Hey, Josh. Whatcha doing?
“Isolating myself, but not my fit.”
Sure.
“People are sad and scared and unhappy, and so I thought I’d do the only thing I can–”
Playing music for them?
“–which is letting them look at my clothes.”
Ah.
“Dude, everyone’s doing concerts from their living rooms. But I’m the only one doing fashion shows in a forest.”
You are. I’ll give you that. Is that a turtle?
“Where?’
Next to your left foot.
…
“Yes.”
I like turtles.
“Can we talk about my outfit, please?”
Venmo me a thousand dollars.
“Absolutely not.”
Fine. Two thousand.
“I’m ignoring you and describing my threads. The jacket is Visvim’s new line called Kung Fu Drip.”
Uh-huh.
“You see how it looks like a utilitarian garment that any Japanese guy would have worn a few decades ago?”
I do.
“But it cost five grand!”
Does that make it better?
“Oh, God, yes. And my sweatshirt was handmade by Amy Sedaris’ slaves.”
What now?
“Funny story: Amy Sedaris owns people. And not just a couple. Like, she’s got a whole dormitory out back at her place.”
Wow. You Hollywood people lead such interesting hidden lives.
“She treats them great, though. Knows all their names. Of course, she gave them their names, so maybe that’s not so impressive.”
Not really. Does David Sedaris know about this?
“There is no David Sedaris. His books and articles are written by a Humorbot.”
Humorbot?
“It’s a program that produces amusing essays. One of the really early versions does all of Andy Borowitz’s stuff.”
Now that makes sense.
“Right? A human being would have been funny at least once just by accident.”
Sure. We’re getting along so well.
“Does that mean–”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“–the phone’s gonna…goddammit. Is it Nixon?”
No.
“Aw.”
You like him.
“The man tells it like it is.”
Pick up the phone.
“Dick.”
…
“You’re on with John.”
“Leave the forest now, Jonathan. It is made of rancid spices and leftover gods. The forest compels one to invent coal plants, iron foundries, shops where one can find sexual items of abnormal size.”
“Hey, Werner.”
“How did you know it was me?’
“The guy who writes this shit is predictable as hell.”
“As is the forest! It is shit, and piss, and apples that cannot be eaten for fear of tummy problems. The forest will never surprise you. Imagine! It is your 50th birthday. You walk into your home. The lights are darkened, but suddenly they blaze to life. ‘Surprise!’ is yelled. But not by the forest. Never by the forest. The forest was defecated into being by a God that was not paying attention.”
“I’m honestly just in my backyard.”
“Backyards are worse!”
“Listen, it’s an honor to talk to you, but is there a point to the call?”
“Of course. I want you to help me float a 747 across Lake George.”
“Why?”
“ART!”
“Could you hold, please?”
“Yes. I will lecture my parrot on the glory of non-existence.”
“Awesome.”
…
“Jackass?”
Ich?”
“Du. Is he gonna become a thing?”
Depends on how fun he is to write.
“Awesome.”
I have a confession to make…
I want one of those jackets.
I would pay like $150 for one.
Jesus, there’s a kid downhill from a boat on rails. And Kinski’s somewhere around…
Feels like you’re turning a corner here. Like a ’72 to ’73 kind of thing, or maybe the universe attaining self-awareness. It seems that art rather likes this pandemic, no?