Devil Monkey Boy

"By the time this is over, you're going to be sick of this song." That would be the director. Also, the producer, cameraman, grip, best boy, craft services, and my roommate, David.

It's a Sunday afternoon, and we're at the MTV offices. These are the offices, mind you, not the studios. They look like so many other offices, with the exception that most places don't have filing cabinets labeled 'Viva La Bam' and 'Pimp My Ride'.

My ride has been good and well pimped. It's a mailcart pressed into service as both a prop and dolly. David has fastened the camera to the cart with an array of tape that would make MacGyver (or maybe Rube Goldberg) proud.

My direction is this: I am to deliver mail while lipsynching the male parts of "Daisy Chain 4 Satan" by My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult. My expression should be passive, unemotional. Considering the wailing and screaming of the song, this takes some getting used to.

I breathe. David starts the music. And, we are rolling.

The woman, whose footage has already been shot, says:

I live for drugs, it's great
I freaked out very very badly
I freaked out on acid
I'm the White Rabbit

Then I start screaming. Of course I can't scream. Too emotional. So I open my mouth like I'm breathing with a headcold, nasal passages all stuffed up. Then the words:

Here where I sit alone lost
Here I will dream
Why give me a drink
I need a think now
I have to rid my stinkin' brain

I drop mail at random cubes. I pull up some sense-memory crap of crap office jobs. And... cut.

Second verse, same as the first. Different hallway, same song.

I live for drugs, it's great
I'm the White Rabbit

Black boots, highway broads
Dope forever, forever loaded

It flows better. I work on my pacing, slowing my steps. Another cut.

We run through again.

Live for drugs, great.
Freaked out very very badly
Acid
White Rabbit

And again.

Drugs
Freaked
Acid
Rabbit
Lost
Dream
Drink
Think
Stink

I lose track after the fourth run. David was right. I am sick of the song.

Finally we finish. He's got enough footage in the can. Now he'll begin the editing. My part is done, and so ends my brief life as a video star. We head back to the crib for Courvoisier and Cristal.

"She lives for drugs," I say, as we exit the Paramount Building.
"That's great."
"You know who she reminds me of?" I ask.
"The White Rabbit?"
"Yeah. The White fucking Rabbit."