Music, Memory & Mulberry
The complete transcript of Kelly Clarkson! A comedy…
The poem Mulberry is available in my blog
Kelly Clarkson!
KELLY CLARKSON WINS 1ST SEASON OF AMERICAN IDOL. SIGNS WITH RCA. RCA Records.
-Variety September 5, 2002
It was the morning of the live taping of the penultimate episode. New York’s morning sky hung bright and the noisy streets sounded of a familiar white noise. Pigeons lined up in orderly fashion, far away in the distance, far away from the window of Brian Dunkleman’s apartment. The Season 1 co-host and a low-level producer, his clandestine lover, Conor, laid awake in the early morning. Together, they spooned. Had sex. Conor on top, obeying the instructions of his co-worker, “tell me I’m the star,” Brian commanded Conor. “You're the star, baby,” Conor would reply with zeal. He made it sound convincing because as he pumped Dunkleman’s rear end silly, he kept picturing the face of Ryan Seacrest. His chiseled jawline. The Lance Bass hair. That kept credulity in his voice and blood in his cock. This was far from the first time Conor had the image of the other co-star caught in his cerebral cortex when he was having sex with Brian. It happened often. More often than not. Their love affair began in April, coinciding with the start of American Idol's first season in June. By July, the show had become a sensation, and Ryan Seacrest's growing popularity made him increasingly unattainable. It was on a fateful night, after Conor had too many whiskeys and was on the brink of confessing his feelings to Seacrest, that Brian made his move. In that moment, Conor's destiny was decided for him. Six weeks later it was clear who was going to have the prominent career, the one of dinner parties, morning show appearances and accolades, and it wasn’t the man he was busy calling ‘Daddy.’ Conor was aware at season's end Brian was most likely to be fired. He used to fuck Brian with a certain sincerity, hoping, even if Brian was the man he lusted for, Brian could manage a career in show biz hosting stunt game shows with fat residuals. Now, since it was apparent he hitched his wagon quite literally to the wrong horse, and Brian was soon to be a cautionary tale, Conor could only maintain the veil of a good lover through sheer resentment. And so, Conor finished.
-
Simon Cowell was about the business. He was the first to show up and the last to leave the studio. It gave validity to his British pomposity. He was put on this earth to find, showcase, and sell pop stars. He embodied the ‘inconsiderate jerk’ so stringently and with such aplomb the rest of the staff couldn’t help but respect him, no matter how disrespectful he himself was. No matter how many Fiji water bottles he foisted at Conor’s head for not being room temperature. No matter how many times he had a row. On the morning of the live taping, he got to his office before anyone, not for his usual proclivities, one of which involved naked p90-x, twister, and apple cider vinegar shots, but for a conference call. Simon Cowell always let the phone ring four times before answering. To his surprise, it wasn’t a group of executives, but the singular voice of the RCA Bossman. His reptilian croak was barely decipherable through the telephone.
“Simon, we have the data. With the push from the female 18-49 demographic, if this trend continues, Clarkson won’t have the votes we need.”
“My hands are tied,” Simon said, “I've held up me end of the bargain, every night, by backing Kelly on the telly. America knows where I'm coming from.”
“That’s not enough.”
“That's me lot. They’re singing again tonight. Hopefully this bloomin’ country has their lugholes open.”
“Justin Guarini can’t win the competition.”
“I’m aware of the marketing perks if Kelly comes out on top. But you’ll ink her to a deal regardless.”
“Maybe. That’s not a guarantee. Everybody will want Kelly. Columbia, Arista… What is a guarantee is that Justin Guarini can’t sing or dance. He’s a talentless schmuck that will be bagging groceries when America gets tired of his curly hair in 3 months. He won’t last an album cycle.”
“I agree, mate.”
“Then deliver a Kelly Clarkson victory, or else our deal is in jeopardy.”
“Bloody Hell! I can’t take this to Lythgoe. He’ll see to it that the votes are done proper, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Simon could hear Bossman on the other end—tapping a pencil, tensely, like a woodpecker, eraser down, on his cocobolo desk.
“Fuck Nigel.”
“Bloody Nigel!”
“Keep close to the phone as the votes come in.”
“Nigel and other producers will make any type for any dodgy business.”
“Keep close to the phone. Listen to ‘the mole.’ Do as we say.”
“Oh bollocks!”
“19 recordings needs RCA far more than we need you. Your opinion is not infallible.”
“It means a bloody lot to the public, doesn’t it?”
“You told me, when NSYNC disbanded, J.C Chasez was going to be the star and Timberlake the bum. Your opinion is not infallible. Your wallet, as well as the reputation of our label, and your show, is at stake.”
Bossman hung up on Simon. Simon took his chagrin to his computer, where he logged on the internet and edged himself to amateur pegging videos he downloaded on LimeWire. He took that built up testosterone to his office treadmill and ran vigorous inclined wind sprints. He took his 5 pills from his 7-day organizer. He showered and changed into his clean white shirt and tailored blazer as Randy Jackson, Paula Abdul, Ryan Seacrest, Brian Dunkleman, Conor, and the rest of the American Idol staff started to show up for work. “Bloody Amateurs…” Simon said under the noise of his blending protein shake.
-
In traditional Midwest fashion, Mom had dinner ready when the station wagon pulled into the driveway at 6:30. Dad emerged, his briefcase clinging to his military belt buckle, accentuating his already slender frame as he slunk his lithe body through the glass door, happily greeted by the aroma of meatloaf. His two daughters, clad in Justin Timberlake t-shirts, ran to hug him at the door. He put his briefcase down, took a long piss, and came into the kitchen to greet his wife with a wholesome kiss on the cheek and smiled at the table set before him. He sat down, told his oldest, Alice, 15, to wait for Mom before digging into her plate. Alice rolled her eyes. Mom hurried over with the last of it, a heated white tray of yams topped with brown sugar and marshmallow and took a seat with the three of them. They joined hands together and said a simple grace. Alice rolled her eyes. The two parents tried asking the girls about their first week back at school, about their friends and what they were looking forward to learning but couldn’t get anything that resembled a coherent answer. Caroline just started middle school. She had the most to say. Alice rolled her eyes. Caroline gave bits of information about required reading and the new health-based lunch menu that traded sugar for apples. “...Eileen’s mom says taking away cookies is fascist!” But most of their attention was set on the American Idol finale. Dad was always wary of anything that brought the constantly bickering sisters to an armistice. He seemed alienated by this ‘tomfoolery’, but Mom engaged eagerly with her daughters, discussing the final contestants as they eagerly anticipated the outcome. The girls talked and giggled while Dad ate his meatloaf in a grateful silence. The girls gathered to help mom clean the kitchen as Dad showered and got ready for the next day. He came out, grabbed a Budweiser from the fridge and poured it in a tall glass he kept in the freezer. He sat next to his wife with the kids standing around the television, dancing about frantically. Reggie, the golden retriever, carved himself space on the couch. The opening credits had the girls jumping up and down. “Remember going to see Kiss?” Dad said to Mom. She blushed, equal parts shame and playful mischief. She hugged his arm, and put her head down bashfully, as though even remembering the events of the concert was a sin in itself. The show covered the backstories of both singers before they each took turns, singing songs, some different, some the same—so America had the chance to compare. Mom and Dad agreed Kelly Clarkson was the superior singer. As did every sentient person with ears. But in this midwestern home, merit-based voting was overthrown by the feral ambitions of young girls wanting something. The numbers for voting came up on the screen, and the girls sprinted to the phone on the wall. They screamed, in undomesticated hysterics, “Justin G! Justin G! Justin G!” together, as they repeatedly called his vote in.
“Should we stop them?” She asked her husband.
“Stop them? Why?”
“I mean, that guy can’t sing at all.”
“Oh honey, who gives a darn! Let the girls have their fun!”
“He's so bad, though. I can’t see him win.”
He gave her an amorous nudge. “Remember Kiss in 86’?” Once again, her face turned the color of a grapefruit, but this time her hand touched his thigh. “Girls,” Dad said as he stood up from the couch with a reddened face, “it’s a school night. Time for bed.” The girls scurried off.
He took her by the hand. “I’ll try, it’s been too long. I was actually in the mood,” she said, “until that man sang…now I can’t focus. My head hurts.” She let go of his hand, “hold on.” Half-asleep, she slowly walked over to the phone, dialed the number for American Idol, and cast a ballot for Kelly Clarkson. Their quaint Midwestern household already registered ten votes, all for Justin, so unbeknown to Mom, her vote wasn’t counted. But the happiness it gave her, the illusion of her vote counting, was just what she needed to survive her weekly three and a half minutes in the missionary position. Mom, Dad, Caroline, and Alice all fell asleep in a blissful state of content.
-
The RCA executives sat in the dimly lit boardroom, their expressions grave as they sipped their black coffee in unison. Each cup rose to meet their lips, a sip taken, a heavy sigh exhaled, before being set back down on the table. They awaited news of the vote count, knowing full well it was unlikely to be in their favor. Every figure of importance was present, save for the Bossman, who remained secluded in the adjacent office, engaged in a conversation with Simon.
As they saw the Bossman conclude his call and make his way towards the boardroom, they sat up straight, anticipation hanging heavy in the air. With deliberate steps, the Bossman entered the room and took his place at the head of the table. A prolonged silence filled the space as he cleared his throat for two straight minutes before speaking.
“FOX has their hand so far up Simon’s ass right now.”
“What’s the vote count, at the moment?”
“He wouldn’t say exactly. He was a cryptic limey little shit. But it’s not good.”
“He has to tell us, no?”
“No, you smooth-brained fuck, he doesn’t! That’s why we are here. We agreed to sign the winner based on the whims of the American public. Do you not understand that? Never trust the American public. That’s on me. But this could still be a windfall if we think.”
A dumb silence fell over the boardroom. Finally, a mid-ranking executive had the balls to speak up, “I want to know for sure, before we press the red button, if she officially lost. It could end badly if we get caught messing around, especially without proof.”
“We already know for sure! And FOX isn’t going to investigate themselves, not without a public outcry. And the vote is going to be close enough that even if we pull this off and FOX knows about it, they’ll stay quiet, so long as the media remains unaware. But with Simon on the rag and FOX promising him game shows from now until the end of time, we need a new red button!”
Ron, from promotions, spoke up, “I’m just not sure it’s worth the potential controversy.”
“Mrs. Blankenship!” the Bossman yelled into the voice box situated on the right side of the desk, “bring in RDK RLZ-2050 please.”
The feeble old secretary wheeled the oven-shaped computer into the boardroom, her movements slow but deliberate. The contraption appeared to be a curious blend of modern technology and antiquated design, with its bulky frame and outdated interface. From a certain angle, if one squinted just so, the arrangement of buttons, switches, and lights on its surface seemed to form the semblance of a smirking, somewhat aloof face, as if the machine itself possessed a dim-witted personality.
““Enter the details, *cough, cough* once again…please Mrs. B. And water, more water.”
The boardroom heard rumors of this machine up and down the halls, in an almost mythological way, but had never seen it until this very moment. It was well known that the Bossman had unwavering faith in his new unproven piece of experimental technology. Mrs. Blankenship put on thicker glasses as she fuddled with its levers and switches. According to the whispers that circulated through the halls, the RDK RLZ-2050 possessed the uncanny ability to compute the most precise trajectory of a pop star's career. Allegedly, it required an array of peculiar inputs: hair follicles, saliva and urine samples, blood pressure readings, audio recordings, even the 10-day weather forecast, sleep patterns, family lineage, and the frequency of using the word 'like' in interviews. All of these disparate data points were seamlessly integrated into the computer's advanced analytics, supposedly allowing it to predict an exact future.
With a resolute pull of the oversized red lever on its side, bolts of electricity shot out accompanied by a deafening clank that reverberated off the glass walls, leaving the executives with a lingering case of tinnitus. The power flickered. When it steadied, a cloud of dust enveloped the RDK RLZ-2050 as it disgorged two slips of paper from its backside slot, before shutting down abruptly. A junior executive got up to retrieve the paper off the floor.
“Read the results out loud.” Bossman commanded.
“The results are as follows—
Kelly Clarkson
● Bestselling single of 2002
● Max Martin
● Grammy Awards
● Christmas Music
● The Voice
● Hollywood Walk of Fame
● The Kelly Clarkson Show
● 2 kids 1 divorce
● No scandals
● Maintains an atrocious sense of personal style
Justin Guarini
● Critically panned debut
● Costs executive Ron his second boat
● Dropped from RCA in 2003
● Depression and Addiction problems
● Dangerous sexual repressions
● Failed cult leader in Thailand
● An off-Broadway comeback attempt
● Subjugated onto a yacht by elites
● Held dual positions as bartender/rent boy
● Hasn’t been seen, dead or alive, since 2011…”
And so, it was decided that by any means necessary, RCA was going to make sure Kelly Clarkson was declared the winner. No loophole, no ego of Simon Cowell’s, no Murdochian minions were going to get in the way of Ron’s second boat and the Bossman’s ambitions.
“Jimmy,” Bossman said with a dry throat, “call your nephew. The hung simpleton might be our only hope.”
Conor’s attention was entirely consumed by the task at hand, his focus unwavering as he sought to maintain a stiff and lasting erection, as the phone vibrated at the edge of the bed. The memories of Seacrest and the poster of Sugar Ray that hung in his childhood room vied for dominance in his hippocampus as he brought Brian to the brink one last time.
Since his sexual awakening, Conor had found that a singular, intense focus on Mark McGrath, the lead vocalist for the band Sugar Ray, could reliably guide him to a satisfying climax. From his youth to the present day, McGrath's image had been a potent catalyst for Conor's arousal. Every morning, he could conjure McGrath's face to enhance his own pleasure, whether for a weekend or a one-night stand. Sometimes, he even found himself murmuring the lyrics, "turn me around again..." as he’d imbue the backside before him. On that morning, Conor had Brian singing. He was on the precipice of snapping Dunkleman in half. The call went to voicemail, again and again, until the phone vibrated off the bedside unnoticed.
-
As the big-wigs from the network convened around the brightly lit boardroom table, the atmosphere was markedly different from the dimly lit, coffee-fueled gatherings in the RCA office. Kombucha drinks replaced the customary black coffee, and lox and bagels remained untouched on a nearby table. Simon threw a glass bottle at Conor’s head, causing him to duck as it shattered and ordered him to do a headstand in the corner. He stood there, on his head, absorbing what was said, while pretending not to listen.
The window for voting officially closed. By a narrow margin, albeit undeniably, Justin Guarini was the rightful victor. He won 15k more popular votes than his competitor Kelly Clarkson. Nobody, except for Simon, trying to play both sides, was upset at the outcome. For each person present, whether a high-ranking executive or a producer balancing on his head, two priorities remained paramount: television ratings and individual paychecks. With the finale poised to shatter records, a sense of relief flooded the room, tinged with a congratulatory air for a successful season's conclusion. No one cared that the winner of their singing competition was tone deaf. Everyone was happy it was a success and relieved it was over. Paula Abdul riffed aimlessly for minutes on end about a pop career that barely happened and instead of tedious frustration, the room seemed, for once, content to nod at the delusional woman—lending exalted respect to her stories of public sex with Stephan Duffy. Seacrest had to skip the meeting. His beloved cairn terrier was unwell. The show was going live in ten hours, and everyone, including Simon, expected things to go as they planned in that room. They’d start with a wholesome reel of emotional content to gin up sentimentality, punctuated by a drawn-out drumroll leading to Justin's declaration as the winner and his final performance as champion. End credits roll. Champagne would flow freely, and they would retire for the night with smiles, resting comfortably on their financial success.
Despite Simon leaving the meeting, calling his colleagues ‘pricks’, he was ultimately content with the outcome. He took RCA’s money under the table, promoted Kelly the best he could, and it fell short. He wasn’t going to risk burning this money machine down. Simon leaving gave Conor the unsaid permission to stand upright. His Nokia fell out of his pocket while he spun himself upright. He saw an alarming amount of messages for someone like him. And for the first time all day, Conor listened to his voicemail.
Conor's assumption that he was reaching his Uncle Jimmy exclusively was swiftly overturned as his call was unexpectedly broadcast to the entire RCA boardroom. Caught off guard, he stumbled through his words, his babbling bordering on incoherence. Despite this, Conor managed to convey the grim news, confirming their worst fears before the reality fully sank in. With adrenaline and nerves coursing through his veins, he struggled to offer solutions, while the boardroom, equally stunned, found themselves at a loss for direction.
“All we need, somehow, is to in that last instant, give Seacrest the wrong information in the earpiece,” Conor said, trying to reestablish a front of intelligence, “I’m not sure he’s even aware of the results yet. We can’t reach him. But he’ll be here for the taping.”
“What do you mean?” Bossman said, quickly, clearing his throat afterwards, “Seacrest wasn’t in the meeting?”
“He had a vet appointment for his dog.”
“What about your boyfriend, Dunkleman, was he there?”
“He wasn’t.”
“Where the hell was he?”
“Icing his bum sir, he’s a game time decision for tonight’s taping.”
“Hmm, so neither of them knows the results. As of now...” Bossman said contemplatively.
“Speaking of iced bums,” Jimmy said, “whatever happened to Matt Walst?”
“He still calls me,” said Conor, “he tries to use me to get his nu-metal demo on your desk but it’s just awful. He’s also politically insane… A thoroughbred in the sack, though.”
“Who are we talking about?” An executive asked.
“This band out of Canada,” said Jimmy, “Conor slept with the lead singer when he first worked undercover for us. They went by Groundswell at the time. Since then, they’ve regrouped under the name Three Days Grace and have been doing everything in the world to get representation.”
“Politically insane, you called him?” The Bossman was curious.
“He’s involved in some alt-right militia group. Revolt Rhapsody.” Conor still got their flier in the mail even though he unsubscribed months ago.
The boardroom laughed and then ceased laughing suddenly. But the Bossman coughed up a laugh, relieving them of any anxiety about laughing at something unfunny.
“What the hell is Revolt Rhapsody?” Bossman asked.
“In short, sir, it’s a group of nu-metal singers who are unaware of the joke, sir.”
“The joke? Go on…”
“You see, sir—Fred Durst, Papa Roach, the dude from Korn, even Phil Anselmo—they’re all radical pacifists. They believe in a doctrine of non-resistance, based on the Tolstoy’s interpretation of the Gospels. Sir, Three Days Grace, I'm afraid, doesn’t get the joke. They are committed to, to quote Limp Bizkit, breaking stuff.”
As Jimmy observed the involuntary movement of the Bossman's upper lip, a cunning dark thought seemed to take hold of his employer. It was a rare occurrence, one that Jimmy had witnessed only on a handful of occasions throughout his career. The last time he had seen that infamous lip quiver, it had prompted the Bossman to initiate a bomb scare. Though the details were murky, the end result was clear: the Strokes ended up signing with RCA. It was a subtle cue that conveyed the message: "Everything is permitted."
“Just how desperate is this, Matt Walst?” The Bossman said, now smirking.
“Last I checked he’s back living with his mother, sir. He would ride a unicycle naked over a tightrope for 15 minutes of fame, sir.”
“And he’s connected to violent people?”
“He has a posse of homeless, entitlement supported right wing insurgents who carry guns with them at all times staying with him, sir. They also don’t get the joke, sir.”
Bossman struggled through a coughing fit before mustering the strength to call for Mrs. Blankenship. His upper lip trembled with unprecedented activity, quivering uncontrollably. He pressed his hand against it, attempting to steady it as he spoke, and instructed her to bring in The Days Grace demo. Though he would have preferred to use the RDK RLZ-2050, the lack of artifacts necessary for an accurate reading made it impossible. However, he didn’t really need it. The song was indistinguishable from all the other derivative nonsense ruining modern rock radio. It was perfectly terrible. The RCA executives temporarily muted Conor as they deliberated their next move. After a brief discussion, they reached a unanimous decision.
The static cut back in Conor’s flip phone and he heard the voice of his Uncle Jimmy from the other side giving him instructions clearly. “Call this Matt Walst. Tell him RCA loves his demo and is about to offer him a generous record deal…under one condition.”
“What should I tell him?”
“What do I know? Just quote Jesus— ‘Load up on guns, bring your friends.’ Get him on the horn and we’ll take care of the rest. You did good, boy. Meow.”
As Conor hung up, he was suddenly aware of how close he was to the dressing rooms and the ears of others. As he made his way toward the exit doors, he dialed Matt's phone number. Meanwhile, Dunkleman walked through the studio doors, his tie undone and ketchup on his lapel, wincing as he walked, struggling to stand upright.
-
“Matty!” His Mommy yelled from the top of the stairs, “lunch is ready on the tray!”
“Thanks Mommy!”
Matty Walst heard the door close and walked up the stairs and took his well-prepared lunch tray from the top stair. He came back down the stairs as his grenade toting groupies were scattered about the floor. One member of the band, lead guitarist and certified psychopath, Adam Gontier, was present in Ms. Walst’s basement. Matty stepped over his half-asleep body, sat down on his dilapidated couch and took a bite of mommy's chicken salad. Mommy always made the best. The almonds and the celery with the perfect mayonnaise to chicken ratio. As Conor's call came in, Matt initially thought it was a joke or some form of entrapment. However, the call was on speakerphone, and Adam was already awake, loading clips and counting zip ties, claiming he had seen this moment in a DMT trip earlier in the month. He even checked his numerology book for further confirmation.
“Is holding a studio hostage during a live taping of America’s #1 show for a record deal a little too crazy?” Matty asked Adam.
“I think it’s God’s plan for us brother!”
Another scruffy militant chimed in after overhearing their conversation with a ringing endorsement. The groupies planned on spending the day stealing Ms. Walst’s credit card to order take-out, watch The Birth of a Nation, and talk shit about Islam. Again. But even they were tired of it. They saw this opportunity as their moment to shine, their chance to fulfill their purpose in the world of nu-metal. Unified by their shared passion and misguided philosophy, they rallied behind the cause, ready to take action, "for the movement, for the art, for nu-metal."
Matty, still skeptical, passed the phone to Murphy, the group's de facto leader and strategist. Despite his agonizing stutter, Murphy took had the biggest brain and took charge, probing Conor for details about studio security and exit points. After the conversation, Murphy pieced together a coherent plan to the best of his ability. With the map drawn, the game plan discussed, the guns loaded, and the music turned up to 11, Revolt Rhapsody was poised to take no prisoners and execute their mission by any means necessary. The promise of a seven-figure record deal from RCA looming.
“Mommy!” Matty screamed from the bottom of the stairs, before throwing a basketball, repeatedly, against the ceiling, “Mommy! Mommy!”
You couldn’t hear a single step she took on the way to the door, only the turning of the knob. “Yes, my sweetness.”
“Can the boys borrow the Minivan Mommy? Please. It’s important.”
“Ok, Pumpkin. The keys are on the counter.”
“Thanks Mommy!”
-
Seacrest was still missing as tensions began to rise among the team. His phone was off. As the tension mounted and Seacrest remained absent, concerns grew among the team. They feared the worst for him and hoped for the best, knowing his deep attachment to his beloved terrier. If Ryan couldn’t make it, God forbid, the finale would be the Brian Dunkleman show. One more time, against the wishes of the entire staff, they were back in the boardroom discussing the potential of a show without Ryan. Most of this extra responsibility was hastily dumped on the shoulders of Brian. He was aware, at this point, through some pillow talk with Conor, that his sore bum would soon be on the unemployment line. So, this news of more responsibility, given his current physical condition and employment status, made sitting through the meeting as painful for him psychologically as it was physically.
Unbeknownst to him, his bum was about to be face up against the wall in a matter of minutes. A brief instance of rectoral relief certainly worth the impending life-threatening hysterics. Conor, meanwhile, was strategizing his escape, aiming to slip away before the inevitable chaos ensued. The van would be allowed on the lot by the parking meter worker, also was once fucked by Conor and thus forever entranced. He had friends in security. RCA helped with some digital blacking out from a van stationed blocks away that could hack the network on Conor’s intel. It was time for Three Days Grace and Co. to impose their mega alpha alt-right testosterone, to make damn sure the country pop white gal from Fort Worth, Texas, Kelly Clarkson, won American Idol. Fuck yea.
They kicked the door forcibly, causing the room to stir, but the door didn’t open. Simon, Lythgoe, Randy and the rest looked around nervously. They kicked ten more times to no avail. Matt Walst, after struggling, grasped the concept of turning the doorknob. The Cracker Barrel crime syndicate known as Revolt Rhapsody—dripping in antiquated Y2K gear, American flags, Linkin Park merch, wife beaters, balaclavas, and Halloween masks—busted in—toting AR-15’s, rocket launchers, and old-school tommy guns. The smell of lox was suddenly replaced by L'oreal x-treme holding hair gel and Axe body spray. They screamed incoherently and flipped all the tables. They grabbed the staff and lined them up against the wall. Murphy did the talking, stutter-shouting their demands as they ran ruffshaw over the rest of the room.
“Please,” Simon Cowell whimpered, as the warm urine ran down his Rock n’ Republic jeans, “What in bloody hell do you want from us?”
A short silence crept in as the now captives awaited an answer. RR looked at Murphy. He rehearsed a list of demands in his head, he even practiced in the mirror, but when the moment came, his public speaking insecurities froze him and his tongue stayed glued to the top of his mouth. Then he screamed, rather impulsively, reducing their demands down to a single name.
“OH, KELLY, KELLY… KELLY CLARKSON!”
-
With tensions subdued, Nigel Lythgoe and Matt Walst engaged in a surprisingly civil discussion, exchanging words in an attempt to make sense of this. However, as the conversation progressed, a sudden noise disrupted the atmosphere—the sound of the studio's front door slamming shut. It dawned on everyone present that only one person had the access and means to enter or exit that door without detection: Ryan Seacrest was in the building.
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Poor Toto. My baby and her blisters. Baby needs to stay overnight for surgery. She can’t walk in the park, she can’t play fetch, she can’t cuddle with daddy on the couch during our late-night Survivor binges. Oh, the agony of witnessing her suffer! My poor Toto. This is going to be such a fucking drag. She’ll need pain medication! My baby. At least this is the last taping of the season. The last time, for a while, walking into the presence of these philistines. This bootleg melodrama. I shall ascend to loftier realms, leaving behind these barbarians who fail to recognize the magnitude of my brilliance. These peasants don’t respect my greatness. I flash my once in a generation smile and impeccable jawline—strut around like a young Brad Pitt— enunciate every syllable like Alex Trebek—laugh at every joke like a good husband, and all I get is a half-hearted pat on the back like it’s so easy. I make it look too easy. Like Ali in his prime. The combination of being this well-spoken and this good-looking is a burden. It must be why I have no friends. Besides my Toto, of course. I can’t make “friends” at work, everyone is so robotic, as if asking me something personal or getting too close would be too great a professional risk to take. They’re afraid they’d mess up my perfectly disheveled hair or scuff my John Lobb’s and I’d lose my mind and condemn them to show business hell. I don’t even have that power yet. Granted, we all know it’s coming, the day America can no longer stand the sight of me—but I can’t ruin a career yet. Just please, for once, ask me how my day is with a sense of disarming sincerity! Is that too much to ask? A world where my fellow denizens possess the temerity to inquire about my well-being with sincerity?
I found it all too normal, the absence of those meticulously rehearsed theatrics that typically punctuate my entrance into the studio. There were no fake handshakes from security. No one behind the scenes pretending to do jobs with radios and clipboards. It was a pleasant surprise considering the morning I had. I proceed to the dressing room as Sharon and Rosie, two colleagues I always slither around, pass me and say hello with the most rarified air. I got to the dressing room expecting to explain my tardiness to Lythgoe and the rest, but it was filled with get-well-cards for Toto. Very sweet. A gentle knock on the door heralded the arrival of familiar faces, each exuding a novel energy that seemed to envelop me like Snow White among her enchanted songbirds. Finally, it felt as though I was receiving the reverence and deference befitting a figure of my stature. You should be a little shaky in the presence of me, so for once, finally, I feel like I’m getting the treatment, the respect I’ve deserved as they prepare me to go live. All interactions feel divine and natural, in total paradox to the feelings at the vet and the usual feelings I have surrounding workplace interactions. It feels like the entire studio, at last, doesn’t have a fringe militia holding a gun to their heads. They can be themselves. They can shake and tremble around me AND still smile. It’s not high science. I’m Ryan Seacrest, not a God. But I sure look like one tonight. Everything feels like water. Like one of those self-help books I pretend to read on my bedside manifested itself in the workplace when I needed peace the most. Sometimes, when life gets tough, being Ryan Seacrest is enough. I smile in the mirror. “Fuck.” By the power of more white winged birds, I am transported to the pit, where I meet up with the talent and judges and a few producers always in my ear. They keep Kelly and Justin separated from the judges and producers to maintain a voting system founded on maximum integrity. Even Simon Cowell was a gentleman today. I could feel his ego checked, finally waving the white flag that his shit was simply not as hot as mine. The only two oddballs, oddly enough, were Justin and Kelly. They were the only people in the studio who didn’t give me a feeling of total freedom and rejuvenation. And they’re the two I usually like. But it felt like everyone was finally at ease, finally at peace with my undeniable star power. The show, my show, begins.
This young man, Conor, a producer, with the cutest cheeks and a penis you can see at his kneecaps when he wears slim fitted chinos, tells me the winner in my earpiece. His voice sounds like Mozart. I crown Kelly the champion. Naturally, the show was a success. I hosted it. We flirt, Conor and I, amatively after the show. Our dicks collectively rock hard over the thought of restructuring our contracts. He loves impeccable jawlines and bleached blonde hair. I love blue eyes and chubby cheeks. Whiskey sours went down one after another and Conor ended up coming home with me for some role play. He says he’s a top, but willing to switch it up just for me. In the morning, still done up and sweaty in a leather gimp suit, I grab the long black leash around his neck and take Conor for a walk along the Upper West Side on the way to the veterinarian. Pigeons line up in orderly fashion, far away in the distance. Toto is ready to come home.
Three Days Grace self-titled Album Hits 46th Week on Modern Rock Charts. I Hate Everything About You 2x Platinum. Jive Records.
-Billboard March 10, 2004
Music, Memory is a 40k word collection complete with 5 stories and a poem. Manuscript editions are on sale in the shop at 19.99
