Starfucker

So my cutiepatooty little starfucker Marc can finally die peacefully I guess ... after moving to Iceland at the end of last summer, leaving our two-man Edina / Patsy act without an Edina (oh, doesn't really matter, the fags at the Saloon were either too tweeked or too fucking insecure to understand that constantly lobbing foul-mouthed insults at them was really a subtle form of social satire meant to engage), shacking up with a bunch of old Icelandic bitties in an old people's home bedecked with tiny doll furniture, subsisting only on dried shark flesh and pickled orca testicles, enduring endless months of complete darkness and emotionally unavailable Icelandic boys who still live with their mothers ... and all in the hopes that 1) he'd end up as Bjork's nanny or 2) he'd get to meet Jonsi, of Sigur Ros. At least one of his dreams has finally come true. While out the other night with his cadre of wispy blond northern lads -- Björcht, Gummi, Ejgüllisi, and Frodo [m: did i get those right?] -- they were joined by Jonsi, who conversed with Marc all evening in Icelandic! about such things as boyfriends and Boston. Of course I'm making a much bigger deal about this than Marc; his email to me recounting the story was all cool and meh.

I have never met a famous person. Courtney Love once called an old roommate of mine a bitch in an elevator. Apparently Radiohead used to frequent my local pub in London. Mike has enjoyed pizza with U2, and was walking past Whoopi Goldberg once when someone called her a 'ho', and a friend of a friend once gave Elton John a blowjob in the back of a limo cruising the empty streets of Minneapolis (okay nothing to brag about there). Oh and someone I knew once spent a month in Florence on a summer art history course with Robocop. The only star sighting I've had was sitting at the adjacent table to the woman who played Mary Tyler Moore's mom at a creperie in West Hollywood. Who cares about them anyway! They're just people like you and me and usually they're dumber and uglier than they are on t.v.

Marc, now that you're dream has been fulfilled, come back to Minneapolis. We'll get dressed up in Diesel clothes we can't afford, stand around at the Saloon delirious from Rolling Rock carb-overload and shout "GAY! GAY!" at dumb boys who happen within our orbit.

I should say that Marc's no stranger to stardom. He's practically Josh Hartnett's best friend. Marc ... I still have Josh's phone number in my wallet. Late at night I call it and breath heavily into the mouthpiece, but no one ever answers ...

Svefn-g-englar from the album Ágætis Byrjun by Sigur Rós is playing on my iTunes right now ...

Posted by jason at March 15, 2024 08:04 AM