Thursday, October 27, 2005

Make it stop

In honor of those times that John has scalded my eyes, this is Ross Richie popping in with a Sick And Wrong Update, courtesy MIKE STERLING from Progressive Ruin.

Ulli's Roy Orbison In Clingfilm Website

It always starts the same way. I am in the garden airing my terrapin Jetta when he walks past my gate, that mysterious man in black.

'Hello Roy,' I say. 'What are you doing in Dusseldorf?'

'Attending to certain matters,' he replies.

'Ah,' I say.

'Perhaps you would like to come inside?'

'Very well.' He says.

Presently I say, 'Perhaps you would like to see my cling-film?'

'By all means.' I cannot see his eyes through his trademark dark glasses and I have no idea if he is merely being polite or if he genuinely has an interest in cling-film.

I bring it from the kitchen, all the rolls of it. 'I have a surprising amount of clingfilm,' I say with a nervous laugh. Roy merely nods.


I start at the ankles and work up. I am like a spider binding him in my gossamer web.


I sit and admire my handiwork for a long time. So as not to make the ordeal unpleasant for him we make small talk on topical subjects, Roy somewhat muffled.

He never calls me. He sends no tickets. The police come and reprimand me.


Anonymous said...

There is a LJ community devoted to these.
I wrote one nearly two years ago:

It generally happens in a fashion similar to this.

Jetta and I were at the market, procuring ingredients for our nightly repast. As is often the case with man and terapin, an argument broke out between us on the subject of lettuce selection vis a vis indicators of freshness.

A tall, dark shadow fell across us and I turned towards the figure, not initially lifting my gaze from the head of lettuce grasped gingerly in my hand.

"Pardon me, sir or madam", I said, still deeply engrossed in leafy contemplation, "can you enlighten me as to the proper criteria on which to judge the freshness of lettuce? This query is clearly not a pick-up line as it does not relate to the ripeness of sexually suggestive fruits."

There was no reply, and I glanced up from the green orb to confront dark sunglasses perched upon the unmistakable face of one Roy Orbison, darkly attired and allegedly dead.

Thus we arrive at the present.
"So.", I say.

He remains silent and unreadable.

"You are unmistakably Roy Orbison, a mucian of no small reknown and additionally one thought to be deceased."

His emotionless facade seemed to deflate slightly at this. "I must admit that in spite of my cover being blown I am relieved to for once not be improperly identified as Elvis."

"It is the sideburns", I tell him, "and the large, dark sunglasses." Out of politeness I fail to include his jowls and girth is this list.

He admits the vague resemblance.

"If I may be so bold", I say, "I will hazard a guess that you are also on occasion misidentified as Tony Clifton, alter ego to the equally deceased Andy Kaufman."

"You are very perceptive", he says.

I allow that this may be the case.

Jetta, whose appreciation of allegedly deceased public figures is somewhat less than my own, begins to fidget.

"Returning to your query", Roy Orbison says, "I judge the specifics to be essentially moot. This establishment does not offer for sale lettuce which is not currently fresh, and does purvey cling film, by use of which one may preserve such freshness more or less indefinitely."


That Roy Orbison should demonstrate familiarity with the application of cling film has sent my mind racing, but I effect a casual nonchalance in order to spare his peace of mind.

"And is this the secret to your own preservation?", I inquire as if in jest, daring him to answer in the affirmative.

"The details of my illusory death are better left undiscosed, as they are entirely mundane and would prove incriminating to those who aided in my deception. As to your suggestion that cling film may be used as a means of preserving youth, I must admit I am intrigued by the possibilities."

"I have some measure of expertise in the application of cling film", I explained. "And it occurs to me that when I was an adolescent I had the importance of sleep impressed upon me with the explanation that it is in sleep that one grows -- can the same be said of aging in general? Perhaps you would allow me to film you head to toe in cling film tonight before you retire to bed? Merely as an experiment in age suspension."

If you were to express your opinion that I at that point began to hold my breath, I would be forced to correct you, asserting that you had made a massive understatement.

He seems to deliberate for a moment. "Yes", he says, "it will be done as you say."

"Let us depart, then."

"What of your lettuce?" He gestures towards the vegetable object still in my hand.

"It will wait", I reply.

"Should we not venture more deeply into this market in order to purchase cling film?"

"It just so happens that I have what I believe to be a sufficient quantity of cling film in my car parked just outside."

"So be it", he says.

Roy Orbison, Jetta, and I arrive at his condo. I gather up my cling film and my terapin and follow him in. It is very sparsely furnished.

As if reading my mind, Roy Orbisson fixes me with a shrouded gaze. "Due to the nature of my 'post mortem' existence, if you will, I by necessity live a somewhat nomadic life."

I say nothing, but follow him up to his bedroom.

"For reasons which I do not care to go into, I prefer to sleep fully attired in the manner in which you see me", he said.

"This will be no impediment."

He stands before me, waiting. I kneel at his black shoes and begin to slowly film Roy Orbison in cling film. I film him like a pharaoh, his arms crossed at his chest.

"Close your eyes", I tell him.


I remove his glasses and finish filmping his head, making a hole for his mouth and then replacing his glasses.

"It is done", I say.

"Would you be so kind as to tip me back onto the bed?", he inquires in a somewhat muffled manner.

"But of course." I lower him back onto his bed and then, taking initiative, roll him into the center of it.

"Thank you", he says. "You may let yourself out."

"I will do so in time", I reply. I seat myself in a lounge chair across from his bed, laying Jetta upon my knee, and lose myself in contemplation.

The next morning I awake to find Roy gone. It appears that he has managed to roll himself out of the condo and away, abandoning his few possessions. I collect Jetta and we return to the market in pursuit of breakfast.

Anonymous said...

maybe I'm just out of the loop, but I don't get this whole Roy Orbison/cling wrap thing. Can someone explain the connection to me? Why did this genre of story begin? Why is there an entire website dedicated to it? Why does it disturb me so much? Why can't I stop thinking about it? Help me......

Kia said...

It started with MIchael Kelly's Page of Misery.

I linked to his whole site because there's all this other good stuff there.

People who know his work appreciate it, so it's not so much that he's underappreciated as that he ought to be more widely known.

He used to post more frequently but he still does from time to time. The older ones are at the top and the newer ones are towards the bottom.

Anonymous said...

Pamb: it's a spoof on the terrifying genre of "slash fiction". Google and a strong stomach will reveal all from this point.

Riyan Herbal Cilacap said...

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