Clawing to escape the belly of the beast here in Hollywood. To commiserate, email my name assistantatlas at yahoo.

Monday, July 02, 2007

Then Posh Spice-Beckham Tore Out This Dude's Eyeball and Licked It: 6.03

I don't usually write about the dreams I have, but I think I absolutely must write about this one.

Because it's totally my subconscious trying to tell me something.

In my subconscious, Posh Spice-Beckham totally tears out this dude's eyeball...and then--well, we'll get to that.

Basically, in my dream, I'm walking past Kitson at 3rd and Robertson-- of course, this is dream 3rd and Robertson, so it's also got tons of Hollywood pimps'n'hos of every color, wearing practically nothing, crazy candy-colored signage in the stores, and paparazzi holding down every advantageous angle...

When who should come along but Victoria Beckham, as she likes to be called? Doting wife to footballer David Beckham, mother of two (three, apparently-- in my dream there were only two), celebrity, and noted fashion icon/disaster.

Which is relevant, because in my dream, I was momentarily bewildered by her outfit. It was something close to the leather jumpsuit I'd seen her in recently, know how media is these days...

So we're on dream Robertson, and Posh is leading one kid by hand, and holding the other. She's in leather, but her kids are dressed like normal kids-- in baseball jerseys if I remember. Improbably, she's just been walking down Robertson for a bit and hasn't been swarmed by the paparazzi, who last I remembered were all vigilant on the streetcorners. Ahh, dreams.

Anyway... suddenly the paparazzi do recognize her, and start beelining for her. About this time, I hear someone behind me say "Oh, she's wearing Karl Lagerfeld." For some reason, this is the key for my understanding of Posh, and I feel less my inner Assistant/Atlas welling up.

Meanwhile, the paps swarm Posh and start snapping away. And at first, everything's cool as she keeps strolling, flashbulbs popping.

Then suddenly, she turns.

She starts screaming: "No stop, my son has epilepsy!"

And indeed, the child she's holding suddenly goes into a fit of shaking, eyes rolling back into his head as he shudders away.

And the paparazzi, they don't stop their flashing bulbs.

Posh doesn't appear to have bodyguards, so apparently it's my duty to spring into action, trying to shield the little guy from the flashes as he foams at the mouth.

I think he's going to die while I try to hold him still, as I suddenly notice that one of Posh's hands has super-long fingernails. Like, talons.

She lets go of Child #2's hand, who then starts to cry. But he, and everyone else, goes silent as Ms. Victoria Beckham issues a violent war-cry.

She swipes her talon, once, twice, and kaws to the heavens. The flashbulbs speckle out and die as jaws and cameras drop, the crowd entranced.

She looks at a photographer who has strayed from the pack, just eversomuch. A particularly noxious photog who attracts disdainful glares from even his colleagues.

She regards him and he's instantly frozen in fear. But she is merciful because she is quick.

That's when she tore out the dude's eyeball. He did not scream.

But she didn't lick it right away. No, she regarded me first, who'd thrown himself to the wolves in an effort to help. She locked eyes with me, deep and dark...

In that void I felt my soul slipping away but I was too drowsy to fight. Fortunately, I was not her prize. If anything, I was a vague memory, shrouded by time, of how human beings might've acted in a world that could only be so good because it was so distant. All this in a dim flicker until she fought herself from the pull of a consciousness so comparatively bright that it registered naught but the shame of her existence.

So she forced herself then to study it, the eyeball with the slightest hint of cord, there on the end of her overlong ring fingernail. She looked at it, then the pap she'd tore it from, then the now-silent crowd of paparazzi, and then she cracks her neck and sensually combs back her hair with the hand that doesn't have five-inch fingernail talons.

"You," she commands, pointing to a frightened pap, "give me your camera."

He obliges, setting it at her feet and backing away, groveling.

"Karl," she calls, and Karl Lagerfeld, as if by magic, steps from the crowd.

Karl comes forward, also dressed in similar leather getup, and takes the camera from Posh's feet.

"Karl will take the picture of anyone who attempts to take any more pictures of myself or my children," she says, practically snarling the assembled paparazzo.

"And now, ladies and gents, I'm going to do a bit of shopping," she says. And with that, she strolls a few steps onward with her children, now apparently recovered, in tow.

"You totally planted Karl Lagerfeld, didn't you?" I asked, incredulous.

She put her finger to her lips: "Shhhhh..."

"You're brilliant."

She turns to me. "I'm going shopping," she says, "Never speak of this again."

She takes Child #2 by the hand, after scooping up the now-sleeping-happily epileptic child, and turns into Kitson.

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Anonymous Anonymous said...

Less acid.

More assistant-ing.

9:26 PM


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