Thursday, August 22, 2013

Melodyfest 2013

Melodyfest 2013:
An Extraordinary Day In The Life Of Melody MacKeand
a third-party, second-person, one-star account
of the greatest day ever for Melody MacKeand
by Jake Kilroy

You are Melody MacKeand, and you have had enough.

You crafted the guest list with strategic precision. You penned the invitations yourself. You personally addressed the envelopes.

And then they came to Melodyfest 2013.

The men.

The men that wronged you, the men that misled you, the men that couldn't quite get an education in the essence that was...Melody.

With the promise of free booze and even freer sex, they gathered in the plaza, cooking in the heat like what they had eventually become to you: meat. Many were charmless, some even shirtless, as if to go just a bit farther to let everyone know there was a keg instead of a heart underneath the eternally tan skin of former flames. It was a breathtaking spectacle to watch them amass, the men bumping into each other like idiot seagulls, here for the grandiose promise of a morally reprehensible, yet thrillingly verbose, no-strings-attached reward of womanly flesh that would've brought the likes of a lifelong minister, hellbent on building a new church for a half-Korean, half-white goddess, if she had a shred of nerve to witness society's total and unequivocal downfall.

True, you weren't always the best to these men, and, granted, you broke up with most of them, but what mattered most was the reckoning to come, the emotional abyss that these men should, and apparently would, crawl into for you.

And high above the chumps laughed a well-rested and very drunk queen.

You.

Draped in a lawn chair like an Olympic heavy-hitter enjoying rum punch for the first time in years, you lean back, farther than even Fat Joe would recommend. To your left is an ashtray filled to the brim with exhausted cigars that did you better than any man ever really did. To your right is two mini-fridges; one stacked with an acid trip variety of wine coolers, and the other practically suffocating with full-sized wine bottles and diary pages between them so that something finally wouldn't break on you, let you down, and complete the full final push of the grating spiral you whimsically once called a "life."

Your feet splash in the restless, fully charged water basin massager that you purchased at The Sharper Image more than a decade ago that one Christmas after Geoff (whose spelling of the name you always hated with more passion than he showed you) broke your heart, following what he called an "exaggerated" episode at the local Claimjumper when he foolishly suggested you two go "dutch," like some married couple of serfs that haven't gotten around to signing the divorce papers.

Below you are the men, physically and metaphorically. They roam without direction, a scene that would bring tender tears to your eyes if you were a little bitch. Instead, you watch with a starving glare, cackling and bellowing at the men you recognize in the crowd, now sneaking its way to at least 100.

"My, my, my! Is that Tommy? Well, I guess we haven't seen each other since junior high, but lest we forget that fateful day in P.E. Who looks like a boy now, you weasel-faced nothing! I heard about how you got fired from O'Reilly Auto Parts for being high all the time! I went there to laugh at you, but I suppose you were already out spending your last fifty cents on that abomination you think passes as a haircut!"

Not all of your jeers are as historical or thorough, especially as you empty the soul of wine bottle after wine cooler after wine bottle. Your throat is ripe with the harsh flavor of an exquisitely enjoyable balance of fermentation and frustration. You notice no pain, but the shout-outs come in shorter bursts with more deranged laughter.

"Oh, and what's this? Dearest Benjamin is here? Well, guess what, you control-addicted megalomaniac? Mama doesn't need your shit now! She's got her own place, her own jewels, her own cassette tapes, and she doesn't need you to take her to see Josh Groban anymore!"

After another bottle of wine and a bottle of Boone's Farm you purchased by mistake, your blazingly aggressive observations of the past come in only a splatter of words against the dry air.

"And interesting seeing you here, Chad! Or should I say...Mr. Too-Good-To-Clean-The-Puke-Out-Of-My-Dress-On-The-Best-New-Year's-Eve-He's-Ever-Seen!"

You beat your chest, bordering on calling out that this is, in fact, your house, despite it clearly being a hotel room you overpaid for, but you instead nearly jab yourself in the throat and definitely spill red wine across the drying towel you only brought for laying out and not-so-subtley inviting the poolside bartender back to your room for what not-so-charmingly came out as "a code dime."

You make a small peculiar whimper that demonstrates such empathy, it makes you question if it's even yours before realizing the red wine could actually stain the towel you lifted from the parents' house of one, Marcus Wyatt Johnson, a college playboy with thinning hair and an affinity for you that lasted all of Thanksgiving break. Realizing this could be a problem, and then countering the infectious fleeting compassion for even just yourself, you quote the one Jay-Z line you can slur from memory.

"Well, I don't give a shit. So?"

You keep up the rapper's swagger with a shoulder shrug that even a deaf-mute would have found too loud and proceed to swallow the rest of the wine in your glass like a high school student's morally ambiguous mother showing off for her son's friends.

Hours pass, and the men have lessened their ranks in the sweaty, confused army that was undeniably well-organized. Some took to noticing you berating them, some simply couldn't find you, some wandered off for pizza, and some, as it turns out, were only strangers that got sucked into a mob mentality. Raising your eyebrows in a brief blackout of sensual perplexity, you realized these strangers could potentially entertain you in the deep reaches of the coming evening, so, in a moment of drunken madness mistaken for awkward genius, you threw a near-dozen paper airplanes, almost going over the balcony railing once in a brazened attempt at a stunted running-start shot-put huck. To your fascination, though more so to your furious rage, the hastily assembled paper airplane invitations, featuring several crude and generally disgusting sketches of what loitered around your mind all afternoon, weren't met with the warm reception you anticipated. Not a single one was plucked out of the hotel's extraordinary landscaping by some jovial and inquisitive hunk, despite you catching the attention of several chance pedestrians and recreating the frantic doodles with equally offensive hand gestures.

It was a beautiful affair, you tell yourself in the dying light of the day. And so with your energy zapped and your sanity drained, you light the last of the stogies and wait for night to shroud you in a familiar cool breeze and contemplative delirium.

The sun sets on your balcony as well as the deserted plaza below, but, as God as your witness, not on your integrity! No, no, no! Despite what Alexander the Great Liar of San Bernardino County, Mr. Razzle-Dazzle-Sizzler himself, would have you believe, you are a woman—nay, a force of femininity!—and you'll be damned if you're not going to strut your stuff like BeyoncĂ© with an injured knee, persevering through the pain in an outfit that'd make even a Playboy Bunny blush green with envy.

The future is bright, and them boys out there better be wearing shades.

MAMA. MEL. OUT.

3 comments:

Sara B said...

I'm visualizing Melody as Ursula with "Maneater" playing on repeat in the background.

Jake Kilroy said...

Haha. Oh man, I know that's not appropriate content for Glitter+Grace, but, hot damn, as your assistant, I recommend you write a variation of this narrative with those visuals. Dayum.

Brent E. Kovac said...

I`m delighted with the design. I would like to uncork and inhale the unsurpassed aroma of this wine. As I know that the best way to save wine from aging is to store it in a wine cooler Sunpentown WC-20TL Review . The right temperature will help to preserve the amazing taste of wine for a long time. But if the bottle is uncorked, perhaps it's worth it to drink it to the end)