Dead Stars

by Bruce Wagner

  Now it was time, & it felt like only a short walk from the community plunge to the ocean. He would leave the pool, with its useless, obsolescent lifeguards, to go swim with the ancient salt-water giants, living and dead . . .

  . . .

  All That Jazz.

  The movie Michael had watched probably 30 times in as many years was still talismanic, still incantatory, still possessed the thaumaturgical effect of sponging up his anguished depression, preventing it from overpuddling—regulating and distracting. After the shock of diagnosis, he gravitated (again) toward the fatal themes of monomania & greasepaint grandiosity running through Jazz like a funhouse burglar. Fosse was writing about the dexedream years when he simultaneously put on Chicago while editing Lenny—the choreographer’s Love in the Time of Cardiac. He hadn’t watched the movie in a while & this time was amazed to see it for what it was, as an unmitigated failure, a stupendously conceived, curdlingly self-indulgent, terribly written, crassly executed mess. A FAIL from the likes of Fosse was magnificently riveting; yet, because Jazz was so egregiously flawed, this mortal wound of a film left ample room for other voices, other rooms.

  As they blasted the tumor from his tongue, he began to conceive himself as the chain-smoking black-shirted paws-up King of the Dance. (Who’d a thunk?) Made him smile. He immediately saw Catherine in the rôle limned by Jessica Lange—the white-gowned gossamer-veiled Angel of Death, the protagonist’s last seduction. His wife would make an iconic, dusky, sensuous angel indeed. His medical travails had made their marriage stronger & the Jazz variations would memorialize that. Show the world they weren’t afraid to meet The End clear-eyed & unafraid, that love was stronger than death. Cat seemed a natural to play another part as well, the dancer-mistress that Fosse cast his ex Ann Reinking in, but that was tough. He knew she’d prefer that rôle over beckoning Death—plus, in the Reinking part, she’d be able to dance, pull out all the stops. But it would be tough for him, & he had to think of himself. He needed to marshal his energies and protect his heart. He saw the Angel of Death as a caricature, which was OK—but for Cat to play a beautiful dancer/lover felt too close to the bone. Besides, he hadn’t conceived All That as a project for husband & wife. No: the notion was born in a place far from commerce and calculation, shamanic, mysterious, & much was unclear. He did not know if it was meant to save his life, or save his death.

  In those perilous, ghoulish dog days when malignant thoughts of recurrence stuttered on the tip of his insulted tongue, his jazzy desire coalesced; such was his cancer’s sequelae. It gave him something to shoot for, a major pursuit. He knew if he trained very hard he might just be able to pull off—with merit—a personification of that swagged-out Fosse Swagger of derbied, softshoe’d nomadic royalty. Fosse wrote the book to Chicago as well, which gave Michael the encouraging nod to begin a 1st draft of Jazz, a potentially radical reimagining. He would show it to friends—Aaron (Sorkin) & Tom (Stoppard) & Steve (Kloves) for feedback, suggestions & general help. What was there to lose? If the cancer don’t kill me, I’ll be 80-years-old in the blink of a wet macular degenerated eye————————

  It came to him out of the blue (where the best ideas always seemed to live) (that mysterious, excavated out of the blue place), from irradiated sleep (Week 7 of radiation, & after the three chemo seshes):

  Michael Douglas Catherine Zeta-Jones

  All That Jazz

  Heather Morris

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Heather Morris AKA Brittany Pierce, Glee’s drop-dead funny deadpan surrealspeak gal. (Cat & the kids were gaga for all things Brittany.) A fresh face with no feature experience to speak of, a working dancer turned improbable, show-stealing comedienne, she was an inspired choice (and one helluva dancer) to play the Reinking-mistress.

  Maybe deliriousness in the wake of the cytotoxic campaign the doctors waged had beckoned him manically knit together the karmic thread that weirdly sewed it all together: 1) his wife won an Oscar for her performance as Velma in the movie based on Chicago*; 2) when Beyoncé came across an old curiosity on YouTube—three dancers (including Fosse’s wife Gwen Verdon) doing one of the master’s signature, flirty, muscularly jaunty, thrown-away routines—she liked it so much she copped it for the famous “Single Ladies” video; 3) Beyoncé hired pre-Glee Heather Morris to go on tour & be one of the back-up dancers replicating the dance clip; and 4) the karmic circle was complete when the Glee people asked Heather to teach the cast the “Single Ladies” moves, a road that eventually led to Brittany S. Pierce. Lately, Michael found himself making connections like that, big and little, whimsical and not, as if something alien had given him a tune-up. How extraordinary was the world! Not too long ago, he was certain he would die before his father, unthinkable, but now he felt more alive than he’d ever been.

  The critics would have a field day, they always did.

  Let them eat cancer.

  How could he care?

  . . .

  He dozed into cancer dreams.

  Steve Jobs approached him on the street, asking for money. He had huge tits.

  “It’s for Aaron Sorkin,” he said. “He needs the money for his mastectomy.”

  Jobs’ smile was vulpine, his beard sickly, his breath rotten and prodromal.

  “What’s the matter, Michael? Aren’t you going to help Aaron?”

  EXPLICIT

  [Jerzy]

  DikiLeaks

  “I

  already got her sis, & now I want Elle, I want to see her cunt, know what I’m saying? Dakota’s cunt we have. But her sister . . . I see her in Vogue with her slutfriends Hailee & Chloë, I watch her goo-goo giggly on Leno in her Chanel & I pray to God those parents are hiding sixteen more lil orphan Fannings in Sleepy Hollow! Cause let me tell you something straight up: Harry Middleton WILL NOT SLEEP until he sees every hair on their chinny-chin-chins. And you’re the one who’s gunna make sure that I do! You’re the one who’s gunna show it to the world. As the song goes, Baby, it’s you!”

  He took a deep breath and focused.

  “You are the Chosen One. Make no mistake, I have not had a hand in this. God has chosen you to memorialize all the cunning Lady Fanning cunts.” He bounced in his chair & sang; he burst into song all day. All the single ladies! All the single ladies . . . All the single ladies! All the single ladies. Now put your hands UP—”

  Sometimes he sang the whole deal, every verse, and you just had to sit there. Well let him. Jerzy was shocked. Hired just 10 minutes into the interview. Never happened. Like, ever.

  His birthname was Jerry, Jerry Jr. to make things worse, from Jerome, his dead dad. Their mom gave them shitty names, Jerilynn sounded supertrash (which Jerzy thought was supersick, in that Jerilynn was yet another nod to dead dad, only problem being, his ½sister’s dad’s name was Ronny) and Jerry just sounded Jewy & forgettable, a name that should fucking be suppressed, like J.D. (Jerry) Salinger suppressed his. Even more fucked up and insidious of the mom was that Jerilynn & Jerry were sort of the same. Victor/Victoria——— . . . growing up, his assmates at school idiot-brilliantly called him Jerry’s Deli, the local place families went on the weekends so fuck that loser name. When he was a senior he read The Painted Bird by Jerzy Kosinski & dug the name. So he did a little reinventing, tweaked an r to a z & called it a night. He wouldn’t respond to anything but Jerzy, not to his teachers or bitch mother or anyone & if friends fucked around and called him Jerry or Jerome he’d just slap their fucking faces till they got it right. Which they did soon enough.

  Jerzy Kosinski was a rich & famous author who made up everything about his own life. Jerzy the Second wiki’d the shit out of the guy & there was like nothing about him that was real, it was such fucking genius! He had college kids writing his novels and still won all the awards. The guy was married to some sort of heiress, he played polo & acted in movies, & was handsome too. You’d think life was perfect but he killed himself—took a bunch of dope, got in the tub & put a bag over his head. Jerzy the Sequel took his hat
off to anyone with that kind of schweddy balls, really admired them, he’d wanted to die so many times in life but was too gaping a pussy to do anything about it. He was kind of fascinated too by the way people offed themselves: gun, dope, gas, jumping, hanging, drowning . . . occasionally there’d be a fucked up one on the internet, like that chick stabbing herself over and over or the bullied fagteen who chugged Drano.

  In contrast, the man interviewing him—owner of http://www.TheHoneyshot!.com/—veritable duke of his domain—THE HONEYSHOT!, proudly serving horndogs online since 2003—in contrast, you could call him whatever the fuck you wanted to and he probably wouldn’t mind, probably wouldn’t even notice. Plus nobody cared enough to even hang a bogus, brilliantly retarded nickname on his perved, grody ass. His name was Harry, Harry Middleton, & Jerzy nicknamed him Harry around the Middleton but kept that to himself. Come to think of it, J2 didn’t know which was worse, Jerry or Harry. If you had em both, you might just have to commit Jerry-Harry hahahahaha.

  THE HONEYSHOT! paid cash money for their niche-market specialty, celebskin flashes, of which the genus he trafficked in Harry cannily estimated to be 95% accidental (the remaining 5 percent being exhibitionistic/PR-ploy dross), all submissions welcome but only nipple slips & xxxtreme wardrobe malfunctions need apply. Harry called his boys the Smarmy Sidewalk Army—but his happiest coinage & contribution to the skinternet was and would remain papsmearazzi, perforce THE HONEYSHOT!s distinct, some may call it obsessive, emphasis on the mossy, shrouded nether regions. You clicked on the homepage & the 1st thing heard was the Stones singing “It’s just a shot away!”—THE HONEYSHOT!—with its Cash Money MondayShots! (Mondays were big after a weekend of premieres/celeb debauches etc)—THE HONEYSHOT!—with its Thighs on the Prize deep page CUNTdown to Victory!-IBL to CradleSnatch!, Harry’s controversial bonus rogue gallery of underage starlet/up-&-cumming HONEYSHOT!s-to-be (each one represented by the most tasteful & demure shots Harry could find—such was his brilliance!)—THE HONEYSHOT!—with its Times Square toteboard of the ticking hours/minutes/seconds left before his “hairly legal hits & Missies!” turned 18—THE HONEYSHOT!—with its splash page banner searchandizing all cummers to a nostalgic subweb showcasing commemorative 18th-b’day papsmearazzi honeyshot!s of years gone by: the Em&Em’s (Emma Watson & Emma Roberts) & iHoneys (Miranda & Victoria Justice) Dakota & Katniss & Selena, Bianca Ryan AND fuckin Sunshine Corazon & so & so & such & such . . . . . . . well, THE HONEYSHOT! was hot hot hot. Daily traffic was definitely on the upskirt Upton upswing.*

  THE HONEYSHOT! posted celebrity skin of all ilk, with that very special emphasis on the classic Bermuda ∆ crotchshot, a cash crop that yielded panty shots & the occasional much-coveted, crème de la crème panty-less twat shocker. If you were 18 showing cameltoe by the pool in Maui (Xmas in Hawaii was a very busy time for papsmearazzi: tis the Four Seasons to be jolly!), scuba-diving in Sorrento, aimless in Amalfi or aqua-marooned in the Maldives, one of Harry’s minions would be on you like ants on feta—“Wherever there’s a wench with an uncovered stench-trench,” said Harry, in his best Tom Joad, “I’ll be there.” If a papsmearazzo looked perplexed, he’d say, “What’s the matter? Didn’t you ever see Henry Fonda in The Rapes of Grath?” Then (of course) he’d bust into I’ll Be There (Jackson 5).

  It worked like this:

  Cum 18-years of age, all the single lady let crotches were fair game, and it was Harry’s Hairy Crusade to webmorialize each fresh minty smell moment. Looking back on his collection of legendary Honeyshot! V-Days, he almost got teary-eyed. He remembered Emma Watson’s like it was yesterday. They got her exactly 45 minutes after her 18th, in Mayfair, disembarking from a Maybach. Emma was the kind of girl who didn’t need to be coached, tidy & proper & properly gamine, she’d been carefully sliding out of cars for years . . . but this time, in the wee morning hours of her birthday she’d been out celebrating & simply wasn’t careful enough———revealing in the process a sliver of hairy (very) pot- and Pottered poody tat. Harry told his papsmearazzi that if you were hunting hairpie you damn well better know that your best bet was shooting it as it debarked a Range Rover, Benz or SUV. Do it right, & it’s fish in a barrel. He promised to show Jerzy the technique tomorrow, give him a crotch course in the mechanics of getting the classic out-of-backseat snatchy snapshot! Harry made it a point to train all of his bushmen personally. He’d throw on panties & a Loehmann’s skirt, park his Audi at the curb and position his boys while scuttling from the backseat. He made them shout “Elle! Chloë! Hailee!” for that certain Je ne sais queef. It was important to know the right stance and GPS (Global-labial Position) for the perfect ( {} )shot!—it was really just vectors and math. Another cool thing about the backseat exit experience was that lots of times just when you thought you screwed the pooch, you’d bagged the hooch.

  “See,” said Harry. “Sometimes it feels like hit & miss. You think the night’s a bust. You get home, fix yourself a drink, & stare at your navel. But then you play it back & see: that big paycheck of blow-dried pussy, so fresh, monied and young! Coddled, cosseted & guarded for fucking years by parents, handlers, agents, lawyers, personal managers, publicists . . . but now it’s yours for the taking. Know how we bagged Emma? She let her guard down. That simple. Would’ve happened sooner or later, ain’ no stopping it. Sooner or later the hairpie will be placed in the bakery display case. Cause once they’re legal, I don’t sleep till we got it. Can’t sleep or eat, can’t even shit. See, cause know I’m on it. And they didn’t even used to have to even think about this shit, streetside celebrity piss flap shots didn’t even exist until THE HONEYSHOT! came along. I’m the pioneer. And as smart as they were, Emma’s people weren’t on it . . . . . who can blame em? I mean to know that someone was lying in wait to skate your sacrosanct client’s stink rink—we used to call it the ‘wizard’s sleeve’—well Jesus!——Hermione Granger slid out of backseats a million times without incident, why would there have been any incidences, all my single ladies have! But comes a time they cum of age . . . . . . . & they’re distracted. Maybe they just had a fight with the boyfriend, just hung up, & now they’re stepping out of the limo for the premiere . . . or maybe they were just watching a video of supermodels falling on the runway, maybe they’re even a little stoned—or they weren’t talking to the boyfriend, they were just thinking about him, maybe things aren’t going so well or maybe they’re going too well, maybe they’re thinking about dick, cause a lot of my single ladies have been getting dick’d since they were 13, I can guarantee you that, nothing wrong with it, I don’t pass judgment on my girls, kids grow up quicker these days especially in show biz but a girl like Emma, a good girl, upper class—upper class with a lower crust!—maybe she only just started getting dicked, maybe only even like just a few weeks before her 18th, so maybe right before she’s about to step out of the car she’s thinking about getting a little more. After the premiere, or whenever. Which is a lot to be thinking about. There are other potentially distracting states of mind. Like maybe one of my single ladies is a little remorseful she didn’t take Petra Ecclestone up on wanting to throw her a boffo 18th, with Kanye & whomever, & deadmau5 DJing. Because they didn’t really even know Petra that well. But maybe it would have been a goof to have had the party at the old Spelling mansion instead of just with friends & family. These are the quality of problems accorded my single ladies. Or maybe they’re wondering about the burning lately when they pee, if it’s chlamydia or maybe their throat’s a little sore & they’re paranoid about maybe having smoked a New Year’s sparkler with HPV or who knows they could be beating themselves up for not having listened to management & waiting till they were 21 but just going for it and dressing like a sick whore for a Maxim shoot . . . . . . . or maybe they’re pondering what it’s like to get fucked up the ass, which, no offense, might even cross the mind of a gal like Emma who hasn’t maybe been getting dick that long, how can we know what’s in the mind of Mrs. Weasley? I doubt if it’s Emma’s thing, but that don’t mean she’s never fancied t
aking it in the mugglerump, please keep in mind that all the single ladies usually do go thru a somewhat rebellious phase, after all those years of being branded and pimped, it wouldn’t surprise me if they spent a month trying it, fucked in the starfish, could be a bucket list thing for girls these days . . . who knows, maybe right before they leave the Town Car they were cogitating about the rumor that Lea Michele only likes it up the ass and is saving her pussy for marriage—that’s one of those urban myths, every few years there’s some rumor about a starlet who only takes it in the ass, now it’s Lea, Selena Gomez, and Jennifer Lawrence, I remember when it was Sarah Michelle Gellar & Jennifer Love Hewitt and before that it was Sarah Jessica & Kyra Sedgwick I think . . . Jesus, I’m getting myself horny now, I’m thinking about Hailee Steinfeld about to climb out of a Bentley shifting those Jewish animal haunches on the seat——