the senator’s claws

Alan Google walked quickly down Mott Street nervous about being late for a very important meeting. Clutching his Blackberry in one hand and his iPod shuffle (a replacement for an unfortunately lost iPod 30GB 5G, black) in the other, he cursed under his breath as he passed by people moving slower than he. Why was it that time always moved so much faster when either he was running late or when he about to be running late because he had overslept, something usually attributable to staying up too late the night before? Why was it that the slowest moving people on the street were always old Asian woman (and not just the really frail looking ones pawning shitty VCDs)? He knew it was terrible and that he should respect his elders, but would it really be so bad if they had certain times of the day when they were allowed to commute by public transportation on public streets? Was he a bad person for having these thoughts? Generally he was very kind to old people he knew, he spoke to and even visited his grandparents and not just when they sent him birthday gifts, but he did more than that. When not in a hurry, which was a good majority of time other than the time between the hours of 8:30am-9:00am (Monday – Friday) and anytime he was going somewhere fun, he showed the greatest respect for elders never rushing past them when walking down the street, though as one much younger and stronger it could be argued it was his right, Darwinism at its finest. One day if he took his baby aspirin regularly and continued with his healthy (at least on weekdays) eating habits he would be the old man walking down the street and he couldn’t think of anything worse than some young whippersnapper racing by him as if to say “I am young and you are old now get the fuck out of my way.” The whole scenario was generally very similar to a cop car on a highway, common sense says you just don’t pass them.

Crossing over Mulberry Street Alan felt his Blackberry begin to vibrate, immediately ripping it out from his pocket and putting it straight to his ear, it was his dear friend and business partner Suzie.

Alan: Hello?

Suzie: (sounding like a very creepy and very Jewish grandmother) Helllooo? Who is this?

Alan: It’s me Alan, you just called me. What’s up?

Suzie: Hellooo? What do you want?

Alan: I don’t know what I want I am confused – you called me.

Suzie: (her voice retuning to normal) It’s a done deal – the meeting is going to occur as we had planned it to. Are you there yet?

Alan: No, I’m running late, but should be there in a few minutes provided the trains aren’t running late. Generally they run on time, except when I need them to run on time then they are late. The station manager always makes announcements that there is a passenger sick in the train, which is fine. Though if they make me late that person better come pretty close to death, otherwise let them drag their sorry ass out of the train and not ruin everyone else’s schedule. Secretly I think the trains are still messed up from the believers in allah (terrorists). I expect President Bush, the Republican Party, and the NY Post would all be in agreement on this.

Suzie: Thanks for you commentary, but now isn’t the time for this – just make it to the meeting. Also, I know her rack is huge…try not to stare too much, it’s unprofessional.

**At this point it is necessary to turn the clock back to the prior evening in which a terrible crime had been committed.**

At the regular Thursday night Megaslllob showcase Les Talent had performed a well attended concert at the popular Lower East Side venue, the Dragon Room. Though it could be argued that the real crime was hoodwinking people into paying to see his generic and boring brand of music, at some time between his going on stage and the end of the showcase someone had stolen a certain copy of his promotional CD, Who Needs Talent When You Have A Symmetrical Face and Chiseled Abs. The problem wasn’t exactly with the stealing of the promo disc, after all it was pretty common to steal music, movies, and really any media of any kind, but rather that inside the stolen disc case (hidden comfortably behind the cover art) was a very rare photograph of a supermodel in a compromising position. Les and Megaslllob (a grotesque looking concert and shameless self promoter) had made a deal with many of the major tabloids to handover the picture at a bar around the corner in exchange for glowing press reviews in regard to the Megaslllob showcase and the performers that took part. Having just received her second feature article in the Village Voice, Mega was very concerned with keeping up the momentum of the artists she promoted and more importantly herself, making the loss of the picture – her trade bait, very troubling. Not wanting to call the police into the investigation Mega had called her friend Alan, an aspiring writer (or accountant depending on what sex the person he was speaking to was and how attractive said person was if they happened to be a female) and part-time private eye offering to exchange eventual plugs and press for his new collection of short stories Comfortably Confident, if he would take and solve her case in a quite and quick manner. Alan jumped at the chance. He was sure that Comfortably Confident, would be a huge seller if he only he was able to get people to read it, which was not an easy task. Alan often lamented the following:

It was infinitely easier for singers, sculptors, painters, mimes, clowns, sword-swallowers, three-card monty thieves, and magicians to get people to pay attention to what they were doing because it took a minimum commitment of time. Most current songs could easily be heard in less than five minutes, and the other forms of ‘art’ could be observed and reviewed in less than a minute. Reading took time, something most people couldn’t be bothered with (a small problem that would eventually lead to the Paris Hilton (now free of herpes which is cured in 2012) winning the 2020 Presidential Election and Perez Hilton replacing the NY Times). For more on why people don’t read one need look no further than Jonathan Franzen’s How To Be Alone, a delightful collection of some short and some long essays revolving around the theme of being alone. It’s not as good as The Corrections, but most things aren’t. There can only be one best per an author, no?

Anyhow, anxious for the free press Alan took the case, contacting his more masculine and intelligent partner Suzie Google (no relation) to request her help. Alan expected this case could become very messy and knew that he might need some muscle behind the operation. He also expected that Suzie, though clearly a girl, just might have some testosterone running through her, but that was something he would have to investigate on his own, sometime. Together the two had been very successful in solving small time cases including, but not limited to: ‘the case of the Chuck Taylor high top counterfeiter,’ ‘the case of the missing black and white striped Marc Jacobs fingerless glove,’ and just last week their most high profile to date ‘ the case of the missing case of PBR.’ Alan had agreed to meet Mega the next day at her Upper East Side apartment to gather some basic information regarding the case and begin the investigation.

**Returning to present day**

Alan: Ok Suzie, I’ll not stare at her rack. I’ll call you when I’m done with her.

Placing the Blackberry back into his pocket and running down the stairs Alan had three scumbags try to hand him three different and crappy free newspapers. It’s one thing to stand passively and hand out the free dailies, but to forcibly try to push them on to unsuspecting straphangers and passer-bys was just unacceptable. Alan tried to be polite and declined the first two, but when the third newspaper hander outer, from the AM Morning, jumped out in front of him he took the thin newspaper rolled it up and started smacking the startled AM Morning employee…he had lost his temper. “You like this when I do it to you? Here have a paper, take this you fucking asshole, here’s your news! I’ll shove it up your ass!” He only stopped when he saw an impossibly pretty girl approaching from the distance. Heading down into the uptown 6-train he wondered why Mega didn’t live along the Lower East Side as she claimed to. In agreeing to take the case he had been sworn to secrecy and told that she actually lived at 75th and Park Avenue, just a few blocks from Arnold and Willis Jackson who had inherited a beautiful building from their adoptive father Phillip Drummond who had recently passed away. Kimberly lived down the street, in another slightly nicer building (explained by her being a blood relative) – everyone had been taken care of except for Sam the redhead, who had been slighted in a manner that could only be understood by Julian Lennon, and maybe Tori Spelling. Yeah, Mega was filthy rich, to the point that there were secret tunnels carved (allegedly her bloated and very republican older brother had used massive bursts of hot air that spewed from his mouth to plow the majority of the tunnel) under the ground that ran parallel to the 6 and F trains to help her get downtown quickly and more importantly invisibly as much like the T-birds asking Michael Carrington for help with their essays, Mega had “a rep to protect.” While waiting for the train enjoying a very pleasing version of the Radiohead song ‘How I Made My Millions,’ Alan was interrupted by a homeless man. “I have AIDS, give me a dollar,” the degenerate said. Having been taught in pre-school the concept of ‘stranger danger’ and more importantly not to talk to strangers Alan just stood still. The man continued, “fine don’t give me a dollar, but shake my hand, I have AIDS.” Alan continued to stand still and the homeless man went on to the next person, finding very few takers. It wouldn’t have taken a big idea from Donnie Deutsch to recommend a better sales pitch, but that was for another time. Still enjoying the beauty of the Radiohead song, he was interrupted again this time by a loud thud, and then another – it was a so-called street performer banging a pen against an empty paint bucket. The design of subways is acoustically ideal for music, it amplifies it flawlessly, far better than the shower however the quality of the typical subway musician typically varied inversely with the excellent sound quality. Though it isn’t written about, or spoken about and is very difficult to believe Bob Dylan actually used to perform by himself at the West Fourth F Station, under the name Ray Ban. When the demand for his protest songs grew too large he faked a motorcycle accident and took to the underground – the beautiful acoustics enabled him to perform as if he were one of the three tenors. From the few that witnessed his performances they always come back to the clarity of his long and sustained notes (you know you can only hold a vowel), the exact opposite of the ‘protest’ singer that he is mostly known for.

Walking quickly away from the annoying drummer (banger on an empty paint canner) that was soiling the beauty that is Thom Yorke’s voice, Alan noticed the impossibly pretty girl that he had seen entering the subway while he was giving the news to the idiot paper creep. The girl stood an imposing 5’7” maybe 5’8”, with long brown hair a pretty face and a Kate Moss style outfit to cover it all up. Alan decided to stand by her so that they could be on the same train together. Not that he would talk to her (remember stranger danger), but it would make his trip up to see Mega far more interesting. Apparently Alan wasn’t the only one, who had noticed the girl, as he observed every male in the subway station flocking towards the girl a if she was a rabbi calling minion. A minute later the train came and as the doors opened and the impossibly pretty girl walked in the train a group of ten or so guys crowded in behind her all angling for the best position to either stare at her, or to get a seat so that they could immediately offer her the seat and appear chivalrous. Due to the incredible number of men squeezing onto the train car the impossibly pretty girl had been forced to stand next to a wanna-be rapper who for some reason felt everyone on the car wanted to play the role of his audience. Not wanting to stand near the fool, the impossibly pretty girl backed away landing her perfectly in front of Alan, which delighted him in an embarrassing manner forcing him to take a step back (ok, just an inch, maybe two). Glancing over her shoulder he immediately became dismayed as he noticed that rather than having an iPod the girl’s white headphones were running directly into a Microsoft Zune, and even worse she appeared to be listening to Fall Out Boy, thus (in his mind at least) ruining any chance for romance, falling in love and eventually making out with her. Part of him wondered if the impossibly pretty girl was really nothing more than a walking advertisement for the Zune. At the next stop Alan switched to an empty subway car, took a seat and began plotting out how he would deal with Mega. A few minutes later he was out the door and somehow made it to Mega’s Park Avenue palace, with two minutes to spare.

A short time later Alan found himself sitting on Mega’s couch and she started to explain the details of what she knew and didn’t know about the case.

Mega: From what I saw last night there were a lot of people there dressed in ripped, way too tight to breathe jeans, t-shirts, and expensive sneakers. At some point in the night one of them managed to get up and take the CD that was hidden in the drawer of the table in back where we sell t-shirts, CDs, and posters at – all at grossly inflated prices.

Alan: Who was working the stand?

Mega: It was my friend Syco Phant. She would have no motive to steal the CD as she basically lives off of my fame. As my luck goes so does hers.

Alan: Well if there is anything I know from watching detective movies and television shows, it is usually the one with the least motive that is guilty. I think I’ll talk to her, can you get me her phone number?

Mega: Sure, but my friends and I don’t really communicate by phone. We prefer text messaging and leaving comments on our friend’s blogs. I suggest you try that first. My best guess is that the person who stole it was Tom Tron. Have you ever heard of him?

Alan: I’m familiar. Why do you ask?

(Everyone knew who Tom Tron was. Just a short time ago he was the toast of the downtown New York art world. One of the most gifted musicians/painters/actors the city had ever seen, the guy could do it all. In early 2008 he created a true masterpiece ‘The Senator’s Claws,’ a painting so perfect that it was known to cause an Infinite Jest type of paralysis to anyone who dared to stare at it for too long. The painting worked because it made people happy, was able to create an unexplainable euphoric feeling to anyone who came in contact with the painting. People loved to be happy and once they had seen it were unable to remove their eyes off of it. In time their bodies would start to stop functioning – due to a lack of food, water, or sleep – but it didn’t matter, something in their brain had been altered and they would simply stare at the painting over and over again until they dropped. After two weeks and five hundred dead, Mayor Truth, fresh off the banning of passing gas in public, ordered the painting destroyed. Tron was devastated that his masterpiece had been runied and spent the next year trying to recreate it, with no luck. When his last exhibit opened to less than mediocre reviews Tron tried to recreate the ‘The Senator’s Claws,’ experience by serving LSD flavored water and was quickly caught and arrested. Tron came from a well-heeled family so avoided all charges and was free to roam around. The incident did come at a price though, he was never taken seriously as an artist again and was eventually forced to enter a career in public accounting. It could be argued that jail would have been more pleasant.)

Mega: I think Tron is out to get me. I kind of thought I saw him last night, but you never know with Tron. One minute he is all Williamsburg hipster and the next he is all Upper East Side preppie, I wish I had paid better attention or at least not have been stupid enough to leave the valuable picture lying around – especially when I had more than enough room in my backpack to keep it on me.

Alan: I understand how annoying both hipsters and preppies can be, but what would Tron want with you?

(And this is the part where the dramatic music gets really loud)

Mega: It’s my fault that Tron now works in the unglamorous field of public accounting. It was me who found out about the LSD in the water at his last art show and turned him into the authorities.

to be continued the next time i’m not feeling well enough to go out. also for anyone reading this and going out tonight one of the hottest models ever is having drinks at tortilla flats right now. run, run, run!