HOW I MET TAO LIN
I met Tao Lin in a medium-to-really-sketchy alley on the Southside, while he was peaking on a drug I can only refer to as “Taoazepam,” during the Black Hour when all the city’s shadows transform into Black People, armed with miscellaneous GTA b-roll weapons and malt liquor. I knew we were fucked because Tao was wearing a Cubs hat on 118th like every other Asian tourist homicide case dating back to the Sixties. I said “Hi” first. Tao said “hIGh” as 40 Xanax pills poured outta his mouth like Niagara Falls on an iTunes visualizer doing 80mph on a 16-bit Dubstep drop.
I considered robbing him. He was hugging a MacBook Pro (which he dropped 67 times, scooping Xanie bars like a Hungry Hungry Hippo convener belt at 5400rpm). But honestly, I felt bad for the guy (dude still wears clothes from Urban Outfitters—NOT THE SALES SECTION). I lend him a hand as he took a swing at me, but I ignored his little Asian fist like this year’s Judgment Day.
“I hav a reeding 2 go 2,” Tao sings into his MacBook Pro like Diana Summer masturbating on a warm bedrock. I sought after a rich kid all day for some coke money. Now, I figured, was my big break.
“Fuck that. Let’s get some coke.” Before I knew it, the dude took off at the “koh” of cocaine like it’s a starting gun, zigzagging left and right, panning his head like the surrounding brick was coated in the stuff, bumping into Pollacks and Russies smoking smuggled cigarettes AND YOU KNOW THOSE POLES SMELT THE NEW YAWK ON HIM, but the Poles didn’t do shit—they continued watching the same overly-compressed .mov of a kiddie-porn-cum-shot-gone-wrong on a Cricket phone, giggling like horny teens meandering in front of a Victoria Secret’s, acting inconspicuous as possible.
I grabbed Tao by the shoulders and told him to chill, but he couldn’t stop tweeting about me telling him to chill—he was laughing uncontrollably at this point, vacillating between Tumblr and Twitter like it was dick friction—but eventually I got him into a cab and got us moving towards the Northside.
The cabbie was Turkish and Tao couldn’t stop asking him sexual questions.
“Did you ever fuck a girl in the ass?!” Tao giggled, nearly jacking off at this point. Taoazepam was revving at high gear now. I heard his gums flapping like two seizing raver chicks on a Skrillex dildo as the cabbie prayed loudly to Allah.
“One time. She was brother’s virgin,” he confessed. I looked over to see Tao aggressively tweeting every word.
Tao’s “home button” on his iPhone was literally chewed off from too many MDMA trips, so he had to turn off his phone anytime he needed to return to the “home screen” (which he didn’t need. The dude tweet’s 911, but he doan give a fuck).
I called my dealer, during which I heard Tao detailing “Two Girls, One Cup” to the cabbie, throwing in facts about the Obama administration between breaths.
“Kingston, I need one.” Nigga hangs up, as expected. I think my debt’s nearly 200 dollars at this point.
“Tao, I need you to call someone for me,” I said, as I regretfully hand my phone over to his MDMA decaying teeth.
“Sir thang, Scuba.” Throughout the night, Tao called me everything from “Tootsie” to “Major Tom.” I liked Major Tom.
“Mayor Tom,” fuckin it up, “where-is-the—hello?”
(over the phone) “LUCAS NIGGA I TELL JEWS NEEDA PAY UP FORE—“
“YOU LISTEN HERE NIGGA,” Tao vehemently interrupts him, “I’M MUTHA-FUCKA FAMOUS, HIPSTERRUNOFF GAVE ME 2 PBR CANS OUTTA 5. I DAM CHEWED ROGER EBERT’S FACE OFF OVER A NICKLE BAG OF MOLLY. I NEED SOME FUCKIN COCAINE!!!” At this point,Tao was bouncing up and down in his seat, intermittently flashing his lil Asian dick at mildly-to-not-innocent pedestrians as the Turk pulled over, kicking us out.
Fuck em, I thought, free ride nigga!
I looked over to see Tao hanging up the phone, grinning.
“What did he say?!”
“He be here 5 minutes”.
I wasn’t even fazed. Dude’s Tao Fuckin Lin.
Once we got the coke, we went to my girlfriend’s place and I told her I didn’t get any as I walked into the bathroom with Tao on tow. Inside, Tao laid all the coke on the toilet seat, and, without cutting it, snorted the whole gram in one line, rocks and everything, and proceeded to burst through the bathroom door, into the living room, where he tweeted for 11 hours straight. He took one power nap, then peaced to the next university he was going to lecture (do drugs) at.
Haven’t seen him since.WOODY HARRELSON
1.
I think one of my life dreams is doing a line of coke with Woody Harrelson. I always have a problem choosing a setting, though. But I can confidently say I would want to do it off a hooker’s ass, while having some really ‘heavy’ conversation with him.
I would only do it for the ‘heavy’ conversation, the way it always was with me and coke. I would love to talk to him about film, theater. I would ask him if he enjoyed poetry, and in the case he did, I would ask him what were his ‘favs’.
When I first found out that Woody’s dad was a contract killer, I enthusiastically thought ‘yes’ in my head from the profound coolness of it. I immediately imagined a parallel world were Woody and his dad were partners in crime, Woody being some young decoy to distract his targets, taking their attention long enough for daddy to ‘ice’ them.
I also see me and Woody being brothers, standing at our father’s funeral after being murdered while incarnated. We would hold each other, together cooping our loss.
Our mother would say things like, “he was a brave man” and “only God can judge him,” before breaking into tears and being carried off as rest of us wail silently to ourselves.
We would grow to be ashamed of him, of course. I imagine Woody calling me, distressed, perhaps from same small airport, or loud bar, telling me how the media uncovered the truth about our father.
“Lucas, I am so ashamed,” he would tell me while breaking into tears, like our mother did, all those years ago.
2.
Natural Born Killers may be my favorite movie of all time. I always wished life was the way that movie looks—hyperactive, wayward, visually edible. There is something fascinating about going on a murder spree, and I would par take, but only under the condition that Woody Harrelson was my sidekick.
After having our ‘heavy’ conversation on coke with our hooker, I would love to rob a liquor store with him. On coke.
It would have to be some mom & pop store, only as an assurance that we were being as ‘badass’ as humanly possible. Robbing a 7-11, or CVS wouldn’t suffice.
After our dramatic loss, and countless promises to ourselves that we wouldn’t be ‘like him,’ we would evidently go on a murder spree, as a sort of rekindling of our boyhood repression.
We would of course slaughter everyone ‘in and around’ the liquor store—a pubescent boy walking his dog, an old lady crossing the street.
I see me and Woody Harrelson, my brother, after living through so much, only allowing ourselves to live faster and faster on the hot, unyielding road towards our spiritual climax.
In the movie playing in my mind’s eye, we are gunned down while sitting on the hood of our Camaro, sharing a calming pint, watching the desert sun lowering on our cinematic lives.
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lucas celler is a north korean folk singer. just kidding, that's his gmail address. however, he is a mystery, even to us. you can find him effin' around at http://lucasceller.com.