I.
A strange thing happened on our Hollywood Forever Cemetery bus tour. Henry Rollins was the tour guide, and his co-host was John Belushi. Henry was telling stories in his characteristic, mile-a-minute fashion, and Belushi spent the entire time at the bar. They were serving bottomless White Russians with every ticket, but there was no toilet on the bus, so I didn’t even think of having a drink cause, as you know, my bladder has retention deficit disorder. Just a little humour there. We were looking for O.J. Simpson’s grave, and Henry was screaming ‘The Juice is on the loose,’ as he narrated the story of the Great American Trial, when suddenly Belushi comes at him, lurching really, aiming a pimento skewer at Henry’s eye. Henry says, ‘I’m gonna get to the end of this story, even if it kills me.’ You wouldn’t credit what happened next. Belushi stuck the skewer right in Henry’s eye! Mr Rollins drops the microphone and hits the floor himself, thrashing like a tattooed eel, and Belushi picks the mic up from the floor, calmly, and says, ‘Shows over, folks.’ Everyone is just sitting in their seats, stunned, and the bus driver, when he sees what’s happened, starts screaming and swerving and driving over all these celebrity graves and knocking headstones down by the bushel. Belushi starts laughing, he leans over and yanks some crude lever near the door and there’s this sudden beeping sound and a countdown appears on the display above the windshield. Someone yells out, ‘Jesus, there’s a bomb on the bus!’ Myself, I’m not too worried, cause I know this guy isn’t gonna kill himself. In fact, I said so. I called out, ‘You ain’t gonna kill yourself, Belushi.’ He staggers over, White Russian still in his hand, and he starts telling me about seeing Nick Cave live. Course, I told him about the time I’d see the Bad Seeds in Melbourne. Best concert I’d been to, at that point in my life. Honestly though, it was a weird tour. Worth the money, if you’re ever in L.A.
II.
Another day in paradise. You feel like saying it out loud when you live a life this rewarding. Wife and I bought our place when the getting was good. Small modern calo clubhouse aesthetic right on a private beach. You can piss in the sea from your balcony. Seen one of the neighbours do it. Yesterday I took a walk beside the waves and watched the dolphins dancing, when a fancy for quality coffee came on. ‘The mermaids singing, each to each,’ I said to myself. It’s just a short walk from the water to the Oceanside café, best coffee in town. They all know me there, don’t even have to say my order aloud. I’m waiting for my flat white when who should I see? Mark. Freaking. Leyner. That’s right, the very living author of ‘I was an infinitely hot and dense dot’. Yeah, just one of the greatest short stories of the late age, no big deal! I run out of the café and tap him on the shoulder. He turns to me, wearing his signature sleeveless shirt that shows off the effects of the endless bicep curls he has committed his life to performing. I shake the man’s hand, introduce myself, tell him everyone knows me on the island and if he ever needs anything, anything, he has only to ask. He thanks me, and seems about ready to walk away, but I’m not finished. This is Mark Leyner here! He needs to know I understood his work! The weird shit, not that commercial crap he degraded into when he lost his faith. He thanks me again, nodding his head. I get a little closer and say, ‘listen Mark, I know you’re dying, and in hell, but just remember that in some ways, we all are.’ The barista is calling me, so I say farewell to the dying author, and that first sip of coffee is the very definition of bliss.
III.
Brother and I go visit an uncontacted island in the pacific. It’s dangerous, as it turns out, because cannibalism is the prevailing custom. Local chief tells me he can get me a real good price for human flesh if I’ve got any connections back home. They take my brother and I on a tour of a flotilla market. Lots of long boats and turtle meat. Human faces, men and women, are floating fresh on the surface of the water. My step-dad rows over to us in a little boat, he must have arrived early, and he says ‘You boys got to try this long pork stuff. I know it's murder-meat, but by-jingoes, is it to die for!’ It’s evil, I decide, to eat our fellow man. There’s no way I’m trying it. The only boat left for us is a giant Tupperware container, with a giant spoon for an oar. My brother doesn’t see the symbolism, he says it’s just a coincidence. Still, the sooner we get back on land, the better. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘There are pirana in the water!’ Don’t be ridiculous, I say to him. Those are just the fish-like faces of the underwater dead.