4:27 pm | 11 June 2003 | Castle in My Dreams

Wherein Porkchop and I, sick of our incessant bitching about "a better place" etc etc ad infinitum/nauseam, invent a new game called Castle of My Dreams, wherein we make that place for ourselves.

claude: in our minds, the castle never needs cleaning...the bats have feathers attached to their claws, and they collect the dust as they swoop through rafters. our castle has thrones of silver, and yours has blood-red velvet cushions, and mine has cushions of bluegreen silk...the rats are soft and clean, and bring us lighters in their tiny sharp teeth, and the moat is full of beer--you need only to lean out the throneroom window with your royal goblet to scoop it up! the fountain to my left is bubbling with golden Jameson, and...

porkchop: ...to my right there is a fountain of diet coke and trays of salty chips. Our wizard will create portals where intelligent, perfect indie rock/mod/punk boys will hop through to come and visit us. We will squeal with delight because there, we will have all the books, movies and music of the world right there at our fingertips. We will create things and be famous and we will retain our youth 3 times longer than most because we will be so happy. There will be no such thing as work, stress, or debt and money will flow through secret passages and vaults that are hidden throughout our stone paradise. And with my spare time I play glorious music that millions love to hear while you...

claude: ...unfurl giant bolts of the rarest fabrics onto my cutting table, and with platinum scissors slice it expertly into shapes fit for gods, while my team of trained monkeys (each of whom wears tiny plaid bondage pants) assembles the pieces. While they are busy sewing, i step into the kitchen, where acres and acres of stainless steel, black granite, dark-grey marble and golden wood chopping blocks await my tender touch. With the freshest ingredients, i will hand-roll feet and yards of sushi, pulling sticky rice, thin shards of cucumber, toasted sesame bits, tender jewels of salmon, and spicy wasabi into the comforting rolls, encasing them gently in nori and bringing platters heaped with flesh-pink ginger frills and tiny piquant dishes of soy sauce back into the concert hall, where you have just finished your masterpiece song, and we will feed sushi to your legions of fans, who will be weeping floods of black eye makeup at your incredible beauty. after we are done...

porkchop: ...my fans will go to our reading room where they will readily await for stories to roll off your tongue. They will sway back and forth like a feather dropped high off the earth on a windless day in an intense and hypnotic awe. While drinking in every word they hope that they can become the heroine, the defeated, the broken and the bruised that some of your stories embrace. As you read and I listen all of our animated, Japanese character friends will stop by and cheer in their high pitched squeaky voices when you are done. Because they are so moved by your talent and mesmerizing eyes, they offer their paws for you to chew on as an honorable gift of respect. You are flattered of course, but decline the offer because the will to stop gnawing is more than impossible. Birds will fly freely and talk to you, and even sometimes lay still as a part of the decor or as an ornament on one of your divine inventions of attire. And while I drink heartily out of my goblet filled to the brim with bloody marys...

claude: ...i say, "hey, Porkchop, it's almost time to go!" And so we retire to the in-house salon, where teams of clothing consultants, makeup artists, cutting-edge hairstylists, and visionary fashion designers await our every whim. You decide you want deep-violet highlights that will make your hair look like an anim� character's extreme crown (with Liberty spikes and rosewater), and i opt for a Robert Smith-y rat's nest that is woven with gardenia petals. We put on our new suits (made by Savile Row tailors flown in from London for the occasion), and the assistants help you pull on your new eighteen-hole boots with the plutonium toes, and i wear the most dangerous, razor-pointed heels available, and just then our limo pulls up. It is pure metallic white, and it shines and sparkles like fresh snow at nighttime, and the inside is silver and mirrored, so shiny that we are almost blinded. There are chilled buckets of wine and champagne, and a cigarette dispenser that alternates between Camels and Parliaments, and diamond-encrusted lighters (when we flick the lighters, the sparks reflect a thousand times on all the silver-chrome of the interior, and then our smoke billows through the air, swirling magnetically). The limo is being driven by David Bowie, who turns and says, "Where to, my loves?" and smiles, his mismatched eyes winking into our broken hearts. And you say...

porkchop: ..."To the House of Torture in London my friend" and he laughes heartily and says, "Oh you pretty things!"...and then we are whisked away to a place of horror where we run into Morrissey, Conor Oberst, the entire gang of Interpol and Adrien Brody to have more champagne and laugh without a care in the world all day long.

Anyone who wants to play this game: email me the first paragraph of your Castle, and i'll get back to you. Until then, good night, my doves. clm.