I woke up on the couch.
That isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It happens a lot. I have this habit of watching movies, pouring MDMA, via a tricked out eyedropper, into my eyes and rubbing this frayed patch on the left cushion until I pass out.
I’m not exactly sure when I started doing this, but, nonetheless, it’s become something of a ritual for me.
Last night, however, was slightly different. I had invited my dealer, Victoria, over to watch the Charlie Sheen film The Arrival with me. I do this every blue moon. I invite Victoria over for some beer or a movie or a pizza. Sometimes she accepts, sometimes she declines. Last night, thankfully, she accepted and we watched that Charlie Sheen piece of garbage and, apparently, passed out.
I left Victoria sleeping on the couch and walked downstairs. I needed some coffee. I sauntered down the street to a local gas station and purchased a cup.
I’m not a Charlie Sheen fan, and, generally speaking, not really into Sci-Fi but there was something about The Arrival that stayed with me. Part of it being I couldn’t really understand why Malcolm was so emphatic about my need to see this movie. I mean sure the conspiracy was fun, and Toby from the West Wing was in it. Honestly, like half the cast from the West Wing was in the movie. And Charlie Sheen’s goatee was kind of strange looking but other than that the film was mildly forgettable. Why did Malcolm want me to watch this steaming piece of mediocrity?
Upon returning to my apartment, I found it empty. Vicky had left. She left a note, it wasn’t rude. Just explaining why she needed to split. So, I set about my normal coffee infused morning rituals. Y’know, prepping my Molly-filled eyedropper for the day, checking emails, getting pissed about emails. You know what it’s like, reader. Everyone does. We all have host our daily mass to the dogmatic mundane in one way or another.
This morning was slightly off though. Part of my equilibrium being interrupted was due to the fact that one of the emails I received was my editor instructing me to attend some Absolute Vodka Oscar’s party; the other part was Charlie Sheen’s goatee. I couldn’t shake it. I found myself obsessing over it as I hastily made my way to rent a tux.
Wearing a tux is no big deal. I mean, yeah, twelve other dudes had worn it but it made me feel like George Lasenby. I dig it. I know it’s supposed to freak some people out but I quite enjoy it. The name’s Haire. Donald Haire.
I spent most of my day spastically running around down prepping for this Oscars party, which I could give two shits about. Who cares. It’s so self congratulatory. In addition to the fact that they never actually reward the worthy films. They always attempt to pin the tail on the most mediocre donkey there. It’s so frustrating. Look at previous winners; you’ll quickly see that the pattern I’ve described is there. Really, 1978? You’re going to give Rocky the best picture over Taxi Driver and Star Wars? Really?
This is where my day took a left turn. I got a call from Malcolm. I’m not sure how he called me cause I’m pretty sure Malcolm doesn’t have a phone. The conversation, if you could call it that went something like this:
Malcolm: “Donald, I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”
Me: “What? Who is this?”
Malcolm: “Malcolm. I’ve got someone who I want you to me at this party you’re going to.”
Me: “Malcolm? You have a phone? Wait, how do you know I’m going to th–”
Malcolm: “She’ll find you.
And then he hung up. Needless to say, I was weirder out.
Regardless, I showed up to the Oscars party early. Those Oscars after parties always look so glamorous on TV. They’re not. They’re way smaller than it looks on TV which was kind of unnerving. Due to my massive caffeinated beverage consumption, earlier in the day, I found myself having to urinate. So, I set off in search of a restroom.
As I was pissing in a surprisingly graffiti free stall and pondering why Charlie Sheen’s goatee was still bouncing around in my head, when the bathroom doors exploded open and then moments later the stall I was in opened.
I half turned around to see a dark haired woman standing there.
“Are you Donald Haire?” she said.
“No, at the moment I’m pissing, but give me a few shakes and I’ll be right with you.”
“You’re Donald Haire and I need to tell you something.”
“ Well, feel free. It’s not like I’m in the middle of anything.”
“ I fucked Jeremy Renner,” she said.
Finally finished relieving myself I moved passed her to the sink and started washing my hands, “Good for you. I hope it was liberating.”
“It was like a stress thing I think. He was really freaked out and babbling about goatees the entire time.”
I almost couldn’t believe my ears. “What? What are you talking about?”
She went on to tell me that Renner had been growing a goatee for the past week or so as part of some Oscars skit involving Robert Downey Jr. Apparently, when Mr Stark found out he busted into Renner’s home and forced him to shave it. This freaked Renner out so much that he had to stress-fuck the woman standing in front of me.
“Why did Robert Downey Jr make Renner shave this goatee and why are you telling me,” I inquired.
“My friend Malcolm told me to tell you. He said you’d know what to do. He said you’d have the answers.”
“I have no idea what is happening or why Malcolm would send you to me.”
“Jeremy and I hooked up in the movie theatre in his house on Del Fern sometimes.”
“Why are you telling me this? I don’t want to know any of this. I have no idea how to help you. I’m sorry. I don’t understand why you’re here,” I blurted out as I grew increasingly more annoyed.
“He was really freaked out. He seemed kind of scared. Like something was going to happen to him. Can you protect him?” she asked.
“ What? No, why would I do that? I’m sorry you must be looking for a different Donald Hair because I don’t care about fancy houses with movie theatres in them or movie stars with sex addictions.”
I stormed out of the Men’s room and back into the swirling mediocrity of the B-level Oscar party.
I was so shaken by what had just happened that I snatched a free shot of Vodka off of a roving steward. That was a poor decision. Absolute is the Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters of Vodka.
What did this all mean? What was Malcolm trying to tell me? And why wasn’t he just telling me? What was all this bullshit cloak and dagger shit about?
And then it hit me. The Goatees. They’re a sign or a signifier of some kind. Malcolm is trying to show me something about goatees. Are the people with the goatees in some sort of cult or secret syndicate together? What is happening? How is this possible? How did Malcolm know about this? Is this the reason he still lives in a van? Did he piss someone off who works with or for this syndicate of extremely high-powered Hollywood celebrities? Was Jeremy Renner unknowingly disrespecting this Charlie Sheen/Robert Downey/who knows how many other celebrities syndicate?
Needless to say, my head was reeling.
I was overwhelmed with what I had uncovered. What if this was real? What if this cabal or super-celebrities was really up to something? What were they planning? What was their end goal? Why did they wear goatees? How long did they have to wear them for? What was happening? I needed to find more information about this.
And that’s when I discovered that something even worse than a Hollywood Secret Society had happened. That’s when discovered that Argo had won best picture.
Argo? Really? Argo?
You’re going to make a movie about Iran and our relationship with Iran and you’re not even going to talk about OUR RELATIONSHIP WITH IRAN? What the fuck, Ben Affleck? What the fuck, Academy?
Life of Pi was a brilliant film, as was Zero Dark Thirty and you’re giving the Best Picture award to the film that has a NEWS REEL EXPOSITION DUMP for the first five minutes? C’mon, Academy? What’s with you guys?
And why wasn’t Django Unchained nominated? Too good? Too boundary pushing? Too much like…. The best picture of the year? What? Come the fuck on.
This is why I hate everyone. This. Right here. This celebration of mediocrity. Sink to the middle kids, and everyone will congratulate you. That’s how our society is run these days.
After I found out that Argo had won best picture I couldn’t waste anymore of my time. I was disgusted. I power walked outside, dropped some MDMA into my left eye and attempted to put my rage behind me.
I had a mission. I needed to know more about this cult or syndicate or cabal. I needed to do more research. I needed to talk to someone who could actually verify what I thought was happening was true.
Till next time, Dear Reader. Till next time.
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