Part 64: Myssenger / Xander
victoriASS1992: James?
sk8lyfe141: what about him?
sk8lyfe141: kids a punk
sk8lyfe141: wont even talk 2 me n e more
victoriASS1992: Never mind.
sk8lyfe141: lmao ok
*
victoriASS1992: James?
xx themachine: hey
victoriaAss1992: Dear James, this is Mrs. Brixton, Victoria’s mother. If I EVER hear that you are being unkind or disrespectful to my daughter again, I will be contacting your parents, the school, and the POLICE. You might not be aware of this, but harassment is a CRIME. Just because you hide behind a computer screen does NOT mean your words don’t have consequences, and I suggest you think long and hard about what you type in the future. If you wouldn’t say something out loud, to someone’s face, you shouldn’t type it, either. It’s only rational. Victoria is a kind, considerate young woman and she doesn’t deserve to have her character ASSASSINATED due to your jealousy. As her mother - and as a WOMAN - I will not stand for it. I sincerely hope you take my words to heart and apologize to Victoria, and that this is the last communication that you and I will need to have. Have a nice day. Sincerely, Mrs. Brixton
*
sk8lyfe141: hey u wanna help me fuck w/ him?
victoriASS1992 has signed off.
*
*
“You know, there’s a theory out there that all good art is about the impossibility of communication, and all bad art is a demonstration of it,” the bassist said after a few exits. Xander turned back to him. “Which ends up meaning, paradoxically, that bad art is more successful than good.”
“Yeah?”
“When I said The Letter was decent, that’s what I was thinking about.”
“And whose theory is that?”
“Well. Mine, actually.”
“Well, it’s shit,” Xander said decisively. “All your theories are a load of pretentious shit. Nothing you’ve said has been the slightest bit helpful.”
“You don’t know that. But fine, I’ve said my bit, go ahead and say yours.”
“So let’s say you’re right. Let’s say none of these kids are actually listening to us, they’re really just there for whatever stupid death-drive reason. Why are they are our concert and not some other one?”
“Well, that’d be the five percent. My theory accounts for that. But still, I expect that it’s mostly random chance. They needed to pick something and we happened to be there. Right place, right time. Just rest assured that it’s not that your lyrics are speaking directly to their hearts. So no pressure. Bad writing, good writing, it all amounts to the same thing, really.”
“So relativism? You’re offering me relativism?”
“No, that would be an answer. Perhaps your problem is that you’ve been looking for answers when you really ought to have been looking for questions.”
“So you’re saying there are no answers?”
“No. Of course not. There are specific answers to specific questions. But you haven’t actually asked a question. Of the non-rhetorical variety, I mean.”
“Of course I have.” Xander tried to remember what question he had come to the bassist with, remembered that the bassist had come to him, and then tried to recall the questions he had been grappling with lately. “How about this: what do I do?”
“What do I do?”
“Yeah. What do I do?”
“Well, that’s The Question.” The bassist sounded impatient, tired, but was still clearly enjoying himself. “All the other questions are just variations on that one. That one you can’t get away from even if you tried. What you need are some more small-q questions.”
“Such as?”
“Such as, I don’t know, what do I want for dinner? What song should I listen to next? Can I find a decent looking-girl to fuck in Pittsburgh? Questions that come with a list of options. Multiple-choice, not essay test. Or, you know what makes a decent question, actually: how do I write an album that is just the right amount of Christian? It’s a puzzle. Devote yourself to that shit.”
“I would, but . . .” Xander thought for a minute. “I would, but I don’t want to please Bobby. I don’t want him to think I’m his dancing monkey, you know. At least make him wait a little. This is all his fault, really.”
“There you go looking for answers again. Let me spoil the ending for you. Bobby Melrose isn’t actually the villain.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s not Bobby as a person, the problem is systemic . . .”
“Wrong again. Saying ‘system’ isn’t any better than saying ‘Bobby.’ Stop trying to come up with an explanation. Every time you explain something, you take away a question from your future self. You rob your future self of something to think about. And like Shakespeare said,” the bassist concluded, rising from the seat, looking into Xander’s eyes for some flash, some light - strike two! - “this would be an awfully long drive for someone with nothing to think about.”