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<center>
<font face="Arial Black"><font size="6"> SPIN </font></font>
<font size="3">July 2004 issue</font>
<font size="3">Rock n' roll's wildchild has yet to wilt:</font><font size="2"> He's been on your tv screen nonstop for four years, and he can't stay out of the pages of grocery store tabloids. His band Midnight has sold nine million records world-wide, and he says he can't stop now. So who the hell is this guy? And why is it that he only likes to talk about his dog?</font>
<center>http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y23...ol/ModPaul.jpg</center>
By Margaret Howell.</center>
America and Europe feels like they already know Zen Wilting personally. It might be the boil of controversy always swirling around him, it may be that his ex-wife has been the star of every catwalk for the past four years, or it may be because the radio and MTV never get tired of his songs. He's the guy that walked up to Gene Simmons and told him to stop with the "fucking reunion tours, and just quit already." The guy that has been in court twice for assaulting the English parazzi with whatever was lying on the ground. And the guy who finally managed to run laps around Libertine's ex-singer, Peter Doherty's rehab/arrest record.
I was no different. When I arrived at a Millenium Hotel in that almost overlooked the legendary Glasgow festival (where Midnight was slated to headline the following day) I was expecting a cocky, arrogant young man with a chip on his shoulder. I was expecting a rock star. Instead, I ran into an accidental sex symbol that was still coping with his overnight success.
Kenneth Wiltings isn't at all traditionally handsome. He hides behind his stringy blonde hair that looks as though it hasn't been washed in days and his cigarette, squirming on his chair on the balcony of his room. He's wearing a white t-shirt that might've just been freshly ripped from a Hanes undershirt bag, ripped jeans, and a simple bracelet that keeps slipping down his scrawny wrist. Between every question, he greets me with his profile; pale and speckled with a mess of moles. But when he answers, his whole entire face comes alive, and I understand why college girls and grown women alike scurry to the front of his pit as though it were a finish line. It's his lazy smiles, and the placid discontent that haunt his eyes that reassures us that what he sings about is real.
It's been a long ride for Midnight. They're pacing almost every continent in a kickoff of summer tours, and working to promote their new album The Complex which is due out in early October. They are no doubt, the hardest working band to emerge from the states in awhile. According to Zen they've "hit Los Angeles half a dozen times in the past year" and for some reason the ticket sales aren't dwindling. Despite all of the tabloid headlines that follow him wherever he goes, his band has managed to sell a combined nine million copies worldwide with their past two albums, and the upcoming release is held in high expectation by both fans and critics who have both managed to agree and hail the band in the past. In the new generation of music downloaders, and constant pirating, Midnight has managed to pull in outstanding sales in both music and merchandise. So maybe, it isn't about Zen Wilting's front-page drama that's causing all the fuss.
It's difficult to imagine that Manchester managed to cough out another phenomenom since the reign of Joy Division, and the tragically shortlived revolution that Ian Curtis brought onto music. Kenneth Wiltings was born a single child into a quiet flat in the Ancoats district of Manchester. He complainst that as a child, his blonde hair and blue eyes gave 'way to the nickname "Ken doll" wherever he went. A friend of his logically rhymed "Ken" with "Zen" and the name stuck all throughout primary, and later, high school. He describes his father as "cool, collected and charming." Benjamin Wiltings father was a coal miner Thatcherite, that lost use of both legs in an accident. Although, he's unwilling to elaborate on the subject, it's a well-known rumor that his mother panicked when she learned that was no longer capable of bringing in income, and guilt-tripped him until he allegedly went mad and shot himself. A month later, his mother was thrown into a mental institution and he was orphaned at an around fourteen-years-old. It is also rumored that Zen has yet to visit his mother.
At eighteen, he made his way over to New York, where he slept on a slew of couches, and tried his best to keep friends to rely on later. It wasn't long before he was pitchforking in the income. "I was nineteen, I knew all the right people. I was selling dope, but I wasn't willing to try it. That's what makes a successful dealer." A couple of months later, he ran into the first love of his life, a young girl who was living with an amateur porn star at the time, whose name Zen can't even recall, named Angelina Bell. They hit off from the start.
"Oh, man, it was love. Love, love, love. I was so obsessed with that girl, even when she treated me like a dog. She always kept me in my toes. She left me at least once a week, and would stay at her mom's for a few days and always come back home crying. I started living honest with her. I was working my nine-to-fives, getting fired often, but I still held it together for us. Once she started getting pissed at the fact that I wasn't spending enough time with her, she made me quit painting houses and she started waitressing. She was the worst waitress in the world, too, but still, the most wonderful muse."
It was at about that time that he met Midnight drummer Robin Goodridge backstage at a Madison Square Garden Bowie concert.
"We both clicked immediately, because we were those two sneaky bastards that managed to slip backstage just to shake the man's hand. We got to talking, and before we knew it, it was like: 'Hey, man, let's start a band...' "
Midnight recruited three other members, and spent their time building a quiet fan-following through bar gigs and local festivals. Meanwhile, Zen got married, even though he had other things on the agenda.
"I never wanted a quiet life. I always wanted to be someone, and make my mark. Whether that sounds egotistical or not, I don't care. I wanted my music to be heard. See, she [Angelina] thought that I was just doing it for fun and spare cash. I wasn't, I was serious about it. I didn't want to be a rock star, but I wanted to be heard, I wanted to be big. I wanted to start something."
And start something he did. Clive Derringer, a representative for Interscope records stumbled by chance on a drunken Midnight performance at a bar. He later said that he watched "pure magic unravel" as Zen sat on a stool, and continued to sing shakily and play his acoustic guitar while the rest of his band threw themselves teeth-and-nails into a vicious bar brawl at an unkind patron. As soon they were signed, they quickly wrapped an album, the radio got a chokehold on the first single "Trial" from their self-titled debut, and before he knew it, they were on Jay Leno and MTV's then-potent Total Request Live. As they catapulted to the top, with no end in sight, critics were flailing their arms in praise for the breath of fresh air that suddenly took the dull and dreary, Limp Bizkit-driven music scene by fierce storm, and opened a new land of opportunity for up-and-coming indie rockers.
At home, things weren't going so well for Wilting. Angelina Wiltings was pregnant, and she was used to her husband always being around. He was gone for weeks at a time. One night he came home to find her huddled in the bathroom, all bloody and sobbing. She had miscarried. He knew then that she'd never forgive him, and that the marriage was over.
It wasn't long after that she started to become a magazine-friendly face, and soon became an overnight celebrity much like her ex-husband. They both got moderately famous on their own agenda, but it wasn't until they were both being printed in magazines that they both individually blew up. The papers couldn't get enough of the mixed emotions leaking from their divorce. Zen, to this day, claims that it wasn't at all messy, and that whatever Angelina has said about him in the past, he was sure that she was just angry and didn't mean it.
"She's a gorgeous woman. We were meant for each other, but at the same time we weren't. It's hard to make things work when you're both on different agendas. I wasn't ready to settle down yet. Sure, I was ready to be monogamous, but I wasn't ready for the white picket fence, and the baby. But God, when she miscarried, I didn't know what to do with myself. I was suddenly so attached to the idea of being a father, when suddenly it was just ripped away. I felt sick about that for a long time. I still feel sick about that today. My mind is always dizzy with 'what if's ...' "
This didn't at all sway Midnight and their efforts to ride to the top of the charts. Their first album went platinum and spat out three singles. But, they were just warming up.
With his first paycheck, he escaped to a private beach in Ireland, and he built himself a home.
"I was feeling low and down. I promised her that if I ever made it big, I'd build her a castle on the beach. I made it big, and she wasn't around. I built a castle for myself."
In the early mixing of their second album, appropriately titled, Built you a Castle the media frenzy started. Zen couldn't seem to keep himself out of the spotlight. He was said to be romantically linked to has-been, grunge goddess Courtney Love, singer/songwriter Naomi Dwight. He doesn't have much to say about either, but he is quick to defend Courtney and the feud between the court and the custody of her child. "I think the media's unfair to her, and makes her out to be something she isn't. She likes to party, but she loves her kid. Her kid is a wonderful kid, I knew her well. Courtney's magic. She's on fire. You people can't handle that."
After being in-and-out of rehab for over a year for juggling both alcohol and cocaine, during the Built you a Castle tour his drummer, Robin's little sister, Alice brought a sudden light onto the tourbus. Zen claims to had fallen "instantly in love with her" and describes their short romance as "intense, passionate and rock n' roll." It brought a rift between the band, however. Robin saw Zen as a villain for seducing his younger sister, and Zen saw Robin as a villain for trying to break them up.
"I did what any man would do in that situation. I proposed to her, and that was that. Robin shut up."
Although they remained engaged for another four months, Zen insisted that Alice go back to college and graduate, and he gradually broke up with her.
"I just saw it as a 'you're too good for me deal.' I was way too into what I was doing at the time, and she didn't need to be dragged into that. I didn't know who I was, or what I wanted, and the constant sucker punches from the press weren't helping me out any. I was a mess, and the girl was falling apart with me. She was naive, innocent and perfect. I felt guilty for what I was doing to her. We're still good friends, Alice and I. She always gives the best advice, and she always makes me feel better. She's such a beautiful girl."
As Midnight's second album proceeded to make a bigger impact than their first, selling an astounding five-hundred-thousand copies in its opening week, the trouble started. The sudden uproar in the press revolving about his alleged 'one night stands' and drug issues provoked a side of Zen that he didn't even knew he had.
"Wow, that was about the time that they started saying I was dating Roux. A big actor and a big name in music become friends, are of the same sex, and suddenly they're fucking. I've never had a problem with homosexuality, or bisexuality -- I've always been a strong supporter of loving whatever you think is brilliant and aesthetically-pleasing. But, it was beginning to get a little bit frustrating."
He slugged one photographer in the face, and settled that with a supposedly plump sum out of court, and broke a glass over another's head. That one didn't blow over so well. After bail, three months of community service and an unlimited string of fines, he walked away scot-free, and this time, he wasn't hanging out with Roux. The bad boy reputation began to rapidly progress, especially when he was photographed on several occasions hanging out with notorious, Traffic lead-singer, Jill Lockhart.
He's wearing this huge smirk. "Some people say the whole bit about me kissing Jill in the parking lot was staged." He prods a shrug, grinning like a fox, reclining in his chair. "All, I have to say is: 'Come on, Jill-baby, play fair.' " This is the only point in the entirety of the interview where there's a sudden spark of mischief glittering in his eyes, and he seems genuinely devilish.
So what now, Zen Wilting?
"I have a few plans. Do this tour, sweat until I'm drowning in it, keep clean, keep sober, keep away from the short skirts, they only get me in trouble." He takes another drag from his cigarette and winks at me. "Alright, I can't guarantee the part about the short skirts. But, I promise to give everyone more sound music, maybe a pop record next time, until you're all sick of me, or until I cough up both my lungs."
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<font color="#f22735" size="1">[ June 20, 2006 08:59 PM: Message edited by: methadrone ]</font>
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<center>
http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y23...sshirtless.jpg</center>
It's hot hot hot in the summer of love.
Sharpen my fangs, seeking some game in this city.
Fame is like a gun without a name.
I'm crazier now than I've ever been.
-- Ima Robot.[/center]
The chainlinks of his spine were crooked in a hunch, hammering dimples through the white haunt of his skin. He wavered at the edge of the hotel mattress, with an unlit cigarette tilted downwards, kissing the boyish scruff on his chin. In the background canvas, there was a girl tangled up in the paradise of dove white sheets, lying face-down, preaching nothing but a wild fray of black hair. His eyes were a blue that were as dull as a butter knife, nailing something hollow on the Persian rug spread beneath his bare feet. Completely numb behind a feathery, Aryan-blonde scrawl, he kneaded at the gentle folds of his stomach, and finally took a ghost trail towards the window.
Zen was nothing but skin and bones as they'd say; his shoulder blades were bulletproof, his ribcage gnawed sharply through the freckled sheet of his flesh, his spine a narrow splint. English mornings were a soft slate-gray, and the despondent color washed over the room well. Reluctantly, the blade of his thumb flirted with the salmon pink curtain, and when he stitched it aside for a sullen peek-a-boo, he caught wind of just two or three photographers loitering, swamped in raincoats and funeral-black umbrellas.
Recoiling, he slowly smoothed on his undershirt, soon adding a vest and a dress shirt to fall in harmony with his pinstriped pants. He didn't bother with the tie. Before his wallet (with its multicolored currency teeth grinning through) was cleared away, he folded a cylinder of cash, and rained to his haunches to delicately nudge it into her modernized Mary Jane. That would do more than cover the room.
Once upon a time he used to hesitate and glance over his shoulder before he'd close the door. He'd reflect on the night before, and find a spot in the web of his mind to burn the imagery of the girl for safekeeping. But this morning, his gangly arm drew behind him, his back turned, the door mute on its hinges.
The numbers bannering over the elevator were flaring up fluorescent one-by-one, but he pressed through the doors to the flight of emergency stairs. By the third flight, he was snapping on the salty singe of a match, his cigarette cringing into the flame until a cherry spat. Taking the shaky backdoor route of the janitors, he escaped into the cobblestone anatomy of an alleyway, trampling through murky puddles and catching droplets on his hair from the overhead fire escapes, waltzing through the spray of steam. Tomorrow, Edinburgh.
<font color="#f22735" size="1">[ June 20, 2006 08:57 PM: Message edited by: methadrone ]</font>
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(May 13th, 2003.) Roux Ellery and Brit rocker, Zen Wilting have been spotted together at the Angora Rehabilitation Center just outside of Los Angeles yesterday. Inside sources claim that the two have been getting cozy on the sixty acre retreat, and that their friendship is on the brink of being something more. Ellery's publicist fervently denies the claims, and just recently made a public statement: "We understand that drug addiction is a serious illness, and that Roux is out doing the best he can to get better. I hope that the public backs him up in his time of need. As for the claims that he and Zen Wilting are having a relationship, they are ludicrous and false." Well, maybe so, but their legion of teenage girl fans may just disagree. Wilting's publicist could not be reached for comment.
<center>___________________________</center>
Four days post-detox, Zen Wilting clipped a bag full of brand-new vinyl under his arm, and threaded through the bustling streets of downtown London. He knew no matter how big his aviators were, he'd always be recognized by somebody, but so far, it was only a teenage girl who wanted to try out her new camera phone. Casual in the billow of his bleach-splattered t-shirt and fresh jeans, he rounded a corner only to find a string of the paparazzi across the street, straddling the entrance of his hotel, beneath the sugar-white awning. Already, lightening flashes of bulbs were burning blue-pixeled pinholes in his vision. But, he braved it, swallowing his pride and jaywalking to the sidewalk. Clipping the brim of his woolen beanie, he pulled it over his brows, and let his chin falter, as so to make their photographs worth less.
After rehab, his glow was restored, but his weight was regenerating. They were spitting all sorts of comments to provoke a full-facial shot. But, it was the balding guy in the gray suit that burnt the wick of the cherrybomb.
"Hey, Zen! Zen! Look! Zen! Zen, one look at me, real quick--Zen, how's Roux? Is he waiting in your room?"
The last thing he was expecting was the sudden crash-landing of a fist nailing into his nose. While only one other photographer came to his aid, the rest were absolutely thrilled at their sequence shots. And thus, came at least three frontpage tabloid photos, and a court date.
<center>___________________________</center>
(September 26th, 2003.) Sources say that Zen Wilting was straight-faced when the verdict read 'guilty' Tuesday morning in reference to his assault of a photographer in late July. The photographer, a member of the notorious British paparazzi allegedly made comments involving the rumor that Wilting and Roux Ellery were dating in rehab. Wilting is expected to pay over $10,000 dollars in fines, perform 120 hours of community service and take anger management classes.
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Dear Alice,
I'm home again. The home I never took you to because I wasn't quite ready to brave it at the time. Of course, I miss Chalet, you know, the archaic, piss-stained apartment building lodged between a strip club and an adult 'book' store with the fancy name. I'm staying in a motel room just outside the center of the city. I've decided to hang up this thing called fame and breathe like a real person again. I was humbled to find a bible waiting for me on this dreary little dresser. For days I entertained myself burning holes on words that seemed random, but weren't so random at all. The holes eventually spelled out a sentence that the cleaning lady will never be able to read unless she has an identical copy right next to her. I did all the walking you'd expect me to do. I waved 'hi' to Angelina's old flat, where her ex-porn star boyfriend probably still lives and breathes and clenches his fist everytime he sees my face on television, vowing to bash my skull in. But, it always feels nice to say I won.
Every time I pass a high school, I'm suddenly aware of you, and this really strange feeling lurches over me. I know you weren't in high school when we met, but you've always reminded me of a girl that was sweet sixteen. With your fair-haired grace and pretty bubblegum mouth. The way you looked so innocent even when we were pounding each other senseless in gas station and airplane bathrooms alike. We spread our love internationally. So, how are you? Robin tells me you're well, but I know he's still bitter. I heard something about a boyfriend, I heard something about fashion design. I heard a lot of little clips that never built up to much of anything. I'd like to hear about your boyfriend. You know as well as I do it's out of curiosity more than jealousy. I wonder if you wear his football letter jacket and kiss him at lover's lane, or if you actually have a place together and plan on marrying. Don't do that, you're too young for that.
I ended up swinging by that crusty old bar, I told you about that used to be my social scene when I worked at a grocery store. Every summer I stop by, with my notebook tucked under my arm and looking for inspiration. Needless to say, last summer my notebook was full of butterknife-dull memories. Though the antics of those girls were amusing, I had to rely on my memory and nostalgia to cough out a record. NME loved it, though.
Dear Alice, I met a girl. I know you've heard me say that so many times. But if I could emphasize that any more through my writing, I would. I'll spare you the details, but she's a drummer, and she kisses like a flower. These days, I've been trying so hard to sober up, because I don't want to make the same mistake twice. I've come too far to turn my back on love completely, so I figure, why not give it one last go before I turn twenty-six? I flushed my Valium down the toilet in honor of you, and I've been dry of cocaine for weeks. Well, alright, last night I had a line, but it was so measly and unfilling it didn't mean a thing.
Of course, always write back. I'll be at this address for another month now. Until then, keep your wings spread and keep the color in your cheeks, cherub-girl. And set London on fire with your hips and neverending legs. You'll always be my piece of mind, even if my mind is scrambling to rest in peace.
Love always,
Zen Wilting.
P.S: Say hello to the angels for me.
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May 9th, 2003.
Dear Alice,
Don't believe what you read or what your brother tells you. I'm not in rehab, I'm sitting on a throne of ash in a huge palace on some forgotten island where the natives resorted to cannibalism and ate each other alive years and years ago. My clothes are sticky and my crown's made of safety-pins with cushioned tips- because they don't trust me with those things. I'm not drinking alcohol, but cheap sparkling cider. I'm not snorting coke, I'm lacing my nose with the world's most expensive Ajax--no coupon-cutting allowed.
Or maybe I am in rehab.
Everyone here has a white face and walks with a deadbeat limp. There's grass, so much of it, but when we lay on it we get pricked by bees and tattooed by mosquitos. Night and day is all the same. If you ask me, whenever I look out the window the sky seems to be pink. It's the prettiest color, and reminds me of all the pretty cunts I've buried my love in. My roommate is dark, he curls up in the corner. The corner is white, the plaster is cracked, and even his feet leave sweat prints behind. It's impossible for me to sleep at night, so I listen to him weep in the bathroom. Once I walked in -- maybe to console him but he devoured me into his arms and dragged me to his level. After a cringe set in my bones, I finally let him starve the last of my life from me, and felt almost euphoric in another person's arms. He felt warm, even though I know his skin was clammy. I'll never let him touch me again, though.
A nurse delivered last month's Alternative Press magazine to me. I guess when she was wandering around the echo of the grocery store she saw my face and thought of me, as her children swung from limb-to-limb like tree branches. She cuts coupons. I half-recognized the shoot. It was from a few months ago, and I wore fake adhesive eyelashes and a bowler, much like Kubrick's take on Alex DeLarge. I find it how ironic that I'm looking at the spread now. This was how he must've felt, all holed up and hallucinating a brutal reality.
Last morning I had a dream about a daisy that had a mouth and was swaying in a starry field, and it was shrieking. For some reason, it reminded me of you. I named this Daisy Alice, and I couldn't tell you why. Maybe it's because you didn't scream enough, maybe it was because every time I wiped my feet on your spine you were sitting pretty and pretended you were dead until your nails came out at midnight. I'm not leaving a return address, not until I'm out of here, because my stomach's churning and I'm afraid that you'll finally do it. I'm afraid you'll finally tell me I'm the scum of the earth, or come bail me out into your arms again.
I hate you. You stupid girl. Why couldn't you tell me what I was before it got this far? Why couldn't you just gauge out one of my eyes, and leave me for the dead? Why did you have to give me so much love?
I love you, I don't mean that. I never want to see you again.
No, not that either.
I'm sick and tired.
Yours, not yours,
Kenneth.
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<center>I'll talk to you, but only on one condition:
That you throw away every preconceived notion that you have
about rockstars right now. Because this is not about one. </center>
I want to tell you that he was the most familiar thing in my life but that would only be a half-truth. He was so private, which is not something that the world would ever suspect from the media's whore. But he wasn't private because he was unwilling to share; If I would've just spread my thighs a little further, if I would've let him get mattress-burn on his elbows, he would've given me his bank account number, told me his most irrational fears, and then writhed his tongue in the most ADD-addled fashion (because that muscle has never been anything more than an extension of his mind). He was private because Zen Wilting has been Zen Wilting for so long that he's forgotten who Kenneth is. Oh, he can tell you what he does. He can tell you what he likes, where he grew up, and who he's fucked. But he can't tell you why he's afraid of the ocean, of happiness, of being loved back, or of someone truly understanding him.
What?
Oh, I know, that's the last thing you'd have ever expected me to say. I guess it's easier to assume that musicians are the needy ones. That they write and play their music just for the sole purpose of finding that one person, or that mass of people, that just get it. That just get them. And I know you know his lyrics, and I know what you're thinking: That Zen Wilting sings his secrets and gives them away just as cheaply as his life, which the London Sun will pay you five-hundred pounds for. But you're wrong about him. Zen is too naive and too self-deprecating to ever assume that anyone would understand him. Not because he thinks he's better than you (and not because he knows he's better than you--even though he is) but because he, at his core, doesn't know that he's brilliant. He doesn't think that he has anything to say. He doesn't think that his every action, nevermind his every word, is a revolution waiting to happen. And it is. All of it is.
I spent a year on tour with the boys of Midnight and I remember Nigel telling me one morning while we both sat on the couch, smoking cigarettes and watching Zen's stomach deteriorate because he hadn't eaten in months, that he was glad Zen was holding me at night instead of a bottle. I sat backstage while he discreetly dedicated songs to me, staring at girls and touching their fingers in a way that they could never fully appreciate. They were in love with an idea. I was in love with the real fucking thing and he was all mine. Well, mostly mine. When you love Zen Wilting you have to learn that you are obligated to share:
Not with the world. With Winston.
Winston is his dog, and he and I spent three months together at Kenneth's home, which I can only describe to you as a castle. It's placed on a private beach, overlooking an ocean that Zen will only wade in ankle-deep. He can't tell you why, but I can: He's scared of the ocean because it's bigger than him. It's more significant than him. Where he can look at it and find inspiration, he is afraid that no one will ever be able to accomplish half as much as that by looking at him. He might be afraid of drowning but he's never been afraid of being inside. The ocean would let you in. Zen won't. I know it seems hypocritical because he prides himself on getting into everyone else. But his hypocrisy is beautiful. Take it, or leave it.
He does things you'd never understand: writing love notes on arms, developing obsessions, proposing to things he doesn't intend to keep, beating the shit out of his bandmates for questioning his loyalty, not speaking to you for a week because you read his journal, whispering in riddles and rifts, writing letters that both say I Hate You and I Love You, and telling you that a tab of ex is really aspirin. But they're just taboo because the world hasn't caught on yet.
And then there's his music. The only thing that I've ever been jealous of is his guitar. Oh, he fucked me. But he makes love to his Gibson. It's never been about the theatrics for him. The sweat? The falling-to-the-floor and slamming of his hips? Those three minutes of song are more real than you've ever been in your entire life. They are more real than you could comprehend and they are more real than I'd care to explain to you. He doesn't share because he doesn't know how.
I don't share because I'm a greedy fly.
(Written by Alice Goodridge's player.)
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Time was creeping on the phantoms of four am, and he shrank away into the shadows but waltzed under the moth-cycloned squint of the street lamps, his rented station wagon engine scarred and congested. Not from flu, just from old age.
There was still a patch of inappropriate Christmas candy-caned wrapping paper scotch-taped to the bottom of the tripod. He tried, and failed to wrap it for her, even though the anatomy of the telescope was far from visibly compromising. There was only that one shred of evidence, though. Posing like some stranger ready to rap at her door; all sleek rocket-ship white, it sat at her door aware of the risk that it might get stolen, but kept its black scope hitched high in arrogance, nonetheless.
Stamped to the side profile of the scope was his signature construction paper heart, scrawled with a note written in a fading spurt of black fountain pen.
With this
we'll be just a little bit closer.
Zen W.
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Chat transcript with Midnight. 6/28/05.
Preston: This Preston at KROCK, 92.3 FM, the new music revolution. Tonight, we have two very special guests that we have parked in a van on location. Midnight's Zen Wilting and bassist Felix Manhattan. How are you guys tonight?
Zen Wilting: We're doing alright.
Felix Manhattan: It's night there?
Preston: You sound a little muffled there, is there something wrong with the mic?
ZW: No, he's trying to smoke it.
FM: Can you smoke it?
Preston: (laughs)
Preston: So, guys, any news on a new album?
ZW: We're working on some songs right now. It'll probably be a late fall, early winter release.
FM: Yes.
ZW: Still in the songwriting stage. We haven't even thought about recording or mixing yet.
FM: There's a girl.
ZW: He thought they were called 'girl cheese' sandwiches.
FM: But those aren't in our band.
Preston: A new member?
FM: Yes.
ZW: Her name is Cassandra--- (muffled)
FM: (muffled)
ZW: Cassandra Antoniou. She's our keyboardist.
FM: She's a Scorpio.
ZW: Yeah, she's a Scorpio. And a ballerina.
FM: Hi Cassandra.
ZW: Hi.
Preston: So you guys are planning to add keyboard to your next album?
ZW: The songs are going to be a bit brighter, more poppy.
FM: Not just the keyboard. Cassandra, too.
Preston: Is she going to wear a suit, too?
ZW: Absolutely not. She will be naked.
FM: She'll wear those censor bars.
ZW: Construction paper censor bars.
FM: Shaped like oranges..
Preston: Do you think the formula of the band will change with a female onboard?
FM: (muffled)
ZW: (muffled)
ZW: Sorry, smoking. Uh, no. Probably not. It was only an all-male band in the first place by
coincidence.
FM: Yes.
Preston: So you say the new album is going to poppier.
ZW: That's what I said.
FM: He might have (muffled) hearing problems.
FM: Zen bought a telescope.
ZW: I did.
Preston: Oh?
ZW: The last few albums were poppy too. Just minus the keyboard.
Preston: Well your lyrics have always been very cryptic.
FM: Isn't there a flower called a poppy?
ZW: Bagels, too. When I had to drug-test I always blamed it on the bagel.
ZW: They're not cryptic at all. My music isn't pretentious and despondent. I got a lot of love,
you know that?
Preston: Alright, I'm going to take some questions from fans. Vanessa, you're on the line.
Vanessa: Zen! (squealing) My name is Nessa!
Vanessa: Will you marry me?
FM: Yes.
ZW: We don't like Nessa. Next.
Preston: (laughs) Todd, you're on the line.
Todd: Hey, guys. What's up? I had a question about Brief Things, from The Complex. I was just wondering where you were at in your life when you wrote it.
FM: That guy from that band, didn't he do a movie called On The Line?
ZW: I was seeing a girl at the time. Naomi Dwight. I guess--what band?
Preston: N'Sync.
Todd: (laughing)
ZW: Yes.
ZW: Yes, he did. What the (censored) are you talking about?
FM: Sorry. He said 'Todd, you're on the line.'
ZW: I'm smoking the rest of this.You're out.
Preston: Naomi Dwight?
ZW: You're out.
ZW: Yeah, the singer. We had a brief fling. One of those wild, three week romances where we spent every minute of every day together and decided we were in love. (laughing) Anyway, she always told me how I reminded her of a sweet little boy that was lost in a supermarket. That's what it's about.
Todd: Thanks, man. Also, hey, I just wanted you to know that I named my dog Winston.
ZW: What kind of dog is it?
Todd: A puli.
ZW: That's really brilliant. I love pulis, they're the best dogs you can have. They're really loyal, they don't shed, very intelligent. Everyone should buy a puli.
FM: Zen, look at that button.
ZW: I dare you to push it.
FM: (clattering noise)
Preston: Thanks, Todd.
ZW: Todd was a great guy.
FM: I don't think the button works?
ZW: Do you know what happens when you press that button? You blow up Madagascar.
Preston: Okay, this is our last caller. Chloe, you're speaking with Midnight.
ZW: Hello, Chloe. Very pretty name.
Chloe: Zen, what's your opinion on groupies?
ZW: Here, press this one.
FM: (clattering)
Preston: Hello? Hello? We seem to have lost contact with Midnight.
Preston: Well, we'll cut to a quick commercial break and hopefully we'll have any technical difficulties fixed by then. You're listening to KROCK, at 92.3 FM.
-
Part one: Losing his footing on the ladder.
There was a thin rail of cocaine mapped out on the night stand beside the tasteless floral printing devouring the default twin-sized motel mattress. The lamplight had a gloom to it. It quivered like a moth-wing; a nauseous yellow. The bed was yet untouched, and there was a shirtless boy mashed at the very edge with every letter of his spine quirking in an unholy chain through his sallow skin. His elbows were nailed to his thighs, which were wafting in loose dress pants. Even when panned out, the room at large was an ugly thing. Seventies-styled block dresser, venetian blinds, a complimentary, white terry cloth towel drooling over the threshold of the bathroom onto the brown carpet.
Unlike the other boys, while promoting Midnight's first album, he had already adapted to the sleazy lifestyle of hotels. Because his wife always had him on both feet, and nowadays she didn't like to leave him alone in the apartment to spaz and tear up the furniture like a vicious dog---he slept down the road until morning when she called him to morosely inform him he was allowed to come back. Always, he'd stagger down the block with restlessness cursing every pore. Her arms would be an open venus-trap, he'd crumble into her and they'd hook limbs and suffocate themselves in a whirlwind of make-up sex.
But now, he was in a different state. He couldn't make that small pilgrimage between her thighs because he'd have to take two haywire flights and he'd become unbuckled with jet lag. When she said the word: 'divorce' it rang hollow in his ears. She shredded their tongued pact ('til death do us part) into confetti, and the papers were on special airborne rush delivery.
This was his newest low, lower than low. There had been a thousand times when she stubbornly swore in her chronic meltdowns that she didn't love him, anymore. This time, there had been a keen hatred underlining the circuit board of her prose, something he never recognised in her tone before. It made his belly somersault, and instantly glazed him in a panic-attack. He had knelt like a crippled saint for hours, with his gangly arms worshipping the toilet bowl, dry-heaving and clawing at the freckled tile.
Now, after torching his hysteria, he waited. Kenneth's lips kept threading in-and-out (like the drumbeat of his consciousness) of a silent prayer while he waited for the still lemon-yellow phone posing next to his miniature coke avalanche to rattle.
There was a point where the ring was perfectly imagined, and he lunged for it, and began to sputter ninety-miles-per-hour in wild cokejive to the make-believe lover on the other end. After the mechanical anthem of the operator flooded the line he slammed the phone in the cradle. He scratched himself raw because the sweat made him feel claustrophobic. An hour later, he punched in her number, their number. The tick-tock of silence between each ring injected his heart into his sour throat, but finally, by the third buzz of disappointment it cut abruptly to the answering machine, which was recorded in her pretty chirp:
Hey, this is Angelina and Zen. We're not home.
Leave a message, and maybe we'll back to you if we feel like it.
The heel of his palm quivered and mashed against his leg, running back and forth, digging hard lines. Once the beep clipped to the end of the familiar message, he was at first shocked into an absence of words, although he'd been expecting it.
"Angel... " He pressed, his tone already swelling. "Angel, I...."
He kept his hand busy by tweaking the lamp on and off with a secondhand strobe light effect. Then, he began to talk.
"Pick up, please. Pick up the fucking phone. I'm ready, I'm ready to stop." He skeptically fumbled for more, pawing at the razorblade fresh from a box-cutter, cradling it like a child would a lightening bug in his fist. "I just started out, but I'll stop. This is not nearly as important to me as you. You know I'd never---I'd never look at another girl. You're everything to me, life, death, all the breath in the brackets in between. I feel so--" His accent broke into a higher pitch, and suddenly he was stifled by tears. He rocked himself, his eyes creasing to battle the tears, his whole face pinkening. "I feel so sick. We made a promise, Angelina, to each other that we'd never stop loving--never stop loving. I know the baby's killing you, I know, and it kills me too that I was late---fuck, I feel so sick." And while he howled at her accusingly, he was unaware of the blood seeping through the slats of his chalky knuckles, and mainlining down his wrist. "Let me in. Let me come home. Just let me come home, I--"
If you are satisfied with your message please hang up.
He just let the phone bungee-jump limply to the floor by its out-of-date spiral cord. Although he didn't feel the gash in his hand, he saw it, and smeared away the razorblade on the bedspread. That night, he stayed in place, expecting the phone to ring even though it was on the floor and off the line. He kept nervously running his hands back and forth over his thighs, harder, harder, harder.
When dawn burned, Robin Goodridge peeled open the unlocked door, and found him on the floor. For a second, he thought he saw the corpse of his bandmate and had to brace himself. But, then Zen stretched out on his stomach and squinted up at him in the inappropriate shroud of cherubic sunlight.
"I think it's over, Robin. I think it's done."
It opened a fresh page in this diary of sucker love. And the world watched as he swaggered his way to the top with methods that would've made Ziggy Stardust himself cringe.
-
After the divorce between Zen and Angelina was finalized, he went through this stage where he was silent. At first, we were set for a club tour around the states. Then, it became a full-fledged tour of the North America. Before we knew it, so many people caught on that we were filling up ten thousand people a venue, we were in Tokyo, in Sydney, he was singing to Brazil. By the time the venues started to provide seats alongside the pit, our pockets were being lined.
Before our first tour, Felix was just kind of.. in the band. We all appreciated him because he was a really great bassist, I mean, really smart. He came up with almost every underlying melody and he fit his riffs to Zen's word perfectly. We didn't talk much, because no one got him. We weren't sure what was up with him, but Zen suspected he was autistic. Either way, it didn't matter that he was in his own little world because we got some really good music out of it. The tourbus was always quiet. Zen would sit by the window and stare, with a notebook on his knee. Nige would read books. I always kept the driver company.
We kept our distance from Zen, because he was really temperamental. Anything, anytime could set him off. But we all forgave him because we knew it was hard on him. Angelina, the baby, and suddenly the critics. The doctors had no diagnosis, but he kept spitting up blood, and because of this he never ate. It was when he was down to a hundred and twenty-five pounds that he finally realized he needed to go to the hospital. But that came later, it took him a good year to realize there was something wrong. He claimed that he didn't talk either because he had nothing to say or that he was keep his voice for later that night. What shocked us all was that he sold himself like a whore to the people that showed up to our shows. He gave them everything. He'd climb balconies and swing from them half-naked, he did the most obscene things with his guitar against his amp, he'd fall like some open-armed martyr in the crowd, and somehow, he'd find the energy afterwards to sign autographs and chat for hours.
Nigel and I noticed something. Felix and Zen began to communicate without saying a word. Felix would glance this way, Zen would nod. Zen would glance that way and nod at something and Felix would get up and turn it over in his hand. They'd sit on the bus and stare at one another for hours. It was eerie, because I swear to God they both spoke with their eyes. There would be moments where it'd be completely quiet and rainy. Zen would walk over to his bunk, pull out his guitar and start to sing out of his notebook. Felix would sit on the floor, and he'd hammer out riffs that fit flawlessly.
My little sister rode on the tail of their divorce, maybe two months into it. She was supposed to visit us for a day. I wanted her to meet the band and see a few American cities. For some reason, it never once crossed my mind that her and Zen would get involved. I was used to seeing him so obsessed with Angelina he'd never even look at another woman. I never knew him before they were in a relationship, I didn't know what to make of him with another woman, let alone my sister. She was nineteen at the time. The moment she came in that bus she was making eyes at him. He ignored her. He wanted nothing to do with her.
I don't know how she persuaded him, how she managed to make him let go for a few hours, but she healed him. I caught them in the same hotel room and they ran away laughing like maniacs. I was so fucking pissed that he was sleeping with my little sister. You have no idea. He stole our manager's keys and they drove off for two days, which of course, postponed a show. When they got back they were grinning like idiots. Felix was the only person that wasn't fuming. I don't know how it started, but I knew it had something to do with my ego and the fact I didn't want one of my best friends sleeping with my little sister. We got into some brawl, and it took two people to tear Zen off of me. Even with Alice there, he still wasn't right.
Of course, my sister didn't even look at me when the fight was over. She walked into the cramped bus bathroom with him and wiped away his bloody nose. I mean, I was pretty sure my nose was broken, my jaw was out of whack and I couldn't see out of one eye, but yeah, she didn't even ask: "how are you feeling, Robin?"
Zen and I were over it really quick. Alice finished out the tour with us, and they spent some time apart. They weren't broken up, but he had a lot of things to take care of. He built the house, up near Galway and she went back to school. Personally, I don't know what happened between them. But they were always on and off, and he always made my sister cry. I hated him because he still wasn't over Angelina yet and was using my sister as a rebound. He trampled all over her, he'd break up with her, change his mind, get back with her, change his mind again and the cycle was sadistic and endless for a good year and a half before his conscience finally jogged up to him. He ended it with my sister through a letter, and though she'd never let me see it, I already know what it says. It reads like a rejection from some venerable University: "I'm sorry, we regret to inform you that..."
Zen and Alice still see each other now and again. I swear, they sleep with one another at least once a year, and my Mom is always battering me and telling me to keep that horrible bastard away from my sister. What she doesn't understand is that I did try, but no matter what happens, no matter where Alice is in life, I think that if he beckoned to her, she'd come. If she was married, she'd leave without a note, if she had an important job (which she does, now that's she's graduated and become a young lady) Zen would tell her that he'd give her a thousand times her salary because he's arrogant like that. Just last summer she claimed to have "ran into Zen" which loosely translates into the fact that Zen probably flew up to see her on whim and walked into her house without even knocking first.
It's not easy watching your best friend walk all over your little sister. But both Alice and I have one weak spot when it comes to him: we'd do just about anything to see him sober and grinning like he has a secret that he can't wait to unveil to the world on his deathbed, someday.
<font color="#EE0000" size="1">[ July 06, 2005 05:51 AM: Message edited by: bulletproof cupid ]</font>
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<center>i wish i could eat the salt off of your lost faded lips
we can cap the old times make playing only logical harm
we can cap the old lines clay-making that nothing else will change
but she can read
she can read
she can read
she can read
she's bad
oh, she's bad
but it's different now
that i'm poor and aging
i'll never see this face again
you'll go stabbing yourself in the neck
we could find new ways of living make playing only logical harm
we could top the old times clay-making and nothing else will change
but she can read
she can read
she can read
she can read
she's bad
oh, she's bad
it's different now that i'm poor and aging
i'll never see this place again
you'll go stabbing yourself in the neck
it's in the way that she poses
it's in the things that she puts in my hair
her stories are boring and stuff
she's always calling my bluff
she puts the, she puts the weights into my little heart
and she gets in my room and she takes it apart
she puts the weights into my little heart
i said she puts the weights into my little heart
she packs it away
it's in the way that she was
her heaven is never enough
she puts the weights in my heart
she puts the, she puts the weights into my little heart</center>
-
(Written in a compulsively neat script in his journal.)
Tonight hell froze over.
Zen W.
-
"They put on the best fucking live show I've ever seen man, they are fucking nuts," the guy with the military buzz and beefy arms informs me. I nod vaguely, yet somehow I doubt it.
The Bowery Ballroom is packing kids tonight. It seems as though they all met up online first and decided in unison to make sure to avoid any cliches. There are just a handful of shaggy-haired boys in suits that are too young to drink at the bar, and too chic to cram into the pit. They stand at the side, hands stuffed in their pockets, trying not to look at all excited for Midnight's set. But the boy in the middle, he remains jittery in place. His friends pretend not to notice he's ruining his cool. There are girls in tiny skirts and middle-aged, scruffy men with tattoos lining the bar. A girl with a wilting mohawk stands to my right, and keeps trying without any success to text message someone. The battery runs out and she slaps her phone shut in defeat.
The Threat Wave open, they're a Danish trio who are apparently making a huge wave over there. The New York crowd bobs sheepishly, chatting in between songs, chewing their fingernails. But the appearance of the Midnight roadies taping down wires and set lists, makes some girls shriek and others stare at the crooners in utter disdain. Eventually, Pulp's "Pink Glove" materializes and the stage abandons its glow. The cover art for Built you a Castle banners behind the drumset, and one at a time, the boys emerge in immaculately tailored suits.
They tiptoe into 'Untitled'; Wilting sways underneath the brim of his fedora, and his sharp murmurs fill up the room and leave it shipwrecked in silence, while his hand curls around the microphone, straightening it to every curve of his words. He seems aloof. Manhattan seems to be distraught by something in the far corner, even though his bass-playing is flawless, Nigel remains steady in place, and Goodridge solemnly throttles his drums.
The guy next to me explodes into loud applause when the song finishes. I still don't understand what he means. Though their song was on-key, and their performance was strangely hypnotizing, I still don't know what to make of the boys.
But an appropriate flare of red lights shower the audience and lighten Midnight's shadows. Then Wilting kicks into an opening in a spray of lyrics that all blur intensely together:
"I'm gonna pull you in close
I'm gonna wrap you up tight
I'm gonna play with the braids that you came here with tonight
I'm gonna hold your face, and toast the snow that fell
Cos friends don't waste wine when there's words to sell"
The crowd stirs----and then all at once it seems, they all go crazy. I see the ties of the boys in the far corner flipping over shoulders.
Nigel echos background vocals under the deep notes of the crooner: "Take my love in small doses." Zen rips away from the microphone, with a fresh-lit cigarette and manages to get a few drags out of it while he feeds in to the rhythm guitar, circling his bassist and wrapping him up in corded knots that Manhattan takes awhile to step out of. He stubs his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe, and reaches out both of his arms to the audience, he motions them to sing along before he breaks into the second verse.
Eventually Felix straddles the very edge of the stage---the girls claw, the boys try to look stoic, and Zen Wilting has somehow lost his shirt and tie. Every dress shirt is soaked with sweat, the fans are belting out every lyric, and Zen pogos around, spitting out into the audience. But no one seems to mind. The surprise harmonica attached to the tail-end of "Cross-eyed Girl" their only track that is giddy and silly both in the terms of lyrics and three repetitive, vintage punk chords throws the mohawk girl beside me off: "They're right, that bastard is shit-crazy!"
At the encore, Zen suddenly prolongs the song by suddenly bolting backstage. Strangely, no one around me looks alarmed, they're all wearing these huge, expectant grins and for a moment, I'm so bored I start to try to figure out who's on drugs. The band is playing elevator music, together, they formulate a long, brooding tail-end to a song that still has not ended to fill up the absence in vocals. Then, the heads are turning. It's not Superman, but it's Wilting running out from a corner exit, and he's climbing up the tall balconies like a child at some Olympic-sized jungle-gym.
The rabid fans on the ceiling-high balcony grab his wrist and pull him into safety. He seems to have wanted to wade on the edge for a moment for the thrill, but he's pulled into a wild embrace. A bouncer has to literally tear girls and boys alike from him, it's pure rock n' roll hysteria in an art school crowd: and the rest of Midnight don't seem at all concerned for his safety.
About five minutes later, Wilting returns, wearing bloody battle scars and a shit-eating grin. He takes a swig of his Heineken, the band draws out the song a little longer, and finally, with the pulse of the bass, he swaggers up to the microphone, his black strap streaking diagonally across his chest. Goodridge sits back down, as he's been standing like the little drummer boy with a vulture arch for the past ten minutes, pounding his sticks without relent.
They finish off the song abruptly without the cheesy fireworks that so many bands that battle with them on the charts are famous for. They don't come together for a bow. They ditch their instruments at once and bullet backstage, but just after Zen reaches for the crowd again before his hands come together around his microphone.
"Good-bye, New York. You all were great fucks."
And I left the show with raised eyebrows. Midnight had finally sold themselves to me with not just their music, but now, their live show too. But hopefully, Zen remembered the condom when he shamelessly fucked us all.
<font color="#f22735" size="1">[ June 20, 2006 09:00 PM: Message edited by: methadrone ]</font>
-
-
"Well, the thirtieth we're starting you guys out in San Diego, you're gonna play a show that night. We have it set up that you preview three or four songs. Keep in mind it's just a club tour, it's not the record tour yet. Radio promotion, giveaways, we have you boys set to host a night of videos on MTV2, and then you have a cover with GQ the week after that. Los Angeles, Dallas, etcetera--and then the last show in the states is in uhhh.. Boston. That gives you about a week before you hit Europe, we're doing one show in Brazil, one in Tokyo, and one in Sydney. You following? Zen?"
Zen nodded, as though Clive could hear him. His manager waded in a shallow puddle of silence before he reluctantly croaked the singer's name again: "Zen?"
"Yeah, I'm good. So wait, when's the record---"
"October 26th in the states. That's all that really matters. October, November, those are big months for you kids. We're gonna take advantage of every Halloween and Christmas festival that we can, especially the Christmas ones. You're shooting the video September 8th, we have Sophie Muller lined up---opposed?"
"I ...don't even know who that is."
"She just did that Killers video."
"..She did a fucking Killers video? Why the fuck are you---"
"She did No Doubt too."
"Oh, that's okay then."
Clive paused for a moment, and then with a sudden lurch of animation through the static of cell phones that ranged overseas, he filled up the line with laughter.
"By the way, I love the thing you're doing with the drummer. Making out everywhere and all that, the press is going nuts."
"I didn't notice." Zen wanted to smile against his cigarette, but he couldn't. His mind was disjointed in a thousand fragments-- he was still trying to comprehend his mad itinerary. It wasn't any different from the last album's promotion. He wasn't tired or overwhelmed. He just knew he'd miss being completely like a teenager milking the summer; being fascinated with a girl, tonguing any pill that came his way, re-learning the alphabet of the stars. He knew he'd miss her. But the worst part was the boyscout knots in his belly, churning with the steadfast pulse of anxiety. His tongue was burning to dot their silences with truths versus riddles, with firm questions rather than open-ended ones. All he wanted to do was for this trembling little flower to survive, even when the dark and claws of ice setting in.
"Well, I got to get around to calling Robin. We're having a meeting the first show, to make some adjustments to your rider. We're having problems with the celery and Stella Artois."
"---With the celery?"
"Night, kid."
"Goodnight." But he already knew before he thumbed over the 'end' button that Clive had already cut the line. Freckling his door ashtray with glowing, stabbed-out embers, he turned to stare out driver's side window of his gagging station wagon. He pinched the radio dial and his eyes rolled back to freefall in a black socket canopy; twitching and humming to the dated lull of Robert Smith's voice. And he hated the Cure.
-
The lead singer's a drug-addicted, boozing, mentally-unstable womanizing protagonist in tabloid fodder, the bassist is a rumored genius with an undiagnosed case of autism, the lead guitarist is very openly gay with an ever meaner case of obsessive compulsive disorder, and the drummer? Well, he's just a normal guy. Blender sits down with Midnight's Robin Goodridge for a quick Q and A.
Blender: So how do you do it?
Robin: (Laughing) Funny, I already know what you're talking about. It's not easy, but somehow I've managed.
Blender: Rumors have been floating around that you left Midnight this summer, and rejoined.
Robin: Yeah, it's true. Zen and I were having some differences. Not creative ones either. I was just growing sick of the Alice-and-Zen chronicles. Alice is my younger sister. They've been off and on for the past what? Four years? Anyway, it's at the point now where they don't get back together, they just bicker and drive one another crazy. I figured, hey, if I want this shit to stop I'm going to have to put my foot down.
Blender: Did it work?
Robin: Oh, I guess we'll find out a year from now.
Blender: Tell us about the new album.
Robin: As of right now, it's untitled. But we have all the songs recorded, we just need to mix them and add some final touches. It's a little happier than the former ones. There's more of an animated sound. I like it though. I think the fans will really appreciate something that will lift them up.
Blender: How long did it take to record?
Robin: Not long at all. Things came together relatively easily as opposed to our other sessions. We'd have Zen in one corner, smoking a joint, yelling: "This isn't how it is!" Calvin rolling his eyes, and Felix staring out the window. This time the band didn't have as much ADD, we just sort of connected.
Blender: Do you think that after the last tour, which lasted a whole year and a half, that the groupies will be calmed down this fall?
Robin: I don't know. Zen really likes the attention, he'll talk to anyone. The rest of us are really wary about that. I've been in a committed relationship for the past five years, so any of Midnight's groupies have never really paid off for me in the end. Though, there was a rumor that surfaced on the internet and started to leak on the circuit that Calvin impregnated some random fan at a show in Dallas, and the girl was demanding child's support. We all laughed about it except for Zen and Felix. It's been how many years? Neither Zen or Felix realized Calvin was gay. When he told them, like fucking---"wow, you guys really didn't know?" they both just sort of nodded and went back to their business. I still can't get over that.
Blender: So planning on playing any shows with Lax?
Robin: No. We're two different sorts of bands. I'm sure that Zen and Sybel are doing their best to keep their relationship private, and bringing it into the music is just plain corny. We all have more tact than that.
Blender: Any new plans for the live show?
Robin: Yes. Smoke machines, dancing women, lots of banners, fireworks, fire torches, onstage crucifixion.
Blender: Really?
Robin: No, not at all. But maybe we'll all wear matching ties.
<font color="#f22735" size="1">[ August 16, 2005 06:02 PM: Message edited by: methadrone ]</font>
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The apartment felt clammy and damp; he swore it was greasing his pores and sticking to his brow. The curtains at the window fluttered like a confused moth, and he could hear the sky gargling with a looming threat. She swayed past him in nothing but cotton underwear into the kitchen. He heard the ribs of the fridge rustling, a potential glass clinking and a moment later she emerged. She paused to consider him for a brief moment. There he was, scrawled in front of the television scene Indian-style (in those nasty jeans that she tried to throw away a thousand times) cycling his spoon through his beer Cheerios intent on trying to make sense of the static-scribbled t.v. screen.
?Did you forget to pay the cable??
?No, it?s just the storm,? he lied, without taking his eyes off the game show.
She knew better, and she blamed it on the guitar sitting there, grinning at her in mockery from corner of the room with its coppery teeth and two-toned, chipped face.
?Do you still love me, Zen?? But he didn?t hear her, because she didn?t say it aloud.
There were a few sincere cracks at the front door, and her arm instinctively took a jump, armoring her breasts. When he didn?t respond, she stared him down until he had to feel her burn in his peripheral. Once his half-lidded eyes clogged hers from across the dingy living room, she quirked one of her defiant brows expectantly.
? ?You gonna get that??
?No. It?s nobody.?
?Fuck you, Zen. That could be my mom. You?re dressed. Answer it.?
?No.? He crunched down another bite.
She pivoted without grace, and thrashed into the bedroom. She made sure that the door cringed on its hinges and a second later she surfaced in one of his t-shirts and boxers. She knotted her hand around the knob to the front door and strung it open, but there wasn?t anyone behind it.
Taking a ginger step forward, she padded into the hallway and craned her neck left and right, but the hallway was empty save for the silent old woman down the hall. She was multitasking with a plastic bag that read ?thank you? punctuated by a huge smiley face and keying open the door. Angelina withdrew, and twitched the lock on the door. Zen sat with a sedated grin on his face, because he had guessed the answer right.
?There was no one there.?
?I know.?
?Was it one of your fucking friends??
?No.?
She shifted a little bit, stapling a hand to the mold of her hip. ?Why don?t you put milk in that?? Wrinkling her nose, she glided forward a few feet toward him. ?That?s gross.?
?We ain?t got none.?
He clattered the empty bowl onto the weary coffee table behind him and slinked across the room to choke the neck of his guitar. She still couldn?t help but to feel her chest swell at the lean showcase of his spine, spiked with all those freckles and wearing claw marks like a cat toy. But the second he slung the strap around her shoulder she escaped to the bedroom.
It was two days later---two and a half to be exact when the knock came again. She was asleep on the couch, her chest smashed to his, his arm sloppily strapped around her shoulder blades, holding her close in a post-coital tangle. He was watching the progression of the dots on the ceiling, these tiny purple spots littering his vision when the rumble came at the doorway.
He had mastered the art of carefully rewiring her onto her stomach. She was a feather light sleeper, but he was a dressed-down robber. He slipped into his jeans and left the tab open, shuffling toward the door. He turned the knob and immediately turned his back on the man, retreating further into his own apartment.
The man looked like a bum; he had an overgrown beard, dull, dry marble eyes and fatigued clothing. Bundled in his dirty fingers was a clipboard and a pen with a well-teethed cap. His chin lolled toward his chest, and his fractured grin grew like a tumor when he uncapped the pen. Nudging the clipboard to Zen?s shoulder, he waited patiently until the young man swerved around and italicized his name to the ?x.? He skipped over everything else with concrete apathy lining his face.
The old man drew the clipboard into his chest and glanced once at the pool of moonwhite skin and burnt-sienna hair mangled on the couch cushions before he stalked toward the door. Zen once more gave him his back, and listened with relief to the sound of the door inching back. But before the man left, he rasped in a cryptic alleyway ballad:
?Now, pick up your guitar, and play, Kenneth.."
A month later everyone knew his name.
<font color="#f22735" size="1">[ September 28, 2005 02:25 AM: Message edited by: methadrone ]</font>
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I'm incredibly fucking bored. Incredibly fucking numb. Incredibly fucking horny.
I have no choice but to do it. I have to call the number on the t.v. screen. It wouldn't be hard talking any girl into it, I know. I could hire a girl too. A real expensive one. But I think it would be fun to talk to that girl on the screen. She probably doesn't really look like that though. But man, what if she DID look like that? I'd be in luck.
