“Seth Meyers And the Cauldron of Doom”
OMG— YOU have a cauldron of doom?!
I have a cauldron of doom!!!
DO NOT SHAKE THIS SNOWGLOBE.
I had been avoiding Rockefeller plaza for months as it was, without the sometimes accidental ending up there anyway, and I thought not once but twice or three times about changing into my regular pants so that the deep pockets could hold my keys and passports sans wallet— or a purse and considered taking a notebook as well; on the list of prohibited items were backpacks and large bags, and though the dress code seemed to be null in void at all, I was happy to be able to wear my hat at least— and almost prepared to be dogged out, the last min it e change into my harem pants would probably be the comfortable choice; looking intentionally dressed down as a statement—a broad statement that I wasn't looking to be noticed at all, or trying to be noticed.
The guest for the show was nearly an EGOT winner, probably younger, and definitely skinner and more beautiful than I was; a black woman, but a British woman, and it would be almost entirely impossible to think that besides Whoopi Goldberg, an American black woman would strive to win such a thing as an EGOT herself.
Still, I was looking for a cure to the writer's block and crippling depression that I had been in, however—knowing who the president of Peacock was, and after the elections at all's though I knew NBC to be left-leaning—
I didn't feel at all as if I would ever belong on the stage, and was quite happily taking my place as simply a fan…and audience member, though ready to creep back into obscurity, and probably more likely than not with a pint of Ben and Jerry's after the show.
I had gone to see Drew Barrymore sand makeup, and would do the same, but only as a proclamation that I had read Tina Fey's book nearly religiously now rounding three times, and I almost wish I had an oversized black t-shirt which read “hot water heater” to accompany my lax look and blonde hair—a testament to her correctness standing, as the grossities of tinder loved “the blonde”, almost as if, without the hair I would be ugly, and just as much in the same breath, unworthy of such status anyway.
But more than anything, I just wanted to be able to write again, at least for my own sake, and certainly not for anyone else's. I was still in hiatus, for the better, and had not completely recovered from the unbearable racism and parallel of doom the election had tossed me into with trajectory—in this world—supposedly “fascist”.
I was comfortable enough in the jeans, but had nowhere to put my phone.
I was ready to be dogged out and shown what a real a list celebrity looked like, and why I simply wasn't one.
I left the house with a sink full of dishes, an unmade bed, and a pile of laundry unfolded—a pile of books in boxes I had collected for my son but would cost too much to send—almost as a testament to his sick I had been since the election. In this world, I was just another poor black fat single mother— a dead beat living in poverty. In trump's world, I was an ugly, poor nothing.
Everywhere I had gone about the past week, the rich seemed richer and the poor poorer, the whites whiter and the blacks blacker, good gone and evil fleeting, with the return of the motorcycles and pieces of me dying, simply giving up. I planned my return to the workforce, and the eventual fortitude of my freedom; the wealthy had become more arrogant, and the rest of us more distraught. What was I going to rocketfeller plaza for, anyway?
My apartment was disgusting, but at least I had been to the gym—I had run the full mile and lifted and pulled, all with the gym to myself.
My harem pants still felt even better, and for the first time in me months I ventured into the world in only one waist trainer.
[lost in a revolving door
Be cool to the two dudes in blue suits
goddamnit I never know where I'm going in this bitch.
I can never breath in this bitch and I don't know why.
How do you get lost at the rock?
[Infinitely Lost at Rockafeller Plaza]
This is why I avoid this place like the plague.
First of all, there's no track on the floor upstairs.
(I've never been upstairs.)
It's just store after store of ways to spend money.
This is my only pair of clean socks.
No shit, this is the reason practicing your mantras on the train becomes dangerous.
Somewhere in the frenzy, I remember this. Frequency, however,
Not yet partial to my own inner self, and empty in the array of superstardom,
Only a spectator of celebrity—
And now, suddenly. 8 remember this day
Where I always have been, waiting for myself—
I avoid Rockerfeller plaza at all costs.
I heard a grimlin lives here.
Now is the time for Skrillex!
I would really love you forever if you didn't.
Oh boy, this writer's block is a doozy.
The only reason I had even bothered was because it was as if I had been summoned, as if something had clocked in my sense memory where, all of a sudden, looking at an unrelated picture of some kid on Tinee, with his hands covering his mouth the way that Stefon always did, made me immidiately stop whatever I was doing—probably eating tacos or pancakes, insurmountably out of bounds— and pausing the comedian I was watching instead, just to watch Stefon, and in the way that I remembered it all, it made me laugh.
Although now, I knew exactly what he was talking about by the avant-grade and strangely abysmal club scene not just of the time, but of any time in New York City— and, somehow summoning a laugh even in the darkness that had been my own distraught and depression in the previous weeks, something of a belly roll laugh might have triggered something in the alrgorithm to send last minute tickets to my email in almost that exact moment.
Are they going to tell me to take off my hat?!
They had better not tell me to take off my motherfucking hat.
I'm not taking off my hat for Seth Meyers.
Oh yeah. That's why I'm here.
I found it hard to say that I was there for such a thing; I—
I turned off my peripheral vision and hyperfocus.
I didn't know there would be music. Goddammit.
I had deleted Shazam filming for I love New York, an all but abandoned project—the writer's block had been too real, and now the real rest had come—would I laugh at anything in show show when in reality I wanted to cry?
The way the lights kept going up and down as if it were intermission only slightly distracted from the fact that I had never seen a page in real life.
I had never seen an actual NBC PAGE.
GODDAMMIT GET THIS BLUE SUIT LOAFER WEARING MOTHERFUCKER OUT OF MY PERIPHERAL BEFORE I LOSE IT.
Don't put the midget in the cannon.
Thays's what he's here for!
( I'm never going to have any other l exposure to top 40, ever in my life. )
Congratulations, you've made the A list
What. What does that mean.
It means I can't do shit and mandatory attendance to everything.
At this moment, I realize I must be some sort of autistic.
Let's get this over with…
I let the sound of my own mix blare in my ears to drown out the sound of whatever pop singer was on over the loud speakers; I didn't realize there would be music, and I hoped the flutter was good l. Maybe it was the lights, or whatever, but—
what in the fuck dimention is this .
It's the same dimension, you're just drunk.
I was as uncomfortable as ever, there was a track on the higher level, but it didn't matter, the cattle call was contained inside of velvet ropes— black ones, unlike the typical red ones, and it was at this point I realized that not only had I never seen actual NBC pages—
Yo, their skirts are kinda short…
I THOUGHT THE PAGES WERE THE PARAGON OF SANCTITY!
Maybe the ugly shoes distract from the shortness of their skirts on the general basis.
Oh come on, nobody gives a fuck how ugly your shoes are if your skirt is that short!
No, I'm serious what dimention is this.
I had to ask for directions three times just get here.
why is your level on acid.
Jimmy Fallon after Mardi Gras's.
What exactly isn't fair?!
Well, how else are you going to explain a time traveling helicopter?!
THERES MY INVISIBLE MOTORCYCLE.
It actually hurt not to write and just stand there; but I still didn't feel like myself—or sound like myself—or look like myself; I was playing a character, I just didnt know who.
As I moved forward in line, the music began to fade away behind me and into the nothingness that was whatever was behind, in front of, and all around me. I hated cattle calls, but after all, I was still just a fan and as the world began to fold into chaos, I realized that my pants were falling off of me, though I had been feeling fat, and walking, and running, and cycling, and protein shaking—the only thing that had gained any extra weight was my ass, which was exactly what I was intending on hiding with my same old usual harems.
My blonde hair made it so that I stuck out like a sore thumb, but that didn't matter, I was a walking statement piece and almost in a fit of tears just thinking about my own status; the NBC pages probably all had crazy incredible accolades and numerous degrees and achievements—what was I, if anything at all— ?
I had put the candles out, but had I left the stove on?
Did I really unplug the nail dryer and leave the stove on?
I had almost washed all of the dishes, but stopped just short of right on time to leave; my producer brain was on fire and wanted more pancakes, but however hard I tried I could not find where I had placed my EBT card; probably for the better—celebrities didn't carry EBT cards, and even my awkward general being thrown off by the doorman or security—
—whichever I wasn't sure— standing outside of the roller rink— probably ice this time of year, by the looks of the Zamboni in the foreground of it…
‘Don't stop writing, no matter what. ‘
That seems inappropriate.
I told you to get this motherfucker out of my peripheral before something—
Nevermind, don't write that.
(But imma remember this shit cause it's heavy.)
A remarkable and accidental tableau,
My feet flat to the floor, as my ankles bare,
This is my only pair of hole-less socks.
I feel so much better with my back against the wall and
Not giving a fuck about the music playing
Forgetting how to codeswitch,
Just an ever so limited existence
Trying not to stick out like a sore thumb in the wrong world
But even longer way down,
And in all the demoralizing humiliation and emasculation,
I realize I'm no man at all,
I realize I'm no man at all,
I realized my son's Lego Lamborghini should be waiting for me as I returned to my apartment in Brooklyn probably starting but pretending not to care; I winced at everything— this was a dangerous disaster, to even be in the building at all and edging closer to death were the secrets I kept that were not only secrets, but non existences.
Nothing in nothing and nothing—
Oh shit, is the suffering done?
It's the end of the beginning
This will be the end of the end
Of the beginning of the end.
Of the beginning of the beginning
Of the beginning of the beginning
This will be the beginning of the beginning of the beginning
This will be the beginning,
This will be the end of the end of the end
This will be the end of the end of the end
This will be the beginning
The beginning of the beginning
All of it, this is recorded history,
Smoke and mirrors, here portions and pardons
This is probably why can't breathe at the rock
I wrote nothing remarkable at all
(Nothing remarkable at all.)
I love getting lost at the rock
This is the host of the show
(I think I lost my lunch before.)
I was at a show, I never woke up,
Curtains go up, I don't want to see the show,
I don't want to get lost no more
Cause only one train goes there
I wanna climb the straits to the top
Guess this isn't he host huh
The top of the rock off is a long jump
And I'm still in talks how's every morning
Someone told me not to ignore you
So, this is the host, huh.
Someone told me, go hard or go home
Parenthesises, please and—Parenthetical, hypotheticals and paleontology's,
Please, I need a mixologist
Please slow down to peace, Mr poltergeist,
Please, slow down mister poltergeist,
Please for the peace Mr. Poltergeist,
I'm the whole medium and still,
And I hop to the rock there's still something in it
Victoria Beckham and monsuier,
(A policeman and polgergeist)
All sandwhich, no buns and pastrmi,
And all the God, I'm going cold, I'm going ghost again
And a the god, on all the rocks,
I'm going old, I'm going cold again;
On all the God on all the rocks,
Hold on again, mi got a song again?
WATCH OUT FOR THE DOORMAN.
So all the Rockerfeller plazas on all the earths aim alll yhr parallel dimensions can actually communicate with each other
RADIO CITY BABBBBBBBYYYYYYY!
OH GOD. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE
Did you get his dog's name!?
Good. [meniacal rubbing of hands] good.
Nah, I can't catch the flow.
Something medicinal in this meniacal, is this
I spy a specscle, monocle— monopoly,
Time to go, it's the devil at my left;
Time for the fight against darkness,
Cause this is the ark, Noah
This is apartheid and apart from that.
It is nonsense. And it's also impossible; cause this is my show.
Not debatable. I'm ME. THAT'S ME.
I can't even hear the words,
But the bass is so fire, I summon Shazam!
What the fuck happened buddy?!
Remember what you look like
Remember how still started
And what happened to your wallet;
Did you leave the stove on
Please remember the circumstances
After several days gone completely missing, Jimmy Fallon is found under the craft services table sleeping peacefully.
The apparatus I entered in with
Is not adjusted to this condition
The biometrics are non concurrent;
By the time I got back to my apartment, my ribcage was showing again—although I had only been wearing one waist trainer, it was the skimpy one, and it was already wearing, it was after all eight dollars.
Really and once and for all, something had come over me at Rockerfeller plaza that I didn't understand. I was more awkward and nervous than usual, and sure that I should have eaten, but couldn't —even after a long gym session, there was no time for food before the show, and I had no stomach for it.
I chose to as much as I could ignore the code switching, and the more I picked it up, the further my mind began to drift.
My documents were probably compromised, and my phone hacked which I might have guessed, but continuing the thought I had often wondered how or why anything could have possibly known what I had written, or how—or how anyone would know what I had written, or of the things I had written, and most importantly of all—what did I write?!
Most of the previous months' entries into the festival project were a blank, and the time I had spent considerably enough sifting through whatever masked man acting in part of Fallon, whoever he really was had been turbulent, as if I had been disfigured to be brainwashed into half a mind—then, slowly peeking back the layers of such a chaotic artifact of time and this, Seth Meyers, to whom now I had become a loyal fan, an actual fan—and had noticed something ingenuously crafted here.
A genuine and talented, very kind and gifted man, who was not in any sense miserable or in peril. Peril, so to speak, as I remembered the almost villainous approach that the decent into madness had accompanied this Fallon and his mask, and besides this was the assumption that Seth Meyers, though professionally trained as such, seemed happy.
We had all learned to craft masks in order to protect our inner selves—however, with such a veil lifted as the partitioned screen of all does, this spoke to me with numerous volumes and sometimes even screamed, with the ethics of no worse a gentleman than some surgeon soldier or sailor and no more a nobleman than a king or god itself; I had not been Shocked and all but murmured even to just the slightest gawk of just an awkward cry, a muster of some shallow disaster which had called me to all of them— to whom I had loved and yet somehow not known, at least being here—and here I was, slightly convulsed, bearing no armor and gripping at the fortitude of death's barriers;
On wheels with no bearings plummeted towards a forged death of sorts, by my own hands but also at the hands of others,
the forgery calling from the halls of a place I had known as once my own fortress; but was no more. I belonged and now, almost with gratitude, to the eye of all gods, and all things that moved.
No cherished nature, perhaps, was this into my own eye, but of disgust for what I had not yet accomplished, and still might never—
I was a skull and crossbones with no love, and nothing known at all besides my own.
The thing that sets Seth Meyers apart from the other hosts.
Seth Meyers is not a host—he's an anchor.
Goddammit, you're right .
It just took me this long to figure it out .
Great. Now how long's it gonna get you to take this thing fixed.
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