George’s penthouse was an enterprise in vulgar kitsch what with its plush and expensive materials contrasting with George’s pimped-out, brassy and totally-pretentious, rock-producer chic.
“Watch this,” George said like a kid with new toys — a 90-inch plasma screen blasted his new Rap group into my eyes. They specialized in a combo of rock, rap and SKA and while they all had retainers and pimples, they were hot and IN. I tapped the glass on the snake terrarium trying to find Reggie, George’s new pet python.
“They’re called the Sploogy-Woogies,” George screamed. “They dress like Dragoons but they’re really just a group of scruffy, foul-mouthed teens in zombie makeup.” The group cracked off thunderous opening chords – brittle dissonance capable of raising the dead, deafening the ears and possibly even creating small, crisp earthquakes. These chords were worthy of Strauss at his most florid, Sid Vicious at his most prolific, and Alban Berg at his most atonal. The music, if that was the word for what I heard, was the worst rock music ever written for three guitars and drums. I abandoned my defenseless body to the purple sequined cushions on the pink leather sofa and listened to the breathtaking chords of Pookie Snark, Hymie Dimsdale, Petey Clooney, and Spunky Fingers destroying my eardrums.
“I plan to launch them at the Halloween Cabal,” George gushed with more enthusiasm than a teenage girl being anally deflowered. Reggie the snake crept up the leg of my basketball pants and introduced itself to me.
ok, total disqualification for heresy. Heresy I say!