Read Online Generation X by Douglas Coupland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Douglas Coupland
Ads: Link
folded shirt cardboards; a city built of iron, papier-mache and playing cards; an ugly/lovely world surfaced with carbon and icicles and bougainvillea vines. Its boulevards were patternless, helter-skelter, and cuckoo. Everywhere there were booby traps of mousetraps, Triffids, and black holes. And yet in spite of this city's transfixing madness, Edward noticed that its multitude of inhabitants moved about with ease, unconcerned that around any corner there might lurk a clown-tossed marshmallow cream pie, a Brigada Rosa kneecapping, or a kiss from the lovely film star Sophia Loren. And
directions were impossible. But when he asked an inhabitant where he could buy a map, the inhabitant looked at Edward as though he were
mad, then ran away screaming.
So Edward had to acknowledge that he was a country bumpkin in
this Big City. He realized he had to learn all the ropes with a ten-year handicap, and that prospect was daunting. But then, in the same way that bumpkins vow to succeed in a new city because they know they
have a fresh perspective, so vowed Edward.
And he promised that once he made his way in this world (without
getting scalded to death by its many fountains of burning perfume or maimed by the endless truckloads of angry clucking cartoon chickens that were driven about the city's streets) he would build the tallest tower of them all. This silver tower would stand as a beacon to all voyagers who, like himself, arrived in the city late in life. And at the tower's peak there would be a rooftop patio lounge. In this lounge, Edward knew that he would do three things: he would serve tomato juice cocktails with little wedges of lemon, he would play jazz on a piano layered with zinc sheeting and photos of forgotten pop stars, and he would have a little pink booth, out back near the latrines, that sold (among other things) maps.
ENTER
HYPERSPAC
" A n d y . " D a g p r o d s m e w i t h a greasy chicken bone, bringing me back to the picnic. "Stop being so quiet. It's your turn to tell a story, and do me a favor, babe—give me a dose of celebrity content." " Do amuse us, darling," adds Claire. "You're being so moody." Torpor defines my m o o d a s I s i t o n t h e c r u m b l i n g , p o x e d , a n d l e p r o u s n e v e r-u s e d macadam at the corner of Cottonwood and Sapphire avenues, thinking
my stories to myself and crumbling pungent sprigs of sage in my fingers.
"Well, my brother, Tyler,
once shared an elevator
with David Bowie."
'How many floors?"
"I don't know. All I re-member is that Tyler had
n o i d e a w h a t t o s a y t o
him. So he said nothing."
"Ihave found," says
Claire, "that in the ab-snce of anything to talk
about with celebrities,
you can always say to
them, 'Oh, Mr. Celeb-ity! I've got a l l y o u r a l b u m s '—even if they're not musicians."
''Look—" says Dag, turning his head, "Some people are actually driving here." HA black Buick sedan filled with young Japanese
t o u rists—a rarity in a valley visited mainly by Canadians and West Germans—floats down the hill, the first vehicle in all the time
w e ' v e b e e nhaving our picnic. 'They probably took the Verbenia Street off ramp by mistake. I bet you anything, they're looking for the cement di n o s a u r s u p a t t h e C a b a z o n t r u c k s t o p , " D a g s a y s .
"Andy, you speak Japanese. Go talk to them," Claire says. "That's a bit LESSNESS: A philosophy
presumptuous. Let them stop and ask directions first," which, of course, whereby one reconciles oneself
they immediately do. I rise and go to talk into their electronically lowered with diminishing expectations of
material wealth: "I've given up
window. Inside the sedan are two couples, roughly my age, immaculately wanting to make a killing or be a
(one might say sterilely as though they were entering a region of bigshot. I just want to find
happiness and maybe open up a
biohazard) dressed in summer funwear and wearing the reserved,
little
directions were impossible. But when he asked an inhabitant where he could buy a map, the inhabitant looked at Edward as though he were
mad, then ran away screaming.
So Edward had to acknowledge that he was a country bumpkin in
this Big City. He realized he had to learn all the ropes with a ten-year handicap, and that prospect was daunting. But then, in the same way that bumpkins vow to succeed in a new city because they know they
have a fresh perspective, so vowed Edward.
And he promised that once he made his way in this world (without
getting scalded to death by its many fountains of burning perfume or maimed by the endless truckloads of angry clucking cartoon chickens that were driven about the city's streets) he would build the tallest tower of them all. This silver tower would stand as a beacon to all voyagers who, like himself, arrived in the city late in life. And at the tower's peak there would be a rooftop patio lounge. In this lounge, Edward knew that he would do three things: he would serve tomato juice cocktails with little wedges of lemon, he would play jazz on a piano layered with zinc sheeting and photos of forgotten pop stars, and he would have a little pink booth, out back near the latrines, that sold (among other things) maps.
ENTER
HYPERSPAC
" A n d y . " D a g p r o d s m e w i t h a greasy chicken bone, bringing me back to the picnic. "Stop being so quiet. It's your turn to tell a story, and do me a favor, babe—give me a dose of celebrity content." " Do amuse us, darling," adds Claire. "You're being so moody." Torpor defines my m o o d a s I s i t o n t h e c r u m b l i n g , p o x e d , a n d l e p r o u s n e v e r-u s e d macadam at the corner of Cottonwood and Sapphire avenues, thinking
my stories to myself and crumbling pungent sprigs of sage in my fingers.
"Well, my brother, Tyler,
once shared an elevator
with David Bowie."
'How many floors?"
"I don't know. All I re-member is that Tyler had
n o i d e a w h a t t o s a y t o
him. So he said nothing."
"Ihave found," says
Claire, "that in the ab-snce of anything to talk
about with celebrities,
you can always say to
them, 'Oh, Mr. Celeb-ity! I've got a l l y o u r a l b u m s '—even if they're not musicians."
''Look—" says Dag, turning his head, "Some people are actually driving here." HA black Buick sedan filled with young Japanese
t o u rists—a rarity in a valley visited mainly by Canadians and West Germans—floats down the hill, the first vehicle in all the time
w e ' v e b e e nhaving our picnic. 'They probably took the Verbenia Street off ramp by mistake. I bet you anything, they're looking for the cement di n o s a u r s u p a t t h e C a b a z o n t r u c k s t o p , " D a g s a y s .
"Andy, you speak Japanese. Go talk to them," Claire says. "That's a bit LESSNESS: A philosophy
presumptuous. Let them stop and ask directions first," which, of course, whereby one reconciles oneself
they immediately do. I rise and go to talk into their electronically lowered with diminishing expectations of
material wealth: "I've given up
window. Inside the sedan are two couples, roughly my age, immaculately wanting to make a killing or be a
(one might say sterilely as though they were entering a region of bigshot. I just want to find
happiness and maybe open up a
biohazard) dressed in summer funwear and wearing the reserved,
little
Similar Books
