For those of you that don’t know me, it is no secret that I often play on the cusp of both the glorious and the fatal. The old adage goes that nothing is more enthralling than a life that constantly stares death straight in the eyes. To say such things of my existence would be a gross understatement. I have indecently kissed death on numerous occasions and it seems only a matter time before temptation wins out. Although many believe I am in fact immortal, I find it prudent to share my final wishes as they are too lurid and bizarre to be lost.
To begin I refuse my final rights on this earth to be performed on any other day but the summer solstice. Please cryogenically freeze my body as is appropriate. Second, the setting for the event can only be on a peninsula shaped grassy cliff overlooking the ocean. Specific location is yet unidentified, but note that like everything I do, aesthetics take precedence over practicality.
The invitations to the great send off shall be written on aged parchment with burnt corners and sealed in black wax with my crest pressed on it. The content within is a treasure map to the location and the specific details of the affair. The invitations are to be hand delivered by men in full formal tailcoats without explanation besides a simple “compliments of Keenan”.
The affair is black tie with accents of the wild (I expect fur, leather, feathers etc to add flare to everyone’s outfit). There is no need for a rain location, it simply will not rain.
The site will have thirteen massive bonfires raging in a triangular shape. The thirteenth will be located at the point of the peninsula (and will be the largest) and pairs of bonfires will line up on opposite ends of the peninsula moving away from the point. On each of the twelve paired bonfires different game will be roasting (venison, bear, bore, geese, antelope, elk, pheasant, rabbit, duck, crocodile, elan, bison) in the center of these fires a massive dark banquet table will be set for a feast. The center pieces on the table will be elaborately adorned chainsaws of my own design.
Holographic screens will be placed to display images of me, my photographs and inspirations. A massive concert quality sound system will also be erected in order to ensure sound integrity. The ceremony begins at 9 pm and will continue until dawn. Guests will be informed to hydrate and rest well prior to arrival.
As the guests arrive they are separated by sex and handed both a flaming torch and a glass of Krug vintage brut 1996 champagne. Women will proceed to the peninsula first in procession while the Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zero’s song “40 Day Daydream” as the reach their place on the left side of the table (staff will ensure it is clear) they will push their torch into the ground and be offered a decadent assortment of bites from the sea (caviar, seared scallops, assorted ceviches, lobster tacos, razor clams, cockles, oysters, Sea Urchin). The men will proceed after in exactly the same manner only to the right and with the Warren Zevon song “Werewolves of London” blaring.
Once all are in place they will be asked to shout out the heavens and rustle the gods as the live version of Oasis’s “Fucking in the Bushes” blasts over the sound system. As a sufficient decibel level is reached, a sound clip of Axl Rose screaming “wake up time to die” will play followed by “Welcome to the Jungle” in it’s entirety. All will applaud as my ebony and gold casket is carried to its place at the head of the table. The casket itself will have the head of wolf and be lined in coyote fur, designed by Peter Gronquist. I will be dressed in a tuxedo with mink collar and lapels and lined in purple silk (in death we are all royalty).
As instructed no glass will be left empty, and all servers will be beautiful nubile young females dressed in fur, leather, and flowers. The party will proceed and guests will mingle until a live drum session summons them to be seated at their marked place at the table. Once seated the Orphic Hymn to Dionysus will be recited in order properly evoke he who provides us with both ecstasy and sorrow.
“I call upon loud-roaring and revelling Dionysus,
primeval, double-natured, thrice-born, Bacchic lord,
wild, ineffable, secretive, two-horned and two-shaped.
Ivy-covered, bull-faced, warlike, howling, pure,
You take raw flesh, you have feasts,
wrapt in foliage, decked with grape clusters.
With your fair-girdled nymphs breathe on me
in a spirit of perfect agape.”
The week before the ceremony the guests will be asked to give a speech about a time I made them laugh, smile, cry, or made them angry. Essentially a time I stirred true emotion in them. If they are not comfortable speaking publicly they will be asked to submit their story in writing. At each person’s place setting a leather bound and gold leaf book will be set. Its contents will include images of me, excerpts of my writing, and inspirations I’ve cited.
The only time sorrow will be allowed is following the seating when Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah” is played. It is the most beautifully melancholic song I have ever heard, but I will ask my guest to imagine the love spoken about in the song to be understood as life itself. It is my belief that life is in fact love and every moment can provide a warm embrace if you perceive it the correct way. While the song plays the stories of those that chose not to speak will be displayed. Directly after the rolling stone song “loving cup” will be played with the same understanding of word love, but with an entirely more joyful tinge. The remaining written stories will be displayed.
The feast itself will be served as all the roast beasts fill the table and are accompanied by Brussels sprouts in xo sauce, smashed curried cauliflower, candied artisanal carrots and roast parsnips in goose fat. All the china and flatware will be made of horn and bone, and and all place settings will be leather with feathered accents. To accompany the Krug, guests will have their selection of 1997 Giuseppe Quintarelli Amarone della Valpolicella Classico, Domaine de Chevalier Blanc 2009, Del Maguey Pechuga mezcal, Victory Brewing’s Golden Monkey Ale, Guinness (draft), Vieux Pontarlier Absinthe. Dessert will consist of roasted and caramelized fruit over the fire, Pierre Hermé Macarons, and Bilboquet chocolate mousse.
As the feast progresses the guests who would like to verbalize their story about me, shall be able to do so at will. A combination of live and recorded music will play to my exact specifications, I will release the list to a number of confidants in the near future. Once the feast is ended the table will be separated and moved to the sides with the chairs in order to make more room for my favorite pastime, ferocious dancing.
An hour into the party progression Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades” will play as my funeral vehicle is revealed, a navajo print seaplane with the words “Victory is Death” written on the wings. The guests will be encouraged to leave gifts within or write messages on the plane for my journey to the next world. The procession to do so will be accompanied by The Doors “The End”, specifically the seventeen minute live version from the second disk of their box set.
When dawn approaches my plane will be lowered to the sea by crane, and thirteen M60 machine guns will fire three thousand rounds into the sky each to clear my path. Guns N’ Rose’s “Paradise City” live in Tokyo will be played as the engines on the airplane are fired up with me in it. The controls will be set to automatic and the crowd will roar and cheer uncontrollably as I take off on my last ride into the sun.
All guests will wait until the plane is no longer visible, then begin to leave as the sun is fully risen. Sigur Ros’s “Glosoli” will play as each is handed custom machetes and tomahawks of my own design as keepsakes. The entire night will be recorded in video and photo, to be edited and sent out to every attendee. My possessions and estate will be distributed as I have specified to my attorney, their notice for collection will arrive in porcupine quill jewelry boxes the evening after the vicious event.
“Moderation is a fatal thing, nothing succeeds like excess.” -Oscar Wilde
My eyes open from darkness to the front door slamming. The tranquilizer’s after-burn fights my movements, the ground a collage of gold metallic wrappers and scattered clothing. “Skin of the night” is playing softly on repeat. Reaching the marble counter covered in bottles and glasses, I find a legal pad lying sideways with “Laura 555-212-7341” written in sharpie. Australian? Brunette? Who cares… I open the aluminum door praying for coconut water; find nothing but a bottle of Veuve and some Cholula. Reprobates live on a Spartan diet.
My iPhone vibrates on the stone; “Sarah B. is at yoga works” who the fuck goes to yoga at, umm 3:30pm. Such things shouldn’t make me laugh. Such things should instill anxiety and urgency. In need of rescue I text Hann at the Bodega: “2 Zico, 2 apples, sugar free Popsicles”.
My position in the coyote fur hammock allows me a view of the city vibrantly churning below my loft. People rushing to complete tasks I’ll never experience, but understand to be essential in perpetuating the decadence. The bottle resting on my chest has a surprisingly long finish as it begins to alleviate the cloud. Vibration, Damon: “Oi, at The Randolph. Get here”. Ignore for now, one must salvage a bit of the Apollonian before submission to the inevitable bacchanal. A Libertine’s game of hard to get.
A text from Meaghan appears, and a faint sense of responsibility creeps in. “Babes are you still coming to brunch, we are seated?” The ramifications are low, but the reservation is under my name. Thankfully she is endlessly entertained by my reality. “She wouldn’t leave… I’ll meet you after.” Meaghan: “Hahaha, who? The one I met at Electric Room? You should bring her.” Horrendous idea. Was I at Electric? “So sorry darling, let’s play later”.
The wall buzzes. Doorman: “Hann is here.”
Pay. Drink Zico. Run. Equinox. Ignore people. Church. Duncan Quinn. Odin. Milano’s Bar. Pint. Shower.
“You could be mine” erupts from the speakers while I select an outfit, a process in dire need of acceleration. Placing the first cuff link in with a twist, I’m interrupted by a familiar double beep “Anisia’s B-day Dinner at Felling”. Less than 15 minutes to get deep in Chinatown, and I’m not wearing pants. Skip? Can’t, the illustrator I’m “collaborating” with is invited.
Dress, eye drops, ATM, cab.
Arriving 30 minutes late, I’m the first in the party to arrive. The decor is heavy in reclaimed wood, accented by stainless saw blade chandeliers and shelves full of matte black chainsaws. The grizzly bartender takes my order as “Mr. Saturday Night Special” blares in the background. Rustic glam? Lumberjack chic? At least it’s packed with pretty people.
Who is staring at me? Did we stab a few weeks ago? No, this is new. An Intense gaze, collarbones, lithe arms, leather pants, stunning. She walks over to me, but I get a slap on my shoulder and turn. “Hey stud, are we the first ones?” It’s Fabian, the only person at this dinner I can actually tolerate. I turn back around and she’s gone. Panic. Fabian: “Why are you so pissy?” “It’s nothing, just loathe our punctuality”.
The private table next to the kitchen is a veritable minefield of my carnal history. It’s astonishing, could I have actually been with six out of eight? I need to move to Berlin. Thankfully Meaghan came. No sign of the girl from the bar. Predictable.
The meal is a seven course tasting of obscure New Brunswick game, mostly offal. Really? With only four men, most plates are poked at rather than eaten. Thankfully they are liberal with the Bollinger. “Sriracha, please?”
Mingle, bubbles, set meeting, flirt, bubbles, evade explanations, bubbles. Refuse dessert. Check. Cab.
The Boom Boom Room is pulsing, an increasingly rare sight. Fabian and Meaghan run upstairs to smoke, I take Anisia to the dance floor. The walk is an informal procession line. Everyone seems to be here. “Home” fades in from the speakers and the crowd begins to leap in waves. A glitter filled sea of elbows and smiles. Over my partner’s shoulder I see her. Head flung back, hair waving in rhythm. I go numb. Anisia: “Where are you going?” Nothing to say, no need to incite a scene.
I aggressively fight through to reach her; she sees me coming. Grasping her hand I pull it through to an empty space and pause. She corners my body, pulls on my lapels and kisses deeply. Warm sensations begin throbbing against the denim. She pulls away and brushes my hair from our mouths, “I like your hair”. “I like your…teeth?”
Our rush to the bizarre back restroom is simultaneously violent and efficient. We enter in an unbridled fury; I elevate her against the wall, a race to unbutton everything. Teeth, tongues, grasps, pulls, thrusts. We move to the sink, the skyline’s lights blur behind her. She feels like, Christmas.
The door swings open, “Oh hey sorry, uh, mind if I piss?” Before I can react she pushes away, jumps down, and leaves in haste. The Neanderthal offers 80’s era inspiration as reparation. “No meat, just get out of the way.” Sprinting downstairs I’m oppressed by the crowd, find nothing. Panic. Angst. No name, no number, 8 million people.
I search the roof with similar success. Meaghan spots me, “Are you ok? You look insane?” I look up “It can’t all be so ephemeral.” Perplexed she responds, “What happened between you and Anisia?” Annoyed, “Who?”
Walking downstairs, disappointment and lingering desire drown my synapses. Plowing towards the exit, I pretend not to notice my acquaintance’s shouts too contain me. I grab a flute from a tray, which is clearly intended for another. Vibration, a text from Damon: “Mate, Crystal Castles are about to hit the stage.” Salvation. Alice is an obsession. “In. Where?” I smirk as the glass presses against my lips and the city sharpens into view.