Donnie sends the album for mastering the same day the GQ cover drops, the one where I’m shirtless with the words, “Delusions of Manic Romantic” framing my face. It’s a hatchet job of an article really, a storm of conspiracy theories with my dating life at the center and some half-assed detective work about why I am the way that I am. It’s fucking funny actually, that some journalist thinks he can fish answers out of a few days spent riding along in my wake when my shrink’s been trying for eight years and hasn’t come up with squat. It’s the sorta press that demands laughter while you’re pouring yourself a drink.
And that’s exactly what’s happening when Helen calls. She’s clearly pissed about the article, considering the stench from that interview in Star is still hanging around, but she says there’s enough time before the album drops for a fresh round of press to clear the air. At least, I think that’s what she’s saying. I’ve got her on speakerphone for background noise while I’m scrolling through Twitter. The article may not be flattering, but at least it’s got me trending.
I get a call from Mikey, so I tell Helen it’s an emergency and hang up before she can kickstart another lecture about what actually constitutes an emergency. Mikey’s keyed up on the other end of the phone, ready for whatever the night has in store.
He’s like, “You need a vacation.”
And I’m like, “No time for a vacation.” “I’m talking like the micro kind. The kind of getaway you can squeeze in before sun-up.”
I’m tell him I’m not so sure. I’m laughing about the GQ thing, but that doesn’t mean being branded a “manic romantic” hasn’t got my head spinning, on top of being wiped out from finishing the record. The only evening I’m interested in is one that consists of smoking a blunt on my couch, ordering take-out from that Thai place down the block, fucking up some college kids in Call of Duty, polishing off a bottle of Scotch, and RedTubing my way into bliss before a few Ambien and stretching out into horizontal unconsciousness. Though I’m sure Helen would tell you I spend most of my days in a state of vertical unconsciousness.
Mikey pushes, one last Hail Mary to get me off my couch. He’s all like, “They’ll be playing the songs you write about tonight for decades.”
He always did know my weakness.
