It seemed inevitable that I should fly to the warm southern half of your United States and meet him in person.
Imagine my surprise when the double doors of his Gothic mansion swung open to reveal a leopard-skin-wearing, cigar-smoking lunatic who spent the better part of our visit peppering me with rapid fire questions regarding the works of Van Halen, my preference for 16 Candles over Pretty In Pink, and my encyclopedic knowledge of all things pop culture related.
After any number of hours, things began to become shrouded in the haze of free-flowing whiskey as I recounted my many escapades working with Marcus Berkmann, Lester Bangs, Chuck Palahniuk, and the high and mighty Martin Amis. Chag remained unimpressed by my meager credentials but saw the promise of the polished diamond beyond the rough exterior of inexperience.
He hired me on the spot.
A steady parade of "anonymous" writers walked through the hallowed halls of his large home that day, touting the seriousness of their "chops," although none worse than the washed-up Catholic School graduate and former groupie that went by the asinine moniker "Dufmanno," her loud mouth and insufferable half-baked ideas about music, movies, and life were the worst of the whole lot. I have a particularly good time taking the editorial axe to her poorly thought out, grammatically mangled offerings.
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| Giles being taunted by Dufmanno & her horrible grammar. |
So at our one year mark I search the vaults of my memory banks to recapture the joy and excitement of those first few days spent chained to this very heavy radiator in Chag's basement while watching his various episodes become more and more unnerving. Why, as I write this now he is astride his pet cheetah, singing the words to a moving ballad while eating a jelly doughnut.
I feel certain that someday my contributions to these stories of pop culture dominance will burst the scene wide open and I will receive my just rewards but until then I will continue to toil in this dank environment, tweaking and perfecting with my one free hand the nuggets of pure entertainment gold you ingest so willingly on a daily basis.
If only I'd known on that warm fateful day, what I know now perhaps I'd have my feet up on my large mahogany desk at the offices of The Guardian or Interview but that is not in the cards now.
Giles Mitchell Hackford
Fine English Gentleman
Shackled Captive
Ghost Editor
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