"I personally think a cocktail-mix version of `Shiny Happy People' is hopping-"
"REM is classic rock, Victor," Conrad says patiently. "We do not do classic-rock covers."
"Oh god, I want to kill myself," Fergy moans.
"Hey-but the good news, everyone, is that Courtney Love's over thirty," I say happily.
"Okay. I feel better."
"What kind of royalties is Courtney getting from Nirvana sales?" Aztec asks Fergy.
"Was there a prenup?" Fergy wonders.
Shrugs all around.
"So," Fergy concludes, "since Kurt's demise maybe nothing."
"Hey, come on-Kurt Cobain didn't die," I say. "His music lives on in all of us."
"We really need to focus on new material, guys," Conrad says.
"Well, can we at least write one song without a shitty reggae beat that starts off with the line `I was a trippin in da crack house late last night'?" I ask. "Or `Dere's a rat in da kitchen-what I gonna do?'"
Aztec pops open a Zima and restrums his Fender contemplatively.
"When's the last time you guys made a demo?" I ask, noticing Chloe on the cover of the new Manhattan File next to the latest Wired and the copy of YouthQuake with me on the front, totally defaced with purple ink.
"Last week, Victor," I hear Conrad say through gritted teeth.
"That's a million years ago," I murmur, flipping around for the article about her. It's all blah blah blah-the last year of doing runway shows, the Lancome contract, her diet, movie roles, denying the rumors about heroin addiction, Chloe talking about wanting to have kids ("A big playpen, the whole thing," she's quoted), a photo of us at the VH 1 Fashion and Music Awards, with me staring vacantly into the camera, a photo of Chloe at the Doppelganger party celebrating the Fifty Most Fabulous People in the World, Baxter Priestly trailing behind her-and I'm trying to remember what my relationship with Lauren Hynde was like back at Camden or if there even was one, as if, right now, in the loft on Bond Street, it matters.
"Victor," Conrad's saying, hands on hips, "a lot of bands are in the music biz for the totally wrong reasons: to make money, to get laid-"
"Whoa, wait a minute, Conrad." I hold my hands out, sitting up. "These are the wrong reasons? Really? Let me just get this straight."
"All you do here, Victor, is drink beer and reread magazines that you or your girlfriend happen to be in this month," Conrad says, looming over me.
"And you're all so lost in the past, man", I say wearily. "Captain Beefheart records? Yoghurt? What the f**k is like going in here, huh?" I exclaim. "And Jesus, Aztec-cut your toenails! Where are your f**king morals? What do you even do besides going to f**king poetry reading at Fez? Why don't you go to a f**king gym or something?"
"I get enough exercise," Aztec says dubiously.
"Rolling a joint isn't exercise, guy," I say. "And shave off that goddamn facial hair. You look like a f**king billy goat."
"I think it's time you calm down, Victor," Aztec says, "and take your place with the glitterati."
"I'm just offering you an escape from that whole stale hippie vibe."
Fergy looks over at me and shivers vaguely.
"You're jeopardizing our friendship, dude," I say, though it emerges from my mouth without a lot of concern.
"You're never here long enough, Victor, to jeopardize anything!" Conrad shouts.
"Oh spare me," I mutter, getting up to leave.
"Just go, Victor," Conrad sighs. "No one wants you here. Go open your big tacky club."
I grab my portfolio and bag of CDs and head toward the door.
"You all feel this way?" I'm asking, standing over Fitz, who wipes his nose on the ice-hockey jersey he's using as a pillow, eyes closed, sleeping serenely, dreaming about cartons of methadone. "I bet Fitz wants me to stay. Don't you, Fitz?" I ask, leaning down, trying to shake him awake. "Hey Fitz, wake up."
"Don't even try, Victor," Fergy yawns.
"What's wrong with the Synthman?" I ask. "Besides spending his teen years in Goa."
"He went on a Jagermeister binge last night," Conrad sighs. "He's on ibogaine now."
"And so?" I ask, still prodding Fitz.
"And for breakfast Ecstasy cut with too much heroin."
"Too much?"
"Too much heroin."
