel it necessary to let out a bit of steam. Under the fiery affects of the liquor, which many of them found to be quite hard, their voices lift, and moments of great pitch and action begin. The furniture is destroyed with little concern and prejudice as their feelings swell under the shitty bitch booze. The windows, once cleaned obsessively are shattered for fun, the sound showering out onto the street with their laughter. They're happy despite their anger, and many a neighbor is disturbed.
One such neighbor makes a phone call to her only friend that goes like this, she standing there in the kitchen on the old rotary phone she had kept all those years, her hair up in rolls for the next day:
"There are all sorts of strange sounds over their Maggie. Well I don't quite know. I can hear them laughing, but there are all these sounds of destruction. Like what? Broken glass. Some sound like someone chopping wood, but mostly it was like wood splintering. Splintering dear. Splintering. It just aint right. I said it just aint right. How do I know? I'm not all that crazy you know. Hey now, I've been tested! I know there's something wrong cause I can hear a movie playing loud in the background, and there's all this laughter and destruction, like it doesn't even matter. What? No, I don't know what movie it is, but it is awful loud. Loud 'nuff I can hear it anyway. I can hear sewing machines too. A strange sewing party, if I ever heard one. This gets any worse, I just may call the cops. No, not cots. Why would I call a bunch of cots? I said cops. I know, I know. But hey, there's such a thing as common decency. . ."
She says her good-byes and hangs up the phone to hobble off into the dark corner of her bedroom to look terrified out the window at the goings on next door. The cops are never called however, and as the sun rises once again to the sounds of birds already out in the trees to welcome it, the group finds themselves baptized in the warmth of sin, booze, and Ryan Gossling.
November 17, 2011
NARRATIVE
On Thursday November 17, 2011 Eve Flair, (of 555 W. Fifth Street, Los Angeles, CA) was placed under arrest along with Charlotte Webber (of 1888 N Main Street, Los Angeles, CA) after being observed exhibiting loud and tumultuous behavior in a public place directed at a uniformed police officer who was present investigating a report of a crime in progress. When asked to disperse they grew violent, smashing the windshield of a nearby motorist with a length of heavy chain. These actions on the behalf of Webber and Flair were said to be in support of a one Ryan Gossling, whom they claimed to be the victim of a horrible travesty.
On the above time and date, I was on uniformed duty in an unmarked police cruiser assigned to the Administration Section, working from 7:00 AM - 3:30 PM. At approximately 12:44 PM, I was operating my cruiser on E Jefferson Blvd near S Central Avenue. At that time, I overheard an ECC broadcast for a possible break in in progress at 587 W. Fifth Street. Due to my proximity, I responded.
In route to the scene I came across a group of nearly 12 women and 1 man out in the middle of the street, protesting. They were wearing Ryan Gossling masks, and their Vespas were parked out in the street, blocking it. Traffic built up, and I asked them to disperse as to not cause any potential dangers for other motorists. I flashed the lights, but they just grew more belligerent. Other motorists exited their cars to yell at the group, calling themselves the Gossling Gang, and after one insulted them, the gang descended onto the victims car and smashed windows with bricks they called Bradley Bricks.
"As ugly and thick headed as Bradley Cooper," they shouted as the windows of the driver's vehicle were destroyed and others took to the sides of the vehicle with lengths of chain. I managed to take two into custody before the others drove off silently on their Vespas at top speed. Back up was called, but none of the rest of the Gossling Gang were apprehended, as they could not be properly ID'd as anything other than Ryan Gossling.
When booked, Eve Flair announced herself to be Evil Evey, and Charlotte Webber announced herself to be Webber the Wino, though their identification proved otherwise.
. . .
The police report and the suceeding media blitz around The Gossling Gang brings the group sudden overnight fame, and though their heads swell a bit from the sudden exposure, many of them are still dedicated to the plan: to have Bradley Cooper denounced as The Sexiest Man Alive so that Ryan Gossling may take up the title. The newspapers run with titles like BARROWS GANG WHO? NEW OUTLAWS IN TOWN, and GOSSLING GANG TAKES IT TO THE PEOPLE OF PEOPLE, and FIGHTING IN THE STREETS; GOSSLING DIE HARDS TO BLAME. They celebrate their new found fame, but little do they know that from the east, a group of butch motorcyclists, is riding to meet them, covered from head to toe in Nazi regalia to defend who they believed was still The Sexiest Man Alive, a man who had been given the title decades earlier, a man named Mel Gibson.
November 18, 2011
The sun rises in its yellow Godliness above the land, through the smog and all the rest. The Gossing Gang is gathered at their headquarters, the former site of Sylvia's home, gutted and depraved. Sylvia is no longer going by Sylvia, but instead GM, Gossling's Mamma, and all the other's have names too. Vomit Girl picks up her name for the night of her infamous vomiting, Eve of course goes by Evil Evey, Charlotte: Webber the Wino, Sam goes by Sassy Samuel, and there are others: Notebook, Jugs, Wendy the Whipper, Aunt Ethel, The Babymaker, and a whole slew of so many more.
The old woman next door peers from her window and looks out upon a torn up lawn, with Vespas parked haphazardly about it, the green gutted and turned to brown. A group of sparrows tend to the worms dug up, to the roots ground up from the land. There is fear in her eyes, but she doesn't dare make the call. Despite her growing dependence on others and loss of sight, she still is bright enough and clear enough of vision to make out the headlines that morning, and make that grim connection that the Gossling Gang is indeed living next door. There's no other explanation for the sudden change, for the sounds and evidence of destruction she had been witnessing over the past couple of days.
Inside the gang comes up with a wonderful idea, to boycott outside of the very offices of People magazine. Some suggest its New York offices, but many feel that time is precious, and a run to New York would take too long. They settle on its Los Angeles editorial bureau on 10960 Whilshire Blvd. Their Vespas line up on the lawn at 11:50, the group dressed in full costume: Gossling masks, cowboy hats, Frenchie hats, some, no hats at all, blue and black plaid shirts with Gossling's Gang sewn on the back, tassles, colors, and in the case of Sassy Samuel, an excess amount of glitter. At 12 on the dot they ride off, one at a time, like silent rockets in a long procession of hate, their bikes chewing up turf as they make the jostling transition from lawn to street--up and over the curb with nothing but style, Vespa's grooving down the righteous path of the super fan gone wrong. The old neighbor next door comes out to watch them, and when they are done she runs back into her house to make yet another frightful phone call to her nearly deaf friend:
"The monster's loose!"
As they ride off Sylvia, Gossling's Momma thinks:
"We'll show those bastards."
Evil Evey thinks:
"If only I had a battery powered curling iron--I'd burn those fuckers faces right off. Make them hideous for making such a hideous mistake."
Sassy Samuel thinks:
"I look good on this sex rocket. Almost as good as Gossling."
Molly, Jugs thinks:
"I'm hungry."
She is always hungry.
The ride over is uneventful. Many a motorist is shocked by this gang of Vespas riding down the yellow line like they own the street, but no one says anything. Most just stand there, intrigued and confused with stupid looks on their faces. The sight of it makes the gang laugh, and as they pass a few blow kisses at them mockingly: the square in the suit and tie, the mother clutching her two bright eyed children, the old woman walking home with bags in her hand straight from the market. When they arrive at the scene, they exit their bikes, and the clan goes into action. GM manages the group like a general manager, barking orders and positioning the group--and no one second guesses her wise judgement, except for Vomit Girl, whose keen intuition senses danger and whose heart has already lost its zeal for the entire gang, for the whole she-bang, for Sylvia and her silly name. Looking up into the building, GM laughs, and the gang starts up a powerful chant:
"Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine."
Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine. Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine. Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine. Again and again, growing louder and more angry with each utterance. The first pair of eyes appear in the window, and soon others follow. They are laughing. The anger swells up in the gang, and they start chanting louder still. The words waft up through the streets, through the narrow bits of black between the glass walls surrounding them. Clusters of onlookers gather, some recognizing the phenomenon, some not, some taking pictures on their cellphones to broadcast to the rest of their friends on the internet. And still:
"Cooper's, fine, but Gossling's divine."
The sun shines down upon them all, a massive spotlight for the scene. All the world is a stage. And the stage is filled with holes, dark spots, tears, and is run by money counting mongrels with fingers that never tire of counting their green, with heads that care not for the specifics, or what's ugly or what's wrong--business is business, it isn't a charity game--and clowns that laugh and cry but mostly cry, and somewhere someone drowns in their own blood (never use 'and' to start a sentence, never use 'and' with repetition, never, never, never). The star of this particular act returns to her Vespa, to pull out what looks like a gun, painted red. She raises it above her head with a yell. She shoots it out up into the air, a trail of smoke behind it, the glowing red eye of its everything reaching higher and higher into those heavens forgotten, forlorn, and so damn tiresome.
And still:
"Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine."
A strange thing happens. The people watching start to cheer, like they're looking upon a Labor Day Parade. The gang smiles under their masks, driven by the charge of the people. GM takes up a position on some poor motorists roof. She jumps up and down, rallying the people, urging others to join them, to come to the side of those of the righteous and forever right. "We are the 99%," she shouts. Traffic begins to build up, with motorists honking and adding the din. When still the building stands with unblinking eyes, the group grows mean; operating on the belief that such a show of strength would make the weak writers realize their folly and come out of its doors to succumb to what they felt was right: Ryan Gossling is the sexiest man alive. The group starts to throw rocks at the windows, though many are girls and can't throw, a few windows are shattered, bringing down a rain glass on pedestrians. The crowd cheers--Americans with a long and well ingrained love for violence.
And still:
"Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine."
But:
A sound comes in through the chants, a sound like the rumbling of thunder. At first it is only faint, and some don't seem to notice, but as it comes closer it becomes more intelligible. The Gossling Gang continues to chant, but on occasion they drop their heads from the building to look around them. Still, the sound grows louder and louder--the thunder growing near.
At first they are just glints on the horizon. At first only a few notice them, but then they become bigger, the noise louder. God says "whenever you're ready. . . let go," and they did. They tear on through the group, big motorcycles carrying a sound so thunderous the chant is washed out under the sound of pure American machinery. They just suddenly appear, the leader in front with her face painted white and blue. Nazi flags suddenly fill the tragically American scene, fluttering in the wind from the tremendous speed. Some of the gang are so shocked they stop chanting, but not GM, who still stands perched atop a parked car, jumping up and down like a Gossling monkey and wailing out into the street.
Gibson's Gals emerge on the scene wielding homemade weapons and bludgeons on their mighty steeds, motorcycles that can tear through Vespas without slowing down one bit. The crowd disperses, a woman screams in a manner to split the ears. A war cry rings out, as the Gossling Gang is taken under in a surf that would not be denied--they stand no chance. A Gibson fan is far more deranged the man himself; to deny the publicity and actions of a bigoted man is to throw caution to the wind and ignore what is right and good in the world, to look into the eyes of the suffering and flip them off, to rape a woman and ask her if she would like seconds, as polite as pie. No amount of ab worship would overcome the utter ignorance of a Gibson fan, and it shows. Before the cops arrive, several members of the Gossling Gang are on the ground, staring stupidly at amounts of blood surging out of their bodies in quantities they've never seen before, with the pure shock that allows a man with a bullet in his heart to go on for minutes after he should be clinically dead, like a PCP user with a dozen stab wounds in the stomach; the idea of perishing just doesn't connect in a mind gone haywire on too many chemicals rushing the brain at one time.
The leader of Gibson's Gals is particularly vicious, her white and blue painted face is seen contorted into expressions of joy as she smashes heads and damages Vespa's with her superhuman dyke strength. At 6 foot 2, two hundred and eighty pounds, she is a tough adversary for men, let alone a Notebook loving freak high on the ideas of romanticism. Romance too her was long dead, along with the idea of a man's penis, hate replacing the empty voids to almost overflowing. It could be seen in her very eyes.
When the police arrive they immediately assess it to be a situation they cannot handle, and soon later arrive the riot squad. When the tear gas rises above the scene, there is damage and destruction everywhere, and all of the gang is brought into custody to conjure up a new plan in light of this recent and unexpected attack. All except for Vomit Girl, who has had enough violence and conflict to last her for the rest of her life. She goes off to sulk in a corner of the cell all by herself, to curse the day she ever met Sylvia Wormwood and became a member of the Gossling Gang. . .
These Gossling cats, though quite admirable in spirit, are pursing a venture that means nothing at all. To think we live in a world with real problems that these protesters have come to fight a silly title of little or no importance bothers me to an extent I don't quite wish to illustrate. Perhaps it is a sign that people care way too much for celebrities, or perhaps it is a sign that these people have no real problems at all--well-to-do white folks with plenty of cash in the bank, and an abundance of free time to focus on the frivolous. Either way, I don't approve, and am in fact in shock, as if I were a person gazing down the firey anus of a Hell's Angels steed for the first time.
Yes, this is a spoof. No, they don't act this violent, nor have they taken to the idea of becoming outlaws, but I thought it would be funny and silly to think of these people as violent outlaws. As the outlaw elite. As a variation of the Hell's Angels. Once again I find myself in a situtation where I must explain myself, but if you knew what I was going at, I wouldn't have to. If you were half the Hunter S. Thompson fan you claim to be, you would know exactly what I am doing and make the connection. I won't explain, because I don't feel the need to.
I'm full of liquor at the moment, so much so that I feel warm and my cheeks are burning. I know them to be red, for enough experience as an Scottish-Irish man has told me that when I drink I turn red, or when I do any amount of exercise I turn red, almost as if my skin is so opaque the blood shines on through. I don't wanna seem pompous. I don't wanna seem like I have anything to say at all about the situation, because I don't.
I just think its ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous.
These people actually have online petitions. These people have actually protested, complete with signs and chants and Ryan Gossling masks. . . And yes, these masks are hella creepy.
Who gives a shit about People magazine? People who do, I wish not to meet.
And for this reason iR declares the Ryan Gossling protesters to be tragically retarded.
I personally think you have more problems than I do considering this blog has no entertainment value whatsoever.
ReplyDeleteEver read Hell's Angels by Hunter S. Thompson? It's a spoof of that novel. Enjoy.
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