Somebody just told me to stop looking like a feather. Stop looking like a feather? I don’t know what he meant. That’s the last time I give any money or pills to a bum. I’m having a bad day. Mr. Fincher is off shooting “primary footage” somewhere, the second unit is in Africa, and I’m alone in Los Angeles in what feels like a psychological torture chamber—and that’s not a joke about LA. I hate New Yorkers and their LA jokes, they think they’re so special with their garbage on the sidewalk and their 10 square foot “apartments.” It’s still affordable for me, but I’m a rooster, I’m physically smaller than most humans; still, I remember what it was like in Soho in the late-1970s. I lived in a warehouse penthouse that took up an entire city block. I was Monopoly famous before I knew what to do with it.
What is “it,” dear reader? Fame. Everyone wants some, everyone’s got to get it, but there’s only so much to go around, and the world always needs more audience members than artists. Recently, the balance has shifted. I’ve consulted with my alien friends in New Orleans, and they say the situation is dire, much worse than when they last visited in 1994. “Back then, we met a couple of rock stars on their hotel balcony—Billy Corgan and D’arcy Wretzky of The Smashing Pumpkins—and they were in awe; in other words, respectful. They were proper. Now, people take videos of us with their cellphones. And yet there’s STILL doubt? We’re waiting until there are only six world governments, or six people that effectively run the planet, then we’ll come and announce ourselves.”
I told my alien that I didn’t ask about their timing, I was curious about—“You are curious about a lot of things. Let your body free, Bennington. Give yourself to the groove. Feel the rhythm of Pulse Nation.” Is my alien fucking hitting on me? I’m standing there thinking I’m about to get “mind-fucked” a la Sean “Puffy” “Puff Daddy” “P Diddy” Combs in the 2010 comedy classic Get Him to the Greek. A very funny film full of very controversial people now. Who knew? I told my alien that I must be leaving now, and he let me go, despite his psychokinetic powers that extend beyond the limits of the fourth dimension. Time is an illusion, my alien tells me, there is only one world and one flavor: hot sauce.
My alien told me that could mean a lot of things and I immediately did my best to forget it and everything else he ever said. My alien said I would like a beer so I got up, got one out of the fridge, and smashed my alien’s head in. I’m really not into being manipulated and harassed by a fucking alien, especially one as small as this guy. I’m not sure if this genre of alien has any gender, but I do know that there are multiple alien races out there, some good, some bad. Maybe that’s what people think are ghosts? No, ghosts are real, my alien tells me. I thought I killed you? Death is not the end. Now I am a ghost. I shall be haunting your trailer now.
No one on set believed me until they spent an hour alone in there. My trailer was haunted, all right, Elizabeth Debicki confirmed it when she emerged screaming and covered in zigzags of lipstick and hives the size of grapefruit. She got better quick, but that was a weird day. “Your trailer was really haunted, Benny? Like, by a ghost?” Yeah, I told the AD, it was really haunted. Like, by a ghost. “What kind of ghost? Nice ghost? Mean ghost? Scary ghost?” It was a ghost, dude. Leave me alone.
Mr. Fincher even gave me a rare moment of condolence when he saw what Mrs. Debicki went through. “Your trailer was really haunted, Benny? Like, by a ghost?” No one understands your pain until they’ve played in the penthouse of thought where wars are won and lost. I gather that Mr. Fincher has never had any paranormal experiences.
My Sensei, on the other hand—different story. “You saw a ghost, Benny.” No doubt from the beginning, just a straight shooter if you know what I mean (cool guy). “Your first?” Numero uno (ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo). “That’s rough. My house in the Hills was haunted when I bought it, but we had an exorcism in ’97 and everything’s been fine since. You’re lucky it’s not where you live. We’ll get you a new trailer.” He leaned down toward me, just to make sure that nobody would hear us talking. “You’ve seen a UFO, right?” I told him I had. “And you’ve seen aliens.” Yes. “And you’ve met them?” Can’t say no to that. “Listen—me too. I don’t think anyone else on this set has. My alien was really helpful when I was going through my haunted house shit. Guy really pulled me through some dark, dark times. You should talk to your alien about the haunting.”
Unfortunately, there are some things even a sensei cannot understand.
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