You Must Go and Win: Essays (24 page)
Read You Must Go and Win: Essays Online
Authors: Alina Simone
“All this shit, this kitchen-sink realism—it was just suffocating. Always the same movie, over and over,” he said, grimacing, waving his lit cigarette in the air like a traffic cop. “There’d be the longest takes. I remember sitting there and counting: twelve … thirteen … fourteen … just waiting for the shot to change. Then, all of a sudden in the late eighties, movies from the West became available, stuff like
Robocop
and
Terminator
and
Indiana Jones
and
Back to the Future
. And I’d look up at the screen and just think, Now shit is happening! See, that is what the universal is all about. It’s about life quests! It’s crude! It’s robust! It’s barbaric!”
Robocop
and
Terminator
and
Indiana Jones
and
Back to the Future
. And I’d look up at the screen and just think, Now shit is happening! See, that is what the universal is all about. It’s about life quests! It’s crude! It’s robust! It’s barbaric!”
“Yeah, but aren’t a lot of big Hollywood movies just, like … bad?”
“Look, if you are a storyteller, don’t be an elitist snob. Don’t just cleverly mock the latest fad you saw on the subway. Do something that will
get
to people, whether they live in Vladivostok or
Tokyo. This is what I think: if you are into experimental shit, then go play the chain saw in a Stockhausen orchestra and just leave the rest of us alone.”
get
to people, whether they live in Vladivostok or
Tokyo. This is what I think: if you are into experimental shit, then go play the chain saw in a Stockhausen orchestra and just leave the rest of us alone.”
Three years later, when Konst moved to L.A. to make it as a filmmaker, polite suggestions that he go the DIY route and start off, perhaps, by shooting a video on his cell phone and uploading it to YouTube would get blown off with a wave of the hand. His favorite movie was
The Bourne Identity
and he was working on writing his own unabashedly universal spy thriller.
The Bourne Identity
and he was working on writing his own unabashedly universal spy thriller.
“Forget it,” Konst would tell people with a serene smile, “I am going straight into the ass of Hollywood.”
Not long after I returned from Russia, Josh walked into our bedroom and discovered me sitting on the bed with my acoustic guitar, singing “Oops! … I Did It Again.” I sang it slowly, mournfully, even a little angrily, as though Britney Spears and I were slowly dying of some incurable disease and this song was our last retort to an uncaring world. It was the song we had together, years ago, determined was crappy, and now, faced with justifying myself, I felt suddenly afraid. I wanted to repeat all the things Konst had told me, about how the four basic things in life were food, shelter, sex, and ritual, the latter of which included the cultural artifacts produced by Britney Spears. Then Josh would understand that by listening to “Oops! … I Did It Again” we were actually partaking, subconsciously, in rites and ceremonies that tapped into the mysteries of life itself. Britney
was
the Universal and the Universal was like fire, something that we could watch endlessly and still remain fascinated. But here was a man who had commuted to high school on a unicycle and spent the early part of his college years living in a tent in the woods. A man whose taste in books tended toward philosophical treatises in the original French or German, whose favorite films were subtitled, whose music collection was a veritable spice rack of human suffering …
was
the Universal and the Universal was like fire, something that we could watch endlessly and still remain fascinated. But here was a man who had commuted to high school on a unicycle and spent the early part of his college years living in a tent in the woods. A man whose taste in books tended toward philosophical treatises in the original French or German, whose favorite films were subtitled, whose music collection was a veritable spice rack of human suffering …
“Hey,” Josh said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, “I really like that. Can you sing it again?”
I reached the pinnacle of my musical success after releasing an album covering the songs of Yanka Dyagileva, an obscure Soviet punk singer who had died young. I can still remember the stunned look on my parents’ faces when I found them wandering the palatial lobby of Joe’s Pub on the afternoon of the CD release show. It turned out that they’d been circling the building for half an hour, searching for a club that Papa diplomatically described as someplace “a little more cozy.” The last time my parents saw me perform in New York, it was at Pianos, a small club on the Lower East Side. There had been exactly six people there: me, the two other singers on the bill, my parents, and Josh. And it hadn’t felt cozy at all—it felt tense and scary and lonesome. I remember standing up to face my five-member audience and thinking: Wow, so this is what it feels like to fail in real time. I am in the process of failing right now—and now—and now.
But that was years ago and now we were here, at Joe’s Pub, a posh dinner club tucked inside the landmark Joseph Papp Public Theater. I took my parents on a tour with Mama still eyeing me suspiciously, as though I were once again the sixteen-year-old prime suspect in the Case of the Watered-Down Vodka. When they returned to the box office that night, they were surprised to find a line stretching around the block; the show had sold out. All I wanted was to hold on to that feeling for a little while. The feeling of selling out a nice venue in Manhattan on a Friday night. The memory of my parents’ being led off to a VIP area cordoned off by a plush velvet rope, looking more than a little slack-jawed. The discovery that the booker, who’d left Joe’s Pub months ago to take a job at Lincoln Center, was waiting backstage
to congratulate me. This is just the beginning, I remember thinking to myself. But, in fact, it was more like the end. When I set off on a nationwide tour to promote the album a few months later, I found that outside of New York City, the thirst for harrowing Soviet punk covers was not what I’d anticipated. In Philadelphia, my band played to two people. In St. Louis, we had to cancel a show at a club with a capacity of 250 because no one showed up. By the time I reached North Carolina, I was wrung out, tired of singing to no one, and tired of being weird. Basically, plain sick of myself.
to congratulate me. This is just the beginning, I remember thinking to myself. But, in fact, it was more like the end. When I set off on a nationwide tour to promote the album a few months later, I found that outside of New York City, the thirst for harrowing Soviet punk covers was not what I’d anticipated. In Philadelphia, my band played to two people. In St. Louis, we had to cancel a show at a club with a capacity of 250 because no one showed up. By the time I reached North Carolina, I was wrung out, tired of singing to no one, and tired of being weird. Basically, plain sick of myself.
I was sitting at the bar of the Southern Rail, across the street from the Carrboro Arts Center, where I was scheduled to play that night, when I felt a hand gripping my wrist, interrupting my fingers’ regular commute to my mouth. It was Josh.
“Please!”
“What?”
“Please, please, please stop eating your fingers!”
“Why?” I asked, bewildered. The fact that chewing the dead flesh off your hands was obviously disgusting apparently wasn’t reason enough.
“Because it is
so unladylike
. Will you just look at yourself?”
so unladylike
. Will you just look at yourself?”
Ashamed, I’d looked down at my unmanicured, unpolished nails buried in their scabby little divots. It was true: I looked like I was trying to commit suicide by cheese grater.
Josh sat down at the bar.
“Maker’s Mark, no ice,” he said to the bartender. Then to me, “What’s wrong?”
“Britney Spears makes people happy, and I make people sad,” I blurted. The music the Swedes wrote for Britney had only continued to grow on me; I had listened to little else on the long drive east.
“I like your music. You’re unique.”
“Thanks.” I said, draining my third vodka tonic. Britney has a fan base of millions, I thought to myself. I have a fan base of one.
“Sometimes I just wish I could make people happy too.”
“I am going to give you an old Jewish parable. Are you listening? Okay, there was once this rabbi, let’s call him Rabbi Shlomo. And he was just an ordinary rabbi, right? So one day he’s talking to his friend and he’s like, ‘I’m just an ordinary rabbi. I don’t do anything special or amazing. When I die, I know God will come to me and ask, “Why were you not Rabbi Akiva?”’”
“Who’s Rabbi Akiva?” I said.
“He was this totally amazing rabbi from the old times. Everyone knows about him, trust me. Anyway, so then his friend goes, ‘Look, that’s not what you should be worrying about. When you die, God won’t come to you and say, “Why were you not Rabbi Akiva?” He’ll say, “Why were you not Rabbi Shlomo?”’”
I waited for Josh to finish, but apparently that was it.
By now the bartender had slipped away, his interest suddenly consumed by a stain on the far end of the bar. More likely he was just avoiding us, the toxic little cloud of misery I was generating. I knew Josh was right, but still … I didn’t want to be stuck playing a chain saw in a Stockhausen orchestra. I didn’t want to live alone with eleven cats and a dead tree, clinging to my barren rock of weirdness like the Little Prince drifting away on his lonely asteroid, waving at the night sky.
As I write this, Boy George recently completed a prison term for chaining a male escort to his wall. Michael Jackson is dead. Madonna is dating a twenty-three-year-old underwear model after getting over a nasty divorce. Tiffany lost twenty-eight pounds on
Celebrity Fit Club
and was a contender on
Hulk Hogan’s Celebrity Championship Wrestling
. Bruce Hornsby and the Range—true to their name—now run a golf range near San Diego.
Britney Spears is back on tour with a new album after having a mental breakdown, losing custody of her two children, and being placed under the legal conservatorship of her father.
Celebrity Fit Club
and was a contender on
Hulk Hogan’s Celebrity Championship Wrestling
. Bruce Hornsby and the Range—true to their name—now run a golf range near San Diego.
Britney Spears is back on tour with a new album after having a mental breakdown, losing custody of her two children, and being placed under the legal conservatorship of her father.
As I write this, a thirteen-year-old girl somewhere in the world has decided that she wants to be the one on the other side of the screen, so she shoots a video of herself, uploads it to YouTube, and instantly becomes a star.
10:20 a.m. Kleber
hello happy new year Alina
hello happy new year Alina
10:22 a.m. Alina
Hello Kleber! Happy New Year to you too!
Hello Kleber! Happy New Year to you too!
10:23 a.m. Kleber
thank so fucking much, how are you doing?
thank so fucking much, how are you doing?
10:23 a.m. Alina
fucking great! you?
fucking great! you?
10:25 a.m. Kleber
lol you killed me, i’m good too
lol you killed me, i’m good too
10:25 a.m. Alina
Kleber?
Kleber?
10:26 a.m. Kleber
yes talk to me
yes talk to me
10:26 a.m. Alina
Who are you?
Who are you?
10:28 a.m. Kleber
well i’m man who found ur profile interesting since u are with a guitar
u must love music
well i’m man who found ur profile interesting since u are with a guitar
u must love music
10:31 a.m. Alina
Good detective work, Kleber! It is true that I love music. Have you made other friends using this method?
Good detective work, Kleber! It is true that I love music. Have you made other friends using this method?
10:33 a.m. Kleber
hey we’re not friends, we’re just weird people chatting, anyway music is in my blood too
hey we’re not friends, we’re just weird people chatting, anyway music is in my blood too
10:34 a.m. Kleber
i love music as i love chicken parmegana
i love music as i love chicken parmegana
10:39 a.m. Alina
It is good to clear the air and establish that we are just two weird people chatting about music and chicken parmegana. A bracing dose of honesty, that!
It is good to clear the air and establish that we are just two weird people chatting about music and chicken parmegana. A bracing dose of honesty, that!
10:41 a.m. Alina
Are you a musician?
Are you a musician?
10:45 a.m. Kleber
yeah i’m looking to join a new band now cause my band just
splitted
separated
i’m sad now
yeah i’m looking to join a new band now cause my band just
splitted
separated
i’m sad now
10:46 a.m. Alina
I’m sorry to hear that. It’s sad when your band breaks up. It’s like a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend.
I’m sorry to hear that. It’s sad when your band breaks up. It’s like a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend.
10:49 a.m. Kleber
i know (i’m crying) even though i’m a man
thanx for understand me Alina
i know (i’m crying) even though i’m a man
thanx for understand me Alina
10:51 a.m. Alina
I know how it is, Kleber. I hope you feel better.
I know how it is, Kleber. I hope you feel better.
3:33 p.m. Nico
ciao Alina come stai
ciao Alina come stai
3:34 p.m. Alina
Bueno? Bono? Bien? I can’t speak Italian.
Bueno? Bono? Bien? I can’t speak Italian.
3:35 p.m. Nico
ok that’s not a problem
how are you doing
what’s up
ok that’s not a problem
how are you doing
what’s up
3:36 p.m. Alina
Well. The cat threw up on the blanket covering our sofa. And then my husband sat on it.
Well. The cat threw up on the blanket covering our sofa. And then my husband sat on it.
3:37 p.m. Nico
i thought you was italian
i thought you was italian
3:38 p.m. Alina
sorry to disappoint you …
sorry to disappoint you …
3:39 p.m. Nico
no it’s not a problem i also like american people
no it’s not a problem i also like american people
3:39 p.m. Alina
that’s good!
that’s good!
3:40 p.m. Nico
that’s great
that’s great
3:44 p.m. Alina
you’re like Hillary Clinton
you’re like Hillary Clinton
3:46 p.m. Nico
you’re like Bill Clinton
you’re like Bill Clinton
3:47 p.m. Alina
This is getting a little surreal, Nico.
This is getting a little surreal, Nico.
10:00 a.m. Arudra
hi
how do you do
hi
how do you do
10:01 a.m. Alina
I am doing good, Arudra! How about you?
I am doing good, Arudra! How about you?
10:01 a.m. Arudra
i am fine
i am fine
10:01 a.m. Alina
You look a bit stern in your photo.
You look a bit stern in your photo.
10:02 a.m. Arudra
what do you do as a profession
what do you do as a profession
10:02 a.m. Alina
I am a singer. And you?
I am a singer. And you?
10:05 a.m. Arudra
i am a full time marketing consultant into film sales, yacht sales, private aviation services, olive oil, corporate training marketing etc
you are from which country
i am a full time marketing consultant into film sales, yacht sales, private aviation services, olive oil, corporate training marketing etc
you are from which country
10:05 a.m. Alina
Wow. Yacht sales! I am from the US. Where are you from?
Wow. Yacht sales! I am from the US. Where are you from?
10:06 a.m. Arudra
are you looking at selling any music album in india
are you looking at selling any music album in india
10:07 a.m. Alina
Sure. Why not? You could throw in a copy of my album with every yacht you sell as a special bonus!
Sure. Why not? You could throw in a copy of my album with every yacht you sell as a special bonus!
10:07 a.m. Arudra
which segment of music you are into
which segment of music you are into
10:08 a.m. Alina
folk rock
folk rock
10:09 a.m. Arudra
i can sell your album if you give me a letter of authorisation of your company on company letter. it can be scanned and sent thru mail
i can sell your album if you give me a letter of authorisation of your company on company letter. it can be scanned and sent thru mail
10:10 a.m. Alina
I have no company. I am my own company. But why would you want to sell a folk rock album in India? Selling yachts, private aviation services and olive oil sounds way more exciting …
I have no company. I am my own company. But why would you want to sell a folk rock album in India? Selling yachts, private aviation services and olive oil sounds way more exciting …
10:12 a.m. Arudra
okay then fine
okay then fine
Other books
Christina's Ghost by Betty Ren Wright
The Undead Pool by Kim Harrison
Rogue's Reward by Jean R. Ewing
Top Me Maybe? by Jay Northcote
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation by Michael Bond
Jacks and Jokers by Matthew Condon
House of Sand and Secrets by Cat Hellisen
Watcher by Kate Watterson
Coming Home by Harrison, Ann B
Beyond the Wall of Time by Russell Kirkpatrick