by: Jon Mychal – ©2002
The ghostly forms move through the swirling mist with the fluidity of assassins from antiquity, dropping in sequential unison then parting, their willowy limbs wired to undulating torsos as modern synthesizers drone over spent tribal rhythms. A lone figure emerges from the darkness and struts with the grace and determination of a runway model toward the front of the stage, captured in silhouette as a small sun goes supernova somewhere in the distance. Perfectly cued, the din ever increases, causing dizziness for some and rapture for others: rAnDi sPuN WyLdLeE!™ has arrived.
“KA-DUNK KA-DUNK!! HEY BUBBA KRUNK!!” she roars, one hand planted firmly on her jutting hip while the other waggles a tanned finger accusingly at no one in particular, the small army of tweens pushed up against security fencing while flailing their bejeweled little hands in the air as they giddily chant along. In an almost cartoonish fashion, the arena — pressed at the seams – appears to bulge, barely containing the 20 000+ souls in search of redemption by way of endorsement; the hopeful hanging on every star-spangled word lip-synched by their idol. Confectioners hunkered down in common areas holler over the distant roar of the show, pandering to those who need a bit more: perhaps an authentic rAnDi sPuN WyLdLeE!™ towelette to wipe down with after a feverish episode, or a mounted, life-sized rendition of the star, shiny with sweat of her own?
rAnDi sPuN WyLdLeE!™: What a girl.
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He turned the TV off, a knot forming in his stomach while the high pressure system rose in his throat. Could it be that she somehow missed his signal, he wondered? Unable to concentrate, he threw back a liberal portion from a 26 ounce bottle of rye, and shakily reached toward another cigarette on the stained coffee table which stood between him and the ‘simulcast’ event which had just aired. Lighting up, he leaned back, exhaling a large plume of bluish smoke. Again with the rye: Slightly warm, the liquid fast-acted on the knot, gently unfastening it with a capsicum smile.
He sat staring at the blank screen for nearly an hour, his living room phone ringing on two separate occasions as the calls found their way to an older model of answering machine: “Hi, it’s Grant – leave a message.”, the voice said, over the whining of the motor as the tape heads begrudgingly turned and engaged.
Finally he awoke from the trance, soft halos beginning to form around various light sources as he gazed about the room: An old chandelier-style fixture hung heavily in the adjoining dining area, decorated festively with dried insect husks seated in roping spider webs, the shadows of tiny exo-skeletons magnified and thrown theatrically on to the distant wall like stills from a 20s-era silent movie.
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Despite numerous warnings of potentially fatal consequences should she continue with her rigorous touring schedule, the girl couldn’t be stopped: she banged her way across the US, Canada and six European countries, thrusting her prominent hips at the undulating crowds that worshipped before her night after night, the sweat and grease of 110 minutes under stage lights and freak make-up spackled the willing masses like bacon fat spitting at a foolishly close short-order cook.
Oblivious to the symptoms manifesting in her chest, instead focusing on the high brought on by the marriage of adrenaline and party favours of the pharmaceutical variety, tonight’s after-party would be “business as usual”. rAnDiSpUnWyLdLeE!™ was only too pleased to be taken by the elbow and escorted – entourage in tow – from her dressing room to a cartoonish in length limousine which spirited her off to a famous young actor’s new fortified playpen overlooking LA.
Several hours passed in a customarily hollow yet glib manner, and after more of the same, she became overwhelmed by all manners of stimulation and ventured off in search of a washroom or quiet place to shake it off, only to discover she had wandered in to a newly renovated wing of the mansion which was clearly still undergoing construction and had a delineation point established by a wall of stage curtains.
The lights dimmed as she swayed towards the heavy curtains, uncertain as to whether her next steps would be on firm ground or if she was about to wade through nine thousand miles of embroidered pillows, each stuffed with ostrich feathers, lavender petals and black pearls.
rAnDi sPuN WyLdLeE!™ sighed and bowed her head as if to thank god for her life, but instead heaved twice then threw up: Fat-free yogurt and diet soda cut with rye. As the sickly sweet syrup ran down her front and between her perfect breasts, she casually wiped her glossy mouth with the back of a well manicured hand, tearing her bottom lip on the arm of a waving saint embossed on a mega-ring. “Fuck.” She said absently, sniffling up acidic residue; her heavy eyelids bearing down, now mere slits formed around violet-coloured contacts. She became aware of a sequence she was composing in her mind’s eye: A montage of “Help me… I’m sick.” scenarios featuring her falling down in slow motion as Massive Attack’s ‘Teardrop’ played in the moody background. Indeed, the segment was great; vital, even, for no other diva could lose her footing so gracefully… or sensually… nor was there any comparing her exquisite mental camera angles, lighting and platinum editing to those currently being employed by the unwashed masses in ‘Music Video Land’.
As the cardioes-que drum loop pulsed hypnotically somewhere behind her eyes and before her brain, she mimed along with the rich piano chords, her long watery fingers spread widely as if to strike the largest keys on the planet. “Plong… plong…” she muttered with each movement of her arms. rAnDi sPuN WyLdLeE!™ attempted to sing the lyrics, but instead made a very small croaking sound and then coughed, clearing her throat of stomach juices. At last collapsed entirely, she felt rather ambivalent: Stand rubbery or sprawl out on the vomit streaked marble floor. Who cares?
