IMAGINATION MEETS REALITY
I moved to Spain with the idea that I’d party hard but play it cool, knowing that if I stuck to my principles I’d fall in with the right group of glamorous, globetrotting socialites who would, upon the first impression, fall into a deep and needy love with me. They’d fly me first class on the best airlines where we would guzzle Cristal and lick the gelatinous goop of the world’s finest Fentanyl patches before sneaking off to the toilet for inductions into the mile high club with mysterious and extraordinary strangers.
After I’d been properly vetted, wealthy individuals or shady corporations would hire me to travel the world doing their nefarious bidding. This vocation would leave me filthy rich, with an ample amount of free time. I’d enjoy VIP status at the most exclusive clubs in Western Europe, where hordes of beautiful but average people would stare, trying to meet my eyes and hope to gain favor with the Special One. In Monaco I’d be met by a limousine and an emissary of the royals to whisk me away to the tables where I’d intimidate and bluff the world’s rich and powerful elite. Afterward, against my own wishes, I’d be seduced by their undersexed trophy wives.
After they’d heard that I’d taken Prince Rainier’s private helicopter to meet Brad and Angie in Paris, these gorgeous creatures would attempt stoicism by putting on a brave front only to break down and weep into silk scarves while their husbands hushed them with irritation. These heart-broken waifs would hold onto the private and dim hope that they might be rescued by my loving and generous embrace again one day. They are only human after all.
I’d soon move on to the arts, where someone like me belongs. I’d be persuaded into acting one cocaine filled night by the Coen Brothers and the good looking Olson twin. The role, something about a devastatingly handsome ne’er do well street kid made good would win me my first in a long line of successive Oscars. I’d quit acting at the very peak of my success and my public would gnash their teeth and tear their garments in mourning, much to the consternation and dysphoria of the other proletarian actors who would think, “Well, what about us then?”
One night, high on lust, avarice and peyote I’d create a brand new art form by combining sculpture, painting, music, and against all common sense, dance, into a work that would bring one New York Times critic to his knees in rapturous ecstasy.
He’d had no choice after sampling my hors d’oeuvres, which contained actual ecstasy.
That my parties tend to feature food infused with cosmetic hallucinogens would be one of my beloved eccentricities. They’d call me a virtuoso of Right Now and legions of art students and professors would drop their books, pick up their White Crosses and follow me. I’d take us all to my private island in the Bahamas where I’d explain that the whole thing was a silly accident and I had no memory of what I’d done. They’d be torn between their belief in the inerrancy of my words and the physical proof of my obvious genius before agreeing to worship me as a demigod anyway.
My fantasies never came to fruition. I assume that this was due to the total absence of glamorous, globetrotting socialites in the rural mountains of Southern Spain.
Lost In Spain on Amazon US
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