Birthday parties. Wine tastings. Honeymoons of the planned and unplanned varieties. The annual Regional Hotdog Eating Competition. Truckloads of busloads of pit-stained wrinkled people lactating coupons, complaint forms and bond money.
Camera change, zoom in.
Does it mean anything to you Swissies – laugh-track, some real – that you’ve encroached upon the American Dream? Clap-track, more real. Shattered glass syllables in words for emphasis, the prickling fingertip sparkle of an arm that’s been slept on. Did you ever bother to think about the hairless children whose last wishes had been to come to you? Of the thousands and thousands who no longer have a timesheet to fudge on? Loud hushed whisper, getting louder the more the voice is tempered. Did you even consider the headaches and fender benders, the dinner table desperation orbiting around the welfare office? Does this mean anything to you? Go-get-em-Greg-track, hoo hoo hoo.
Little disc bouncing off the screen corners then back drifting response. Dozing Video Switcher Technician scrambling to load image.
Of course of course it means it means something something to us to us Greg Greg. Telephone crackle thereto. Hallo? Hallo?
Doubly located and rectified by Senior Audio Technician.
I said, said Greg Mothes, unfazed, do you realize that the National Bison Association no longer has a home for its yearly obstinacy? That these zephyrs and buoyancy will no longer flow?
You better believe you’re sorry!
Delicate mixture of clap– and boo-track. The audience jigsawed by both lights flashing alternately, the 9-volt battery taste before a seizure.
I’m agreeing with you, Greg.
So you would agree that you’ve ruined Americans’ dreams?
One split screen filled with the faces of Sieg & de Gagnat, the other dedicated to the abandoned Fat City hotel/casino. Scrolling factoids underneath.
We must follow ours after too, or?
Boooo-track. Greg Mothes’ gracious arms calming the crowd that isn’t up at arms. And what do you chocolatiers and cuckoo clockers dream? Chuckle-track. Was that a French or German accent that Greg Mothes, the Brightest City on Earth’s favorite daytime television host, was trying on?
Brief telephone silence like dust settling on amplified houseplants.
Greg of spaces.
Of spay-ces? Little laugh and hands up.
Of over the desert and mountains spaces. Germanic structure and so, most definitely, Bastian Sieg. Spaces hanging above the world like a curtain. Cloud-floating, bobbing. Sieg’s name and abbreviated biography ticking across the lower portion of the screen. All the way to the Greatest Cavity in the Earth will it careen. Flewed. Like bloodhound gums to the world. You say this, no?
No beginning, no end?
People say lots of things, said Greg Mothes, but what I want to know is, what is it going to look like?
The Greg Mothes tie straightening tick. A rapier – usually something pancreatic, palmy.
Far away it looks like glass, reflecting, like you can see through a cloud. French inflection. Video Switcher Technician deductively popping up Jean-Marie de Gagnant’s particulars. But closer from the bottom you must picture the seabed. Sandy grey. Unknown. The sides are something like too much soap in a sink. Billowing.
The Greg Mothes raised-eyebrow-chin-down-out-then-up protrude.
And where’s the valet?
The monocoque structure has but one door, a closed oyster to be pried open to be opened. It is very difficult to get inside, even when you calibrate the structure’s position to your own position. Video clips of thunderstorms at twilight. But inside, why you want to leave is the forgotten. This is something inviting, like a warm hug or a sweater. Everything you want is there. In places, a forest of marble pillars; in others, wide open spaces like deserts. There’s a floor cool to the touch, like a breeze on bare feet in the summer. Chandeliers jellyfish in midair in rooms with beds that smell like peaches, not connected, moving. You know? Spaces rising and flowing, filled with white and gold, gilded?
Is this a hotel/casino we’re talking about here, or some kind of over-exposed zoo/brothel?
No, no, it is definitely a hotel/casino, a superb hotel/casino, with one floor only, no hierarchy, you see, with a single lobed card table stretching through the entire building, where every game ever made is played. There are slot machines too, slot machines that make you feel like you’re in the dark cinema when you lose, slot machines that put you on the stage when you win. There are dark perimeters we want to make where all dissatisfaction can fester. Our desire is to capture the Brightest City on Earth’s black hole concept of recreation, to expand upon its inexplicable capacity for joy.
Laugh– or aww– or jeer-?
And will you build this dream for other dreams to inhabit?
This is the impossible.
Definitely a jeer-track – or, wait Ms. Up-And-Coming Audio Technician, a gasp-?
We pick up the pencil and we put it on the paper and we don’t know where to start.
A little humbled now. Then what aaaaarrreee you going to do?
We bring another recreation idea to end, something that our sleepless nights fills.
Let me get this straight, you’re going to build another hotel/casino?
Speculation factoid explosion.
This is right Greg.
And what’s THAT going to be like?
Telephone silence like the air pressure wheezing out of a thermos.
Video Switcher Technician gearing up segments of Greg Mothes and sports stars visiting balding children with tubes in their arms.
It will have proportions, Greg, that were previously believed to be proportionless.