Chris Villemarette

Analysis of a Name Drop Drunken Orgy

	Somewhere in a dorm room in the American Bible Belt, next door to my room actually, Georgie Porgie Gordon, little Lord Byron puts on the finest orgy in all the land while I'm trying to watch the game, but I hear everything.
	"The Narrator, do you have a condom I could borrow?"
	No.  But if I did, I wouldn't want you to return it when you're done.
	"What about your roommate, The Metanarrator?"
	No.
	A knock at Byron's door interrupts his quest for clearly defined borderline misogynistic exploitation of the female anatomy. 
The residential agent at the door says, "We're having a mandatory meeting in the lobby."
	"Sir, you've interrupted my prayer!"
"But it's required."
"You're not Turkish, are you?"
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Nevermind."
	Jim Morrison shows up and starts babbling and taking off his pants.
	Byron says, "Jesus, Jim, I like your music, but come on man.  You're being ridiculous."
	Jacques Derrida sits in a circle of scattered computer parts, "How does this damned thing work?"
Noam Chomsky is on the patio (read: balcony) sipping water, saying nothing.
"Chomsky, what kind of fiction is compatible with our vision of tomorrow's world?" Female Object No.1 says.
Guy Debord shouts something from the bathroom.
A random rock journalist attending the orgy asks Kurt Cobain, "How do you feel about bringing post-punk into a form of art available for mass consumption?"
Kurt just sits on the phone, trying to beat the heroin drought.
Female Object No.2 says, "Byron, I just want to talk about my feelings some more."
No.1 says, "Jesus fucking Christ."
Yes?
"Is it okay if I make some social commentary?" No.1 asks.
"I don't know, ask Swift."
Swift says, "Ask Chuck Palahniuk," but Chuck Palahniuk isn't there.
"That's By-ronic," No.2 laughs.
"No, that's a coincidence, and a fucking horrible pun at that," No.1 says.
Yeah! Get the ball!
"Yes, you can make a social commentary," says Byron, "but it won't do any good."
"How can I transcend the postmodernist stranglehold on satire?"
"Ask The Narrator."
Shit, I don't know, Metanarrator?
Sí.
"We've already crossed all of the lines.  Form and content have all been done.  Find a new line to cross," Byron sifts through paraphernalia and slams drawers frantically looking for protection.
No.1 used new video game technology to attack characters in commercials and network news in real-time.  She zeroed in on someone on the news talking about the problem of classical works of art and literature being pirated by college students.  
Suddenly, the police knocked on the door.
Omniscient Metabastard.  
Byron hid his gun under the pillow before opening the door.  Perhaps you have to step back from the line-crossing paradigm and look at the big picture.
"We got some calls about the noise and we just wanted to make sure you haven't been contributin' to any terr'rist organizations on account of all the foreigners at this residence."
"No, officer, I haven't paid taxes in years," Byron shuts the door.
"What was that?" No.1 asks.
"The police."
"Not who. What."
"What?"
"Was that satire?"
"No, that was just me being an asshole."
Shut up, the game is on!
What's the score?
Saints are down by 23.
"How can we historicize this text?" No.1 asks.
How can we survive market imperialism?
Move to Canada?
"Just how far can one go in fucking with the audience?" No.1 asks.
"Parody making fun of poking at deriding something, and then subvert it."
"Does this situation accompish that?"
No.  And it’s spelled “accomplish.” Pay attention when you type, boy.
Ayn Rand and L. Ron Hubbard smoke thick cigars in the corner.  The intercom speaker blasts something about privacy.  Can someone take care of that?
Derrida says, "I'm on it."
Writing on a computer is full of distractions.  I try to hold a mirror up to the mirror of society, but I just keep taking cheap shots, throwing pebbles at the glass.  Byron and the girl search piles of clothes on the floor.
"What position should we take on the issue of sexuality?"
"How about the Gnostic Baptism?"
Touchdown!  I flip between the game and the news.  Football seems to be the only thing making any sense tonight.  I mean, sure, it is about stealing territory, but at least it's simulated.  Anti-capitalists are trying to shut down Washington D.C.  Cheering for the home team.  Too bad they punted. 
Like saying 'John Ashcroft found Satan in the mirror,' or is that too blatant?
Would the Pope agree to have Satan's child aborted? 
"What happens when the periods between nostalgias becomes so short that they no longer exist?" No.1 asks Byron, who is sweating profusely.
"I wish I knew. Ultimately, things have to get worse before they get better.  Goddamit, I need some air conditioning."
"I don't see how they could get much worse."
"You'll think of something, don't worry."
Think of G.I. Joe and Happy Meals.
Think of Narcissus.
The smoke alarm shrieks from the clouds of cigar smoke filling up the room.  Before I can ask, Derrida rips it off of the ceiling and sparks briefly pulse out from the wires.  The shriek becomes a dying moan.  
Winston Smith shows up drinking a gin and tonic, or a martini, or something, with an over-the-top top hat.
Gin and juice.
"Winston, my boy, do you have any prophylactics?"
"Of course," he hands Byron a Victory brand condom.
And the extra point is good.
"Thank you!" Byron coughs, "I don't feel so good," he wipes the sweat from his pale forehead.
Byron says to me, "Sorry about the noise, man."
No problem.  I'm gonna go check on my clothes in the wash.
"A’right, man.  Take it easy."
Later, I say.  I walk downstairs and see that the laundry room is locked.  I try to check my mail, or print out a paper.  Anything.  Locked.  A massive headache sets in.  I lie down in the grass and smoke a cigarette.  Bugs bite me on the ass.  I am a fire hazard.  I want to shut down the city.  I want to be there or anywhere else.  I start to feel delirious.  A mosquito lands on my forehead and I remember encephalitis.  My neck hurts.  Though the thought of brain swelling seems somewhat liberating.
Go to the hospital, a voice in the back of my head says.
I get up and stumble through the grass back to Byron's room.
Can I have a beer? I ask.
"Sorry, all I've got is gin."
I turn up the bottle and watch the bubbles from my mouth float to the bottom.  The solvent stings my lips.
Thanks, I say and hand Byron a cigarette for his troubles.  I get one for myself and slump down in the corner, zoning out for a while.  The orgy continues, which is fairly entertaining, but I remember the game is on.  At least, I thought it was.  It had actually ended hours ago.  My roommate is asleep.
No, I'm meditating.
I decide to nap as well, but No.1 rushes into my room.
"Byron is dead, man!"
Is he really? I try to say hurriedly.
"Well, no.  Not exactly.  But he does need to go to the hospit…Oh my God, are you okay?"
No.  I feel like shit.  I think I just need something to eat.
"Well, No.2 is taking Byron to the hospital.  I'll stay here with you."
I say okay.  I start to babble an anecdote about kindergarten.  Once, during the Pledge of Allegiance, I desperately needed to defecate, and I asked the teacher for permission to go to the bathroom.
“Wait until after you say the Pledge of Allegiance,” she said.
But it’s an emergency.
“You have to wait!”
I proved her wrong, not that I had a choice.  A five year old just cannot be expected to have that kind of restraint.
“That’s a…lovely story, Narrator.”
Thank you.  It’s too bad Lacan isn’t here to explain the psychodynamics of that event to me.  I’m sure it was a crucial moment in the formation of my identity.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”
What was the score?
“I don’t know.”
No, I think I’ll just take a nap or something, I say while lighting up another cigarette.  Would you like one?  I noticed that everyone else was already slumbering and I also drift away.

Fire.
I see orange tongues in the mirror just long enough to choke on a cloud of black smoke.