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Marilyn Manson and the Ghost of Dorothy Parker

by Sister Salvation

Inspired by a dream caused by late night reading of the Collected writings of Dorothy Parker, listening to all my Manson CDs on my CD player and way too many Pixie Stix

It was 4:00 am we were bored out of our skulls. The last of the drugs were used up and there was nothing on the t.v. worth watching, just infomercials, holy rollers and porn. Twiggy was busy talking to this freckle faced piece of jail-bait and Pogo was starring out the window of my room and rocking back and forth muttering to himself. John and Ginger had left hours earlier not really wanting to be any part of this evening’s decadence. One by one the others went back to their rooms to crash or engage in other forms of entertainment and I was on my own. Maybe it was a side effect of the coke and other drugs or a remnant of the adrenaline rush of the concert, but somehow sleep eluded me. Looking over the wreckage of my room, I was absolutely positive that next time we were in New York the Algonquin would never take us in again. Then again, I was amazed they would let us say here in the first place. Nice posh hotels usually don’t like rock bands, especially ones like ours. We kind of have a tendency to "redecorate" our rooms.

As I gazed out of the window at the sprawling urban metropolis below, all I can seem to feel at this point is apathy and profound disappointment. Don’t get me wrong ..I like my life and what I do for a living, it’s just sometimes gets to me, fuck, it would get to anybody. I never wanted to be anyone’s god, yet there are people whom I don’t even know who would kill themselves, sacrifice themselves to me if I only just gave the word. People who wana be just like me. Christ, I never wanted that. All I wanted to do was make people think, and yet they still acted like goddamned sheep. I lean my head against the window and close my eyes. The cool smooth glass presses against my forehead. I felt someone watching me, one of the boys maybe checking to see if I was O.K..

"Go away," I said "I don’t want to be bothered so get the fuck out!" I turned and was shocked to see a young woman and not Twiggy. "How in the hell did you get here?" She gave a wry smile and sat down as if she had herd a single god damned thing I sad. "Get the fuck out before I call security" I snarled. She just gave a rich laugh and shook her head. "Got anything to drink?" she queried "A martini perhaps? Lord knows I could use one."

"No, are you slow or something? I said get the fuck out of my room!"
The strange woman cocked her head and squinted one of her eyes and seemed to be studying me. I was getting the creeps. You never know what kinds of sickos out there. A stalker. Oh shit! What if she was one of those sick motherfuckers? "What fresh hell is this?" she said "God has a lot of explaining to do..." as her words trailed off . A look of profound sorrow, disappointment and bitterness crossed her face. I know that look for I have seen it on my own face often enough.

For the first time I really took in her appearance. She had short dark hair in a cute bob cut and was wearing an old fashioned black evening dress, except for the total lack of outrageous makeup you could easily mistake her for a Goth. She found a somewhat clear spot on the room’s sofa and sat down. "Ducking for apples---change one letter and it’s the story of my life." she said and gave a short bitter laugh. "What the hell do you want from me?" I said. " What the hell? Who says I want anything from you!?" she snapped "you’re so bizarre and twisted looking that I cant even tell if you are a guy or gal. Look, all I know is I was sent to help a fellow soul in torment, or some maudlin rubbish like that. To recognize someone like I was who is bitterly disappointed in this miserable wretched world and who, for a time, had the balls to stand up to it. Apparently there was a grievous mistake." "What the fuck are you talking about you crazy bitch?" I snapped back "Are you seriously trying to tell me that you are some sort of guardian angel sent to redeem my soul? Sorry to disappoint honey, but I don’t buy into all that bullshit." sarcasm dripping on every word I spoke. She gave me a crooked grin and said "Neither do I." After that neither one of us spoke for a while. She still just sat there and continued to study me.

Sometimes just sitting there and having someone staring at you even if it is just for a few minutes can seem like an eternity. It’s a subtle form of mental torture, if I was properly rested and had laid off the drugs tonight I might have held out longer. I was pacing back and forth before the window, It was clear that I was reaching my breaking point. I stopped pacing and turned to face her. "Dammit all to hell," I said, "if I agree to talk with you would you go away then?" The woman nodded graciously and said"Sure, why not?" A little triumphant smile played upon her face. "What is your name? I cant’ spend all the night saying hey you." She waived her hand in a n airy gesture Iand said "Dorothy, but my friends call me Dottie. What is yours?"

My jaw dropped. She can’t be fucking serious. The whole Goddamned world knows who I am. "You can’t be serious!!??" I said aloud, "Don’t you Listen to the radio? Watch MTV? I’m Marilyn fucking Manson! I am the religious right’s worst nightmare! I am one of the worlds biggest fucking rock stars!" She shrugged ."Sorry, it doesn’t ring any bells here." ruefully shaking her head "Am I supposed to be impressed or something? Because I’m not."

"Well Dottie" I said with as much venom as I could muster "where the fuck have you been living these past few years? Some nice little padded cell?" Dorothy shook her head and I sat down on a fairly clean chair and pulled it opposite of her. "No, I’ve been dead. And believe me, nothing is as boring as that."

For a second I was struck dumb. If I had not been sitting I would have needed a seat. She seemed so casual about the whole thing like it was so common for a person to claim to be dead. She must be wacko for sure. "You’re joking! No way can this be for real unless I’m finally going crazy." I said after I had recovered "Maybe you’re just a drug and alcohol induced delusion or I am asleep and this is all a dream." Dottie shook her head and grinned "No miss Manson, you’re not crazy and you are not having a nervous breakdown. I’m a ghost. I died a long time ago. It seems that not much has changed while I was away. People still are trying to tell others how to live their lives and boasting about how moral and upright they are, all the wile doing nasty things when they think no one is looking. Its true...the more things change the more they say the same."

"It’s mister not miss Manson." I said. "I am a guy." It was now Dorothy’s turn to have her jaw drop. "That’s rich! You were kinda flat chested and had too deep a vice to be a girl. You aren’t a queer are you?" I shook my head "No, I’m 100% hetero. Though I have done some rather interesting things, I have never slept with a guy." She chuckled "People thought it was shocking when girls bobbed their hair and smoked now guys are wearing make-up and having long hair. Truly anything goes nowadays. Well mister Manson would you be a gentleman and bring me a drink? Best get one for yourself as well I have a feeling we are both going to need it before the night is over." Somehow I managed to find a half full bottle of wine umong the wreckage and poured both of us a glass.

"So I take it that you’re some form of entertainer, right?" Dorothy queried and took a sip of wine. "Yeah, you could say that." I replied. She gazed around my suite and said "Must be doing a fairly god job of it to afford rooms like this. I, myself am, or rather was, a writer. Worked for a few magazines in my time." I smiled "Hmmm. I wrote some stuff for magazines too ,before I took up this line of work." I told her. "Why did you give it up? Were you awful at it or something?" she asked. " No, nothing like that. It’s juts that I decided I would rather be the one answering questions than be the one giving them." I replied. "I certainly can, and do, supply more interesting answers than the one’s I was give." Dorothy rolled her eyes. "I just love your sense of humility. So what exactly is it you do?" I took another sip of wine and replied "I’m a singer, firebrand, and sometimes painter. I like to provoke people out of mindless complacency. I want to make them think." Dorothy gave a bitter laugh. "Good luck honey! I spent the better part of my life doing that. There is only so much one can do. As I said once a long time ago, you can lead a horticulture but you can’t make em think." I had to chuckle at that last remark. "There's nothing like the feeling of knowing that you've made a difference in someone's life, even if that difference is a lifetime of nightmares and a fortune in therapy bills." I quipped back. "Spoken like a true smartass," she grinned "god, were a cynical lot aren’t we?" I shrugged.

Maybe it was the wine mellowing me out, but I was beginning to warm up to my company. " I don’t see it so much as cynicism. I am just reflecting what I see to the world, warts and all. I have a hard time with people who seem to think that no dark side of this society should be acknowlaged at all." Dorothy leaned forward and nodded in agreement. "True, true mister Manson. I dislike people who think life should be all happy and la-de-dah. I hated that bastard A.A. Milne for foisting that crap onto kids. Fought him tooth and nail. Life is not all fun and games. People do hurt dammit, but what are we taught? To put on a false face!" Dorothy slammed the wine glass down. "No, no we mussent let others see us unhappy." Lines of bitterness marred her face. "Ours is not a happy lot, for no one likes the bearer of bad news."

I set my own empty wine glas down. "No one really wants to hear the truth Dottie." I said "They would rather hear some plesant lie than have their ideals shatterd by cold hard reality. I am just getting worn out trying to open peoples eyes. It seems so futile at time that I am tempted to give up." I put my head in my hands and gazed at the floor. "It is like I am the only one fighting against overwhelming odds." Dorothy leaned over and placed her hand on my knee. "Don’t give in! Don’t let those bastards see you cave. I fought them untill the day I died and I expect no less from you. I know how tempting it is to just chuck it all in. You gott to say fuck it and go on. Grabb life by the balls and never let go. The best revenge on those waiting for you to fail is to live your life well and to the fullest." I could feel tears of releaf roll down my cheak. At last someone understood some of what I was saying.

"Too bad your a ghost Dottie you would be one hell of a friend." I said gripping her hand. Dorothy smilled . "Just give them hell Manson. The rest will take care of it’s self." I fellt lighter in spirit then when I first met her, somehow recharged. "Dottie do you think I’m gonna make it?" She walked over and gave me a hug. "Yeah. You’ll make it." I glanced at the clock on the t.v. it was now 6:00 in the morning. God how I needed some sleep. "Well It looks like it will be time for me to go now." Dottie said and let me out of her embrace. "Will I ever see you again?" I asked. "On the day you kick it hon, I’ll be there to take you across with plenty of booze to celebrate it!" As she steped back I could feel sleep starting to claim me. As I dirifted off in the chair I could here her faiding voice "Till we meet again hon, sweet dreams."

I awoke the next morning to an awfu crick in my next and pounding on my room’s door. "You awake?" I herd Twiggy called. "Yeah." I said and unlatche and opend the door. "Gonna grab something to eat downstairs. Wanna jion me?" Twiggy asked. Sure ,why not."I replied. Fifteen minutes later I was picking at my breakfast plate in the elegant diningroom downsairs. I could feel the eyes of the other patrons on us. I was tempted to sart a foodfight with Twiggy just to shock the hell out of them. Then I noticed it. A large framed old black and white photo on the wall. There in the lower corner of the picture was Dorothy, the woman I had spent most of the night talking to. I sommoned the weighter over. "Who is that woman in the picture?" I asked jesturing towards the photograph. The weighter glanced at the photo "That sir ,is a photograph of the famous Algonquin Round Table and the lady in question is i’ts most famous member Dorothy Parker. Somehow hearing that made last night understandable. A legacy to be passed on. Gadflies setting out to provoke the world. Yeah I can do that. Here’s to you Dottie and I’m hoding you on that promise. Dorothy Parker
(1893-1967)

A poet, short-story writer, theater critic and screenwriter, Dorothy Parker is best remembered for her wit.

An American critic, satirical poet, and short-story writer, Dorothy Rothschild Parker, b. West End, N.J., Aug. 22, 1893, d. June 7, 1967, is remembered as much for her flashing verbal exchanges and malicious wit as for the disenchanted stories and sketches in which she revealed her underlying pessimism. Starting her career as Vanity Fair’s drama critic (1917-20) and continuing as the New Yorker’s theater and book reviewer (1927-33), Parker enhanced her legend in the 1920s and early 1930s through membership in the Algonquin Hotel’s celebrated Round Table.

Parker published her first light verse in Enough Rope (1927) and Death and Taxes (1931),

volumes marked by an elegant economy of expression, sophisticated cynicism, and irony. These were followed by the short-story collections Laments for the Living (1930) and After Such Pleasures (1933), containing her single most famous story, "Big Blonde." Parker scripted films in Hollywood from 1933 to 1938 and in 1937 covered the Spanish Civil War for the New Masses. In collaboration with others she also wrote two Broadway plays: Close Harmony (1924), with Elmer Rice, and Ladies of the Corridor (1953), with Arnaud d’Usseau.

Bibliography: Frewin, Leslie, The Late Mrs. Dorothy Parker (1987); Keats, John, You Might As Well Live: The Life and Times of Dorothy Parker (1970; repr. 1986); Kinney, Arthur F., Dorothy Parker (1978); Meade, Marion, Dorothy Parker (1988); Parker, Dorothy, The Portable Dorothy Parker, rev. ed., (1976).

Dorothy Parker suffered a fatal heart attack in 1967 at the age of 74. Despite several suicide attempts, she outlived nearly all the original members of the Algonquin Round Table. Her small estate was left to Martin Luther King, Jr. After his death in 1968, ownership of the Parker literary property passed to the NAACP. Contrary to Mrs. Parker’s wishes for rain, she died on a warm sunny day.