Nice to see you again—a long time since you crossed my mind at all. Friends and enemies of modern music come together, come as you are, feel as one, be as one, collapse into bed, scratch your head, rustle your feathers, clean your room. Where’s Monica? My wife is missing. Is she editing another movie for that fucking director? Let me get her on the horn… okay… it’s ringing… ringing… still ringing… is she gonna leave me on voicemail—Hey honey. No I’m okay. I’m fine. Honey, I’m fine. I—no, there’s no enough cabbage in the fridge, I checked. Can you get some ketchup when you come back?… I mean I already ate but we’re going to have to eat tomorrow and I don’t feel like going out on a Sunday, I might get snatched… You’re coming back tomorrow right? …Okay. Okay… So it’s just the first weekend in October? Why do you have to go? You edited the movie. It’s done. You don’t have to be there. If you’re going, I wanna come. Oh, okay, I’ll—… she hung up on me. She’ll be back tomorrow, I can feel it.
The last couple of years has been all about my book, The Continuing Adventures of Rooster Quibbits. You can imagine how upset I was when I heard that that stupid movie that Bennington is working on has a similar title. Well. I’ve never heard of this “Cliff Booth” and I don’t care to see him go on any adventures. That’s sort of my thing. I hope they cut that “Continuing” out of the title so I can keep mine. I had it first. The book follows me from the 17th through the 20th century, so it’s long. I’m writing my memoirs in reverse, a novel technique; what’s proving especially difficult is sourcing it. I have drawers upon drawers, chests overflowing on top of each other, all full of correspondence and documentation on hard paper. Nothing digital (except this column) since my arduous journeys with and without John Boehner nearly 10 years ago. Of course it feels like 10 seconds ago to me, but that’s just growing up, as Green Day or The Smiths sang.
I get bands mixed up, movies, books, but for some reason I always know who’s in power. For example, right now it’s… Donald Trump. Sorry I had to look it up (kidding). When you’re a marginalized species primarily regarded as future foodstuffs, you have to know who’s running the show; luckily, both parties have a bipartisan agreement that “talking chickens” shouldn’t be messed with. We’re like those unconnected tribes that shoot down helicopters and eat castaways; we’re not subject to any known laws because we’re not human beings. I have chips in my feathers because of this; if you’ve read me, you know this. The question now is what do I do about it? Well, I write. I have stories to tell.
One that Benny and Monica should appreciate given their relatively recent interest in the motion picture business: I was an extra on the set of Saving Private Ryan in 1998 (I also moonlit as a PA on the porno parody Shaving Ryan’s Privates, but there was nothing funny or notable about that day, it was just sad and gross). Steven Spielberg treated me very well, but it was pretty horrific to be surrounded by all of those fake dead bodies on a beach for so long. I mean, I’ve seen entrails, and those were some real ass looking entrails. No cap, as the 30-year-olds say. One day, I compressed my body into the size of a knish and hid in Spielberg’s pocket; when I hoped out at lunch, he was surprised, but eager to engage me in conversation.
“What’s your favorite Michael Curtiz movie?” I realized that he thought I was a Make-A-Wish kid, some bizarre mutant with days, perhaps minutes, to live—so I humored him. I affected a sort of retarded voice, very open beak, and answered his question: “Ca-Suh-BLANK-UH!!!” With a pained, forced smile, he chirped “Very good!!” and went on his merry way orchestrating the next Technocrane shot. Now, everyone else on the movie knew I wasn’t retarded, but word started to get around, and by the end of the day, I was fired. The casting director laid into me, “You didn’t tell us you were RETARDED when we hired you. Can you see straight?” I could, and I could see that it was time to leave. Was it really worth being called “retarded” just so I could walk around in the background of a shot, picking at dead bodies? No. Roosters don’t even do that. We’re as disgusted by corpses as you are.
I’m not surprised my career in Hollywood has been stop and start, so limited. Benny and Monica have an easier time conforming and going with the flow. Not me, buddy: I’d rather be at home reading and writing my own book than working on someone else’s. I mean, Spielberg doesn’t even read books, he just reads scripts. What kind of person does that? You can’t be in a good place spiritually if all you’re reading are screenplays. I mean, Jesus—pick up a Balzac every now and then. Challenge yourself with Goethe’s Faust. Hold on, Monica’s calling… Hi honey… no I’m just finishing up here… Do I have what?… Oh, I thought you said “hepatitis.” No, yeah, we have butter in the fridge. Yeah. Oh word? We’re having scallions? And shrimp? BUEÑO! Alright… so you’ll be home in—okay. Okay, great. Okay talk soon. See you soon. Love you.
I love my wife.
—Follow Rooster Quibbits on Twitter: @RoosterQuibbits