My cousin Bennington has gotten too much attention lately. He says he’s in the new David Fincher movie. He says he’s friends with Quentin Tarantino—no, “best friends.” He says Tarantino’s upcoming novel The Adventures of Cliff Booth is dedicated to him. What? I’m sorry, I love Benny, but there’s zero chance that Quentin Tarantino dedicated a book to him. “For Benny”—you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Pardon my French, but really, just when you think you’ve seen it all (degenerate behavior), Benny never fails to surprise one more time…
“One more time.” This has always been the case with Benny. You know this, you’ve read my writing over the past 11 years. He’s what’s called a “ne’er-do-well.” I coined the expression but admittedly forgot what it’s supposed to mean other than “really bad guy.” It’s not one of those euphemisms that daily newspapers in New York use to describe black criminals—“hoodie wearing assailant,” “aggravated individual,” “irate passenger”—it’s a phrase that was originally intended to be used sparingly, in cases of extreme badness and untoward misbehaving. And I hesitate to describe Benny this way, because for the most part, he’s not dangerous. He doesn’t intend to hurt anyone (or himself), and despite his flagrant disregard for the personal space and feelings of those around him, he hasn’t caused that much damage. He’s just really irritating and diminishes the family name.
My wife Monica’s considerably more violent, but she has her reasons. People get it. How hard must it be to live in this world as a female hyena. Monica insists that I not only refrain from using the word “hen,” because apparently it sounds too much like “men,” and that I “reappropriate” the name of a vicious species of jungle dog best known to the general public as the merciless villains of Disney’s The Lion King. “Those were my homies. They knew what they were doing. I’m reclaiming it. Call it New Era Hyena. I mean, let’s face it—we’re living in New Era America, and I’m living in New Era Monica. Let me get a little nasty with it.” I hope she doesn’t mean twerking. I hate it when my wife twerks. It’s upsetting.
We sent Benny out for some errands in town—refills of marmalade, whole wheat bread, Poppi low sugar soda with apple cider vinegar, cayenne, pepper, 1000 bananas, and five copies of The Boston Globe for bedding. We’re getting ready to confront him regarding his malicious lies and the damage he’s done to the family name. Neither Fincher nor Tarantino have contacted us yet, but we expect they will soon, as Benny’s MANY published articles surely constitute slander, or libel, or maybe even terrorism… was he giving away coordinates? Lines from the script? I’ve tried getting in touch with William Morris Endeavor (such a cool name), but they won’t return my phone calls for some reason. I used to be a client, you know—they should remember that. Maybe I’m no longer kosher. Maybe I’m no longer halal. Sorry, is there a third option I can be to remain viable in Hollywood?
I don’t actually want to get back into the business. It’s too draining and unfulfilling. I just don’t want Quentin Tarantino to get mad at me. David Fincher I can deal with. But Quentin? See, we go way back. Sundance ’92—never mind, now I sound like my cousin. I’m not lying, of course, but now’s probably not the best time for that particular story. Let’s just say that Alexandre Rockwell knows what I’m talking about. And Allison, sweet Allison… she called me by my name, and massaged my hackle and saved me from frostbite. Quentin Jerome was—well, I really should stop now. Benny will be home soon. He’s going to learn that only one member of this family gets to be friends with Quentin Tarantino, and it’s not him.
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