So with the world in chaos, it's time to get back to dumbing myself down for profit. Here's a short intro to a character I'm forming in the visual sense and which will be released through an amateur outfit sometime soon. The Lives of Larry.
Picture the scene - We're in a modest music studio come hangout parlor in downtown LA. Larry Kenny, an self-styled A&R man, pitch's an upcoming music producer of Simeon decent on two new projects. One is an Axl Rose Ballad, commissioned by NATO. The other a rap record commissioned by Col. MD Gaddafi. The Simeon accepts.
A few weeks of partying ensue. The A&R man has some guests over to his dwelling for some poolside shenanigans as Axl and MC Hammer head for the solitude of the studio before the masses purchase them en-masse. Cards are exchanged and meetings set up to kill the daze.
One week later, Knock-in' in Tripoli's Door, with backing from the Scorpions outsells MC's rendition of Gaddafi Time, 13 to 1 in digital dowloads. Gaddafi Time peaks at Number 17 in Tripoli.
As Axl wanders off into the clouds with a bottle of vodka to discuss existence with his Anger and It's Consequence coach, MC receives solace from Kobe Bryant and Robbie Keane at David Beckhams House, where they have gathered to BBQ a Bison, 'D' recently downed while out hunting in Oregon. As the Bison and Bud Party hits full flow they discuss the state of the music industry with Larry. MC cuts a worried figure as he looks around and wonders just how long more he can survive. 20 years without a hit is a long time. He'll lose his respect. He may even be asked to leave... The Partay!
'If some debt consolidation package is not forthcoming soon I screwed. I could lose my home,' he laments to a tone deaf usher hired for the night from a new start-up to keep the pool at a certain temperature.
'Have you ever heard of Jedward?' Robbie asks, sending the ring of ching going into Beckam's ears. 'It's the only thing that matters,' Beckham thinks silently to himself, before cautiously moving his eyes upward to make sure no-one has heard.
'I sometimes wonder how I did it,' he says to the Bison before putting it down on the gold paving slabs that dressed the pool in exchange for a leaf of lettuce.
The hours pass as Snoop Dogg and Christy Moore bang out hit after hit to the gathered gang. In The Ghetto, Black Is The Color, Passing Time in Dublin, Nothing Compares to You, Her Name was Annie...
'Do you think this Jedward can save me?' MC asks, the sense of pity in his voice there for all to hear.
'Jedward?' Robbie says. 'They'll save the world. You're talking about the Irish here, pal.'
'How much do they cost?' MC asks.
'You'll have to speak to Louie about that,' Robbie answers, waving to Claudine that it's time to vacate the premise. He had an hour's training tomorrow followed by meetings... and shit. He rises from his pool side Lazy-Boy.
'Not bad for a Tallaght boy,' he smiles, as he takes in the orange glow of cheap lighting off in the hills. 'See ya around, bad boy.'
MC shakes his head. 'Who's Louis?' he ponders. 'And who's Tallaght?'
Larry looks at MC. Perhaps Sonny could help? Perhaps not. His phone rings. It's Jetford Buick, his new writing prospect. He answers.
'I've spent the day working on my novel's first few lines, Larry,' Jetford says.
'Lines?' Larry asks.
'Art takes time,' Jetford says.
'And time is money,' Larry says. 'Read them to me.'
Jetford clears his throat.
Forty two years and it had come to this. Hunted by his own, alone. Armed with his madness he faced them down, those invisible Operatives that smelled of the CIA.
He. Hunted through the Tripoli sewers like a Mad Dog.
The stench perforated the nose he had always refused to fix. He missed his tent. He missed Skype chats with Gordon and Nicolas in the evenings. He missed chamomile.
'You're no Tom Clancy?' Larry said, before ushering Jetford back to his thoughts. He needed to talk to MC. As he walked to the lazy-boy so recently vacated, Larry pondered why he left the sanity of his Irish home, deep in the valleys of obscurity which offered the spectacular three times a year when the sun chose to shine. As Victoria told everyone it was time to leave, it did not take him long to realize why he had followed the hundred million before him from his native shores. Though Larry had never seen those shores. He was from inland.
Here though was the real LA LA Land. There was no going back now. As Larry woke to the sound of a cuckoo clock, he knew. He had to go there. It's where he belonged.
"I'll bring Dan Boyle with me,' he thought to himself as the evening sun set. It was time to get up and start plotting his day. Randy better have breakfast served.
The Lives of Larry