hey peeps, i've been reading 'American Psycho' by Bret Easton Ellis and it's a seriously hilarious piece of literature. its narrator is patrick bateman, a wall street banker by day and a serial killer by night. this is a satire on the consumerist spirit of the 1980s and the extremely soulless and hollow sense of humanity that pervaded the era. yea so as i said, it's a really funny book (to me at least) and i thought i'd like, show some extracts in an attempt to save the blog from dying. yea... ok.
scott starts telling me about his new compact disc player...
'it's Aiwa,' scott's saying. 'you've got to hear it. the sound' - he pauses, closes his eyes in ecstacy, chewing on corn bread - 'is fantastic.'
'well you know, scottie, the Aiwa is okay.' oh holy shit, dream on, scot-tie, i'm thinking. 'but Sansui is really top of the line.' i pause, then add, 'i should know, i own one.'
'but i thought Aiwa was top of the line.' scott looks worried but not yet upset enough to please me.
'no way, scott,' i say. 'does Aiwa have digital remote control?'
'yeah,' he says.
'computer controls?'
'uh-huh.' what a complete and total dufus.
'does the system come with a turntable that has a metacrylate and brass platter?'
'yes,' the bastard lies!
'does your system have an....Accophase T-106 tuner?' i ask him.
'sure,' he says, shrugging.
'are you sure?' i say. 'think carefully.'
'yeah. i think so,' he says, but his hand shakes as it reaches for more of the corn bread.
'what kind of speakers?'
'well, Duntech wood,' he answers too quickly.
'so solly, dude. you've got to have the Infinity IRS V speakers,' i say. 'or - '
'wait a minute,' he interrupts. 'V speakers? i've never heard of V speakers.'
'see, that's what i mean,' i say. 'if you don't have the Vs, you might as well be listening to a goddamn Walkman.'
'what's the bass response on those speakers?' he asks suspiciously.
'an ultralow fifteen hertz,' i purr, enunciating each word.
that shuts him up for a minute. i sit back, satisfied at having stumped scott, but too quickly he regains his composure and says, 'anyway' - trying to act blissfully uncaring that he owns a cheap, shitty stereo - 'we bought the new Phil Collins today. you should hear how great 'Groovy Kind of Love' sounds on it.'
i find myself crouched in the doorway of what used to be Carly Simon's, a very hot J. Akail restaurant that closed last fall, and leaping out at a passing japanese delivery boy, i knock him off his bicycle and drag him into the doorway, his legs tangled somehow in the Schwinn he was riding which works to my advantage since when i slit his throat - easily, effortlessly - the spasmodic kicking that usually accompanies this routine is blocked by the bike, which he still manages to lift five, six times while he's choking on his own hot blood. i open the cartons of japanese food and dump their contents over him, but to my surprise instead of sushi and teriyaki and hand rolls and soba noodles, chicken with cashew nuts falls all over his gasping bloodied face and beef chow mein and shrimp fried rice and moo shu pork splatter onto his heaving chest, and this irritating setback - accidentally killing the wrong type of Asian - moves me to check where this order was going - Sally Rubinstein - and with my Mont Blanc pen to write i'm gonna get you too...bitch on the back of it, then place the order over the dead kid's face and shrug apologetically, mumbling 'uh, sorry' and recall that The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Teenage Girls Who Trade Sex For Crack.
hahaha ok this is getting kind of long. i'll stop here then.
the class united @
12:11 AM
Emily,KAWAII!
Kelvin,FUCK YOU!
Raymond,SEX WITH STRANGERS!
Shane,I SMARTER THAN NORMAN!
Simin,I LIKE (T)BERRY!
Angela,AH!I'M CRAZY!
Alvyn,YAN CAN COOK!
Karen,WHERE AM I?
Michelle,SMU ROCKS!
Norman,I AM SO SMART!
Wei Kee,I LIKE TO WANK.
and featuring special guest,ALVERINA.
Collectively:oh my GAWD SHUT UP!
