Friday, July 6, 2012

DEAR PHILLY: (PANTS ON FIRE) by Dylan McFarro. Preface by Phil Bram

Preface
written in real time 
July 6th, 2012, 8:30 a.m.
by Phil Bram
“Because,” said Sarah, “it doesn’t make any sense. You’re just gonna confuse people.”
“Really? But I explain the whole thing. It’s just like when Niles sat in for Frasier that time.”
“I already told you, I don’t like it. No one’s gonna get it. They’re not gonna know what you’re talking about. I feel like you had momentum. It’s just gonna confuse people.” 
“Wait, say that part again, you’re just gonna confuse people, okay, and then what?”
“I gotta go shower. I don’t feel good.”
“Come on, just tell me what you just said. Or tell me something else, you know, why you think it’s so stupid.”
“UH(getting angry), stop asking me! I don’t know what you want me to say. If you want authentic reactions then get a recorder and start recording conversations.”
“... then... go... get... a... recorder... and...”
“Oh my gosh! Go away! I have to get ready for work. This is not how I want my morning to go.”
“This... is... not... how... I... want... my... morning... to... go.”
“Oh my God, this is insane! You’re making me sound like a monster! Henry’s outside all by himself. Go check on your child.”
“Oh... my... God,... this... is... insane...”
“UH!”
She stomps upstairs. I finish typing these exact words I’m typing right now and then I go up the stairs and into the bathroom. She’s sitting on the pot, blowing her nose with her purple panties twisted around her ankles. Her eyes are large and angry.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? GO AWAY!” She throws the toilet paper into the garbage, stands up and flushes.  
“What did you say, I’m making you sound like a monster?”
“Oh my God! No, no, I didn’t say that!” she says, turning on the shower. “You do not have my permission to write that!”
“To write what?”
“To write anything! Uh, you’re driving me insane! I have thoughts in my head that I can’t even think because you’re bothering me so much!”
“Oh that’s good. I think I got it! Thanks!” 
DEAR PHILLY: Whoever said, “the truth will set you free,” is a cock-sucking lying motherfucker. Saying the truth, I’m talking the absolute fucking truth, is the surest form of suicide I know. “The truth will set you free”, yeah right, buddy. Go ahead, try it sometime. You may as well go down to the zoo and hop in with the gorillas. Do you not agree? PANTS ON FIRE, Brooklyn NY. 
Okay, so first of all, just so we’re all clear on this, you DO know this isn’t actually Philly writing this one, right? This is his friend, Dylan McFarro. Yeah, I don’t really get it either, but he literally begged me to do it. He says he’s finally hunkering down to write a novel. He’s calling it Stare At The Sun. We were messaging each other on Facebook the other day and he asked me if I’ve ever heard of a book or a movie or anything with that title. “No,” I told him. “Why don’t you just Google it though?”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, “I guess I just don’t even want to know. Every time I have an idea for something, it’s already been done.” 
Anyway, so I guess I might as well just go ahead and get right into it then. Ahem. Okay, here goes... 
DEAR PANTS ON FIRE: The saying you’re referring to actually comes from John 8:32. It goes, “Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” So you see, we misinterpret everything, especially the Bible. Hey, that reminds me, I actually wiped my ass with a Bible once in front some model chick I fucked. We had shot some German catalog together in Miami and she ended up sleeping over in my hotel room. She was a pretty lame fuck really. Most models are. They’re just too damn boney. When it gets down to it, I’d rather fuck some cow than a chick with no ass. I mean, I still fuck ‘em but, you know. Anyway, the next morning we got into an argument about religion and she really started pissing me off. She was just so fuckin’ stupid, like she literally had no imagination at all. She wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say, wouldn’t entertain a single concept. I got so frustrated with her that I took the Bible out of the desk and went into the bathroom and took a big shit with the door wide open. You should’ve seen her face when I started ripping the pages out. Haha. It’s one of my proudest moments. I saw her once a few years later at a casting in Paris and she wouldn’t even look at me. Anyway, back to your dealio. Yes, I agree, you’re 100% correct, all people do is lie. They lie to themselves and to others, all day long, everyday, everyone, in some way or another, at all times, everywhere, without exception. To face one truth it seems you must turn your back on another. There are degrees, of course, but it’s really all we do. Ya know, it’s funny, I’ve known Phil since we were in our early 20s. We were roommates in Milan. And that’s pretty much all he talked about back then, the truth. Truth, and climbing, and Bukowski. Oh, and some crazy dude he knew back in Oklahoma. I forget his name, Ron maybe? Some of the most fucked up stories I have ever heard in my life. Phil wasn’t quite as miserable back then as he is now but he was definitely on his way. And almost 20 years later, he’s still talking about it, the truth I mean. I was just in New York a few weeks ago (shot the new Versace campaign) and I finally took the train up to Beacon to see him and meet his family. That’s how this whole thing got started with me taking over his column. Let me tell ya, his wife, Sarah, is one badass fucking chick. She’s really beautiful, but she’s also like a dude, you know, like you can really talk to her. And Henry’s just amazing, a total stud. I’ve never been around a kid like that. That dude really gets it. But seeing Phil was a real shock. I mean, we just worked together a little over a year ago. Since then he’s just like totally fallen apart. He looks like absolute shit (sorry, brother, you really do). I mean, I don’t even know how you do that in such a short amount of time. Anyway, they picked me up from the train and then we had lunch together at some little place on Main Street, Homespun or something. It was alright. I got the tuna nicoise. They made it with fuckin’ canned tuna though. I mean, what the fuck, who the hell wants canned tuna on their tuna nicoise? Anyway, so one of the first things Sarah asked me was: “Don’t you get tired of traveling and being alone all the time?”
“Not at all,” I said, “never.” 
“But don’t you want to have a real home? Do you not want to ever get married and have kids?” 
“Dylan was married once,” said Phil. 
“You were?” She looked at Phil. “You never told me that.” 
“I didn’t?”
Yeah,” I said, “We’ve been divorced for six years now. It was an absolute nightmare. You know, Phil didn’t even come the wedding. He was supposed to be one of my groomsmen. He didn’t even respond the invitation.”
“I didn’t?” Phil asked.
“No,” I said, “you didn’t.”
Phil started laughing (It had been a while since I’d seen him laugh like that. It’s hard to explain. He gets this strange sort of laugh going when he’s looking back a little too fondly upon his prior insanities and/or miseries. He really is truly demented). Henry started laughing too. “You’re a BAD BOY, daddy!” he said, laughing with a mouthful of his cheese sandwich. We were all laughing now. Henry was very pleased with himself. Pieces of bread were spraying out of his mouth all over the table.   
“Eat your sandwich, sweetheart,” Sarah told him. Then she shot Phil a look. “I can’t believe you didn’t go to his wedding. What’s the matter with you?” 
“What’s the matter with you, daddy?” yelled Henry. “Daddy, you’re a cock! You’re a cock, daddy!”
They had warned me about this during the drive from the train station. It was Henry’s new thing, calling people cocks. They said they had no idea where it came from. People all around the restaurant were laughing and staring at our table. Henry was beside himself with laughter, kicking his legs wildly in his highchair. He kept saying it over and over again: “Daddy, you’re a cock! You’re a cock, daddy!” Sarah turned her head away, trying not to laugh. Phil put his face in his hands. Sarah looked at me, shaking her head. “Don’t laugh, please? Just ignore him.” I bit my lip and cringed, fighting back the laughter. And then he said it again, “You’re a COCK, daddy!” and I burst out laughing. 
“Sorry,” I told Sarah through my laughter. 
Sarah shook her head and rolled her eyes at me. “Henry, we don’t say that. That’s a bad word.” But he kept saying it. Finally, she handed him some train which distracted him. Phil stood up. “Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t even remember. Sorry, man, I was all fucked up back then.”
“It’s alright, man. Don’t worry about it.”
“Where are you going?” Sarah asked him.
“Where are you going, daddy? asked Henry while he played with his train.  
“I was gonna get a couple beers.”
“It’s only twelve o’clock,” Sarah told him. 
“I’m alright, man,” I told him, holding up a hand. 
“Really?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Maybe later.”
“Alright.”
Sarah and I watched him shuffle over toward the counter. “You ever see Ozzy Osbourne walk?” I asked her. 
“Exactly,” she said, giggling.  
“What’s going on with him, Sarah?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he just like not gonna model anymore? Like, that’s it? I told him my agency said they would take him but he never went. I mean, this is crazy! What’s he doing? He’s like bartending again?”
“Yeah. And then he writes. It’s all he wants to do. It’s depressing. I mean, I wish he would get out of the house and do something. It’s creepy.”
“He doesn’t climb at all anymore?”
“No.” 
“Man, he was really into it... So what’s this DEAR PHLLY thing he’s been talking about?”
“Oh, God. Please, don’t even get him started on it. It’s embarrassing.”
“Is he getting anything published? I thought he wrote some graphic novel or something with some famous comic dude.”
“Yeah, he did. He really worked hard on it, but it doesn’t look like anything’s gonna come of it.”
“Damn,” I said. Then the two of us just sat there and watched him pay for his beer. 
That night Phil made fish tacos. We sat out on the deck. They really have a neat little house. After dinner, Sarah took the hose around and watered all the flowers. Henry followed her around in nothing but his diaper. Phil was probably on his 6th or 7th beer by then. “Hey, check this out,” he said, lifting up his shirt to show me his gut. He slapped it a few times, proudly. I shook my head. 
“So what’s you plan, man?” I asked him. 
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you gonna start modeling again?” 
“Yeah, I don’t know, man.”
The two of us watched a squirrel run along the fence until it lept off into a tree. “You’ve really got a beautiful family, man. I mean, Henry’s an awesome little dude. And Sarah, man, what a cool chick.”
“Yeah, thanks, man. I know. I’m pretty lucky.”
A few seconds later, he took a big chug off his beer and then he turned to me. The pain in his face was incredible. His eyes were all watery. His chin began to tremble. “Dylan,” he said. “I gotta tell you something.”
“What is it, man?”
He took a deep breath and blew it out, long and slow. Then he looked away, shaking his head. A tear fell from his eye and rolled down his cheek. He wanted so badly to say whatever it was he wanted to say, but he just couldn't. I put a hand on his shoulder while he just sat there sort of nodding, bitting his lip. Just then, Henry came bursting out across the yard, laughing hysterically, pushing his green Tonka truck. Sarah turned and tried to spray him with the hose. Henry made it to the other side of the yard and then he stopped and turned. A faint rainbow hung there in the mist for a moment. "Daddy, look, there's a rainbow! It's a rainbow, daddy!" A great big smile surfaced on Phil’s face. I have never seen a man look so in love with anyone in all my life. "I know, bubbas," he said. "I know!" He never did tell me what it was he wanted to tell me. I'm not sure if he changed his mind or if he forgot, or maybe he just didn't get around to telling me. Whatever the reason, I think we both knew it was for the best. NEXT! 


DYLAN MCFARRO is a dear friend of mine, a brother for life. He is a world famous fashion model and entrepreneur. Many years ago, he singlehandedly saved me from my darkest hour. He spends his time mostly between New York City, London, Paris, Milan, Germany, Greece, and South Africa. And no, Dylan McFarro is not his real name. He may or may not contribute to DEAR PHILLY in the future- Philly.