Your Attention

Please: we at Forced Memories Inc. -- along, of course, with those at Obligatorily Life-Changing & Such -- would like to let whoever reads this ghost town know that it's over. The author, whose identity shall remain undisclosed for a few more days, has handed Fictional Account to me. (I write for a couple bad Web series like Master Bates: Mint and My Little Retarded Brother Yells at Oprah.) I had a conversation with him yesterday.

"Son, I'm going to give you something that my father gave to me and his father gave to him and so on," he groaned to me.

"Wait, what?" I replied.

Perhaps I should give you some context.

Nick has been slacking lately. A few months ago he stumbled upon MLRB. Calling it "a racist, insensitive, entirely unfunny example of everything that's wrong with America," he emailed me requesting it be taken down. His address -- nickrapperbloggeretc@gmail.com -- rung a bell in my brain. I had been reading Fictional Account since its October inception. I responded, sadly and apologetically, that I wasn't in an economic position to cancel the series, but that I loved his blog and would like to write for it someday. Stung but excited, he confessed that his Account was dying and that he'd be happy to surrender the whole of it to me. Under one condition: that he "meet [my] sorry ass in person." I was delighted, although my schedule was busy, we lived thousands of miles apart, and I was short on cash. It took me two months and twenty-nine synonyms for retard to scrounge together enough doe for a Chicago meeting. Him, his cohorts Angelo L, Dave C, Jen A, Sarah B, and a bunch of other underage bloggers with weird single-letter surnames were suited and dressed at the Trump. I was colorful with anticipation.

So he called me his son and implied that his father and his father and his father had owned the nickrapper.blogspot.com URL; naturally, I was confused.

"What's your name again?" he sort of demanded.

"My name-name or my alias or my username for --"

"Your goddamn 'name-name'! This is a professional meeting and I have no idea who the fuck I'm talking to." All of his cronies gave me disapproving glances. Didn't care. I'd get this URL -- and for little or no money.

"My name's Band. Perma Band." Thought I fooled this motherfucker.

"Derp. You think I'm that stupid?"

"Didn't know you frequent them 'Internet prank groups' and --"

"Tell me your name or I'll get Shvet to find it out for you," he stated matter-of-factly.

"James Anderson." Sounded common and totally believable. He wouldn't push me any further.

"Fine. Now, Mr. Anderson, I've spoken with all employees of Fictional Account Inc. and we're ready to destroy our company and its only blog. My audience doesn't care anymore. So neither do we. We're tired and ready to give you the URL and even the Nick Rapper pen name."

"I'm quite happy to take over Fictional Account Inc."

"No, that's not what I said. My company is dead. Whatever you do, don't bother pretending your new content is part of my enterprise."

"Fine," I replied, practically bored by now.

"Mr. Anderson, as you know, you will have to pay a minor expense for both the URL and the Nick Rapper name. Do you have a figure in mind?"

Fuck. I wasn't expecting this. "Um, not really?"

"How about fifty? Cash."

"Fifty dollars? Yeah, sure, I'm good for that." I waited a second for him to correct me; he didn't, and as I reached for some crisp new bills, a grin flashed across my face. I gave him the money without even attempting to hide my delight.

"We're done here. Take care, Mr. Anderson. You're a flaming bigot and dirty liar but, as my successor, you're now the third most important person in my life."

We hugged.

That kitten is the new face of Fictional Account (soon to be Just Another Blog on the Internet). I'm enlisting a bunch of music reviewers, reaction images, and "pseudo-intellectuals" to make this blog worthless. It'll be picture-based and speak volumes about absolutely nothing. The music critics will double as society critics. The reaction images will characterize our new "keep it short" motto. The last category I was jesting about. Part of my new "say everything is a joke" policy. I take no credit for anything written here. These words aren't even yours but intentionally no one's. Let's continue I guess.

John Quentin Flake's Review of The Ironic Ketchup Sextet's Stolen Visages and Antiquated Sweaters

As a kid I hated ketchup. Most kids put it on their hot dogs and hamburgers and every time I witnessed the grimy red substance being squirted onto a sadly-American culinary staple I silently barfed a little in my mouth. Heinz was my mortal enemy; his plastic, flatulence-inducing bottles were his ammo. Mine was my sharp insight at boring social events, but that's another story for another album.

The Ironic Ketchup Sextet comprises seven thirtysomething alt-rockers whose musings are both undeveloped and irreparably kitsch. In one song -- forget what these barbarians titled it -- the lead singer, Glen Jordan, asks "Are you the one for me or are you just another stuffed animal by my pillow?" The metaphor is not extended; Jordan speaks nonsense and expects his dorm room listeners to get it. I had to scribble a few hundred interpretations of the line in my Moleskine because even I wasn't sure what he meant by the sentiment.

My comrade Sarah voiced her take on the record a few days ago. She called it "savage post-menopausal cock rock" injected with "pedestrian pop sensibilities at every corner." She's correct in her assessment. It's almost like Jordan and his crew know they're about to die and, realizing that this could be their final release, are coughing out whatever fun but intricate blather they haven't already scraped off their tongues.

Another youthful mate of mine, Mr. Angelo L, declared this disc "so very bland." What a poignant statement. Nothing on Stolen Visages & Antiquated Sweaters -- nice pretentious title, guys -- is memorable. When I listened to this album (which I downloaded at studio-quality from the respected BlipTorrent) on my five-hundred dollar Sennheiser HD650s I remember daydreaming about some fifteen-year-old girl I met in Central Park the whole time. Wait one second, I have to text her quickly.

Fuck. She says she's ambivalent about the eight year age difference but will probably end up courting someone her own age. I'll try to win her heart with a poem I wrote in seventh grade for a creative writing class. I'll just substitute each instance of the sun with her name -- Haley. She's quite the attractive young lady. Almost as gorgeous as the girl on the cover of Stolen Visages. Wonder whom it is.

Oh yes, Stolen Visages. Bad album. Imagine walking in the meadow with your hot eleven-year-old cousin and she has like no clothes on but you have to wear a big coat and jeans for some upcoming formal gathering. You realize that not only are you uncomfortable but that there's nothing you can do about it. Also, your cousin keeps talking to you in three-word bursts and you're pretty angry by now; you may want to hit her in the face. But then you go to do it and you realize that you just threw your CD player out the window and it hit a car and fuck -- I have to go! Don't ever listen to this album!

"James Anderson" here. That's Memoryhouse. Someone said that some Tumblr writer knows the guy on the right -- that it's his cousin. Not sure what to make of the video for "Lately (Deuxième)". Wondering right now if I've said too many rebloggable things. Everything is suppose to end here, you know? Anyhow, here is a news story from the New Jersey Journal that I copied, pasted, and synonymed. Preceding it is an image. Hope I still have your attention!

Music critic kills family of three

GLEN RIDGE, New Jersey -- The Ironic Ketchup Sextet's new album has been almost unanimously acclaimed. Everyone from Pitchfork's Ryan Schreiber to Altered Zones' Ryan Schreiber has praised the alternative rock band's fifth effort on Surreptitious Sounds. Mr. John Quentin Flake, however, hated Stolen Visages & Antiquated Sweaters.

Flake published a review of it on an obscure Glen Ridge-based weblog (it has fewer than one-hundred regular readers); his process of writing the piece reheated his passionate disgust towards the disc. Before finishing his review he threw his CD player -- which was discovered to contain the offending album in it -- out his window. It hit a speeding Ford Escape Hybrid's windshield dead-on. The driver, Ms. Jennifer Alia, lost control of her vehicle and crashed into a fire hydrant.

The collision caused the Ford to flip at a full three-sixty degree angle. Although it landed on all four wheels Alia and her two small children -- David, 2 and Scottie, 3 -- were propelled through the top of the vehicle's open sunroof onto the concrete. All three died instantly.

Flake had no chance of escaping the scene. Missing the action he instigated, the twenty-three-year-old ran out of his house towards Bloomfield in a fit of hysteric fright. Three neighbors I spoke to caught both the scene and Flake running away from it.

After a few hours of tears, Margaret Rancher volunteered to speak first. "I can't . . . I will never be able to tell you what was more frightening: seeing a car flip over and three humans perish before my eyes . . . or the look on John's face as he ran from the scene. In fact, if I didn't know that he did it, I'd swear to God that no one that afraid of the world could ever do such a thing." Then she cried with the whole town for the rest of the day.

And with that, we await more details.

So Oberhofer is pretty good. For those who like Owl City. Just kidding. No one likes Fowl Shitty. Fuck. Chief reaction image Cam'Ron emailed me saying even though he hates his job ("boss think he know it all") he's not going to take a gig as a series of comical jpegs. Reportedly being an almost-ubiquitous meme "ain't dat cool."

Keep Talking: A Radical New Segment Whose Basis Is Nether Defined Nor Imagined

(Simplified: Writer Christian Puff Says Whatever He Wants)

(Complicated: Metamedia In Its Core Sense; Everything Aware of Its Precedents But Not Bothering to Acknowledge Them Directly)

(Scrapped Titles: Continue Speaking, The Plight of Puff)

I for one am totally against all this chaos we face on a daily basis. Sure marijuana appears to be more championed than ever, everyone is exaggeratedly indolent, and most individuals are jaded by too many nonlinear story lines and an information overload. But the chaos I am speaking of is something related to technology and consumption.

I know you've heard the story of John Quentin Flake. Did you, though, hear it connected to my thesis? Think about it for just a few minutes and you'll realize not necessarily that this couldn't have happened thirty years ago but that it wouldn't. This is a twenty-first century story. When I read about it in the Islander yesterday my first emotional reaction was probably nonexistent -- I simply had a physical need to absorb what lay before me again. Then again. Then once more. Flake's tale, as written so flowery and dramatically in the Islander, may rightly be in my mind forever. I've read it over one hundred times and I'm only beginning to believe that it's real.

It happened two days ago on July 12, 2010. Jump twenty-four hours back and Flake was unemployed. The Glen Ridge, NJ resident was ready to start writing for the second edition of The Fictional Account of Miss Teacher's Exploits in Technology. He knew he wouldn't earn much as a staff reviewer for an unpopular, newly-revamped blog; but his trust fund was running out and he desperately needed cash.

The now-famous 499-word review of The Ironic Ketchup Sextet's Stolen Visages & Antiquated Sweaters is off-topic, self-indulgent, and cringe-inducing. Since I haven't yet acquired permission to reprint it I'll summarize it for you. Then, of course, we'll try to connect it to modern American life.

Paragraph one ➳ Flake doesn't talk about Stolen Visages at all. In fact, he mentions neither the band nor the album in any context. Instead, paragraph one is centered around Flake's utter disdain for ketchup. He mistakenly calls it grimy and says, as a kid, his "mortal enemy" was H. J. Heinz -- or, perhaps, the H. J. Heinz Company (in a clumsy attempt at personification). Concluding P1 Flake alludes to his "sharp insight at boring social events." Luckily, before extending his hilariously-irrelevant intro with this more personal tangent, he tells us that it'll be discussed (inappropriately) in a future review. (Roughly: "Let's get to the review!")

Paragraph two ➳ When people speak of Flake's insanity they usually quote something from this paragraph. The first sentence comes at us too quickly; without an adequate transition sentence to lead us into it, we're bombarded with both a rough description of the band ("seven thirtysomething alt-rockers") and a declaration that their lyrics are simultaneously "undeveloped and irreparably kitsch." The former Flake builds on, saying that Glen Jordan -- The Ironic Ketchup Sextet's only vocalist -- puts things in the air and doesn't touch them. Although correct, Jordan does this just as much, if not less, than modern indie bands whose songs' lyrical content is often analyzed by listeners line-by-line. Flake quotes a decidedly-ridiculous line from "Shoegaze Girl" as if it represents Stolen Visages to any degree. Not only that -- to prove he hasn't given much thought to the album he mentions the line by itself. Regarding the host song, he "forgets what these barbarians titled it[.]" We've heard TIKS labeled "cock rock" in passing but these men are clean-shaven Ohio natives whose list of influences is dominated by homegrown folk and country acts. TIKS is a harmless band and have only ever promoted positive, bordering-on-sophisticated sentiments. It's not only inaccurate to refer to anyone in Jordan's band as a "barbarian" -- it's outright delusional.

If there's one poignant, intelligent comment Flake said about Stolen Visages it's where, as quoted above, he calls their lyrics kitsch. But as we move to towards the end of P2 we get a more dynamic understanding of why the review was written and the mindset behind it. Flake talks about that one line which is the paragraph's centerpiece -- Jordan asks whether a lover is the one for him or "just another stuff animal by [his] pillow"; notably, those are the final words of "Shoegaze Girl" (something Flake failed to mention). Following the quoted lyric is a fact (the metaphor ends there) and a very pretentious statement (that TIKS's followers are too stupid too understand the line). The last sentence must be included in full, because it confirmed for many that Flake is missing a few thousand bolts, and is making others wonder if the review and the story that America is yelling about (and at) is a complete hoax. "I had to scribble a few hundred interpretations of the line in my Moleskine because even I wasn't sure what he meant by the sentiment."

John Quentin Flake does not own a Moleskine notebook. More importantly, he didn't scribble any interpretations of "Shoegaze Girl" anywhere. (His body was untouched by the Alia Fire, and the police have searched his entire residence multiple times.) Alas, he lied. No big deal, eh? Flake is rather elite -- with money, class, and, as a writer, a propensity for twisting the truth.

It's not that. You've listened to "Shoegaze Girl" and read Flake's Stolen Visages review, right? If you haven't, do so now. Because while the final words of the former are weird, they are not, um, cryptic. Jordan wants a girl he can be attached to forever, not someone with whom to cuddle. A stuffed animal is 1) always there and 2) always comforting. But we don't form emotional bonds with these things. Flake, what's so difficult about that?

Nothing. That's why the review is either drug-fueled, a product of a disoriented mind, or a satire. We'll touch on this later.

Paragraph three ➳ Flake informs us right away that his friend also listened to -- and apparently disliked -- this record. Although he doesn't directly state that he spoke with Sarah about Stolen Visages, it is nonetheless implied. More or less, the entirety of the third paragraph is Sarah's "opinion" of the record -- ten excerpted words affirmed and extended by Flake. His friend is negative in tone and word choice but not outspokenly; she uses the derogative "cock rock" and says the record is ripe with "pedestrian pop sensibilities[.]"

Elaborating on Sarah's "post-menopausal" label, Flake says the record sounds like a final burst of energy before a band's death. The problem with this "fun but intricate" music -- we can only guess -- is that it sounds like b-side stuff. Possibly, though, Flake laments Stolen Visages because he thinks it was rushed (although we will predictably be informed in a few days that it wasn't; also, the members of TIKS seem to be in fine health.)

Paragraph four ➳ Another pal enters the picture; our antihero is either fairly sociable or quite lonely (he has to make up a second person to, in a literary space, give him some company). Angelo L thinks the record is "so very bland." Flake calls this assessment "poignant" and -- finally mentioning the title of the album -- states that Stolen Visages is ultimately forgettable. More importantly, that it's not entertaining even while it's on.

Comical and much-discussed, the next line of the review is a run-on sentence for the history books. It's not particularly jumbled (some may argue that it flows fine) but it is a blunt collision between fact and fiction. Flake states that he listened to Stolen Visages on $500 Sennheiser HD650s. Best Buy, along with a host of other tech retailers, sell this model of headphones for the aforementioned price. And guess what -- the police found a brand new pair of them in Flake's bedroom, sprawled across his writing desk.

He claims he downloaded the record at "studio-quality from the respected BlipTorrent[.]" This doesn't make sense because studio-quality sound isn't reproduced on the album as we know it. Also, in what is the most gaping inconsistency of Flake's review, BlipTorrent isn't (and has never been) real. We can confirm this one thousand times over. If we assume Flake was talking about BitTorrent, then he's wrong in calling it "respected." But how can one make so many errors so quickly?

Critiquing (if you can call it that) the passive feel of the music, Flake says he was fantasizing about a 15-year-old girl he met in Central Park the entire time Stolen Visages ran its 45-minute course. It's not shocking when 1) Flake breaks the narrative of his review, going into realtime and 2) informs us that he's kept in touch with this young girl. ("I have to text her quickly.") Moreover, it's odd that another diversion from the album didn't come sooner.

Paragraph five ➳ It was like we were supposed to wait a minute or two before continuing. Talking to no one and everyone, he tells us that this girl -- Haley -- is probably going to end up dating someone her own age. There is a faint sense of chemistry between them, or else why would a poem Flake wrote in the seventh grade ever "win her heart"?

More questions rise as he rambles into dust. If Flake was so lonely why would he pretend that Haley texted him back ambivalently? Why wouldn't Haley say she was happy that they met and anticipating building their relationship? Does he realize mid-review that he's lonely and reject fantasy . . . then allude to reality (i.e. the acknowledgement of the real girl who represents Stolen Visages & Antiquated Sweaters [Raychel Sonveeco])? Then it comes up again -- is any of this story real? Has my last forty-three hours (I haven't slept since I read the Islander piece) been an exercise in futility? Sure the album exists (I've listened to it). Sure John Quentin Flake, Glen Ridge native, 23, is alive somewhere. Right? Haven't seen a photo yet but New Jersey Journal's poorly-written article (which, I believe, is the first one published) about this incident includes a quotation from a neighbor who witnessed John running like a wild animal. Then came the investigative data about his home. As I read what I've written so far -- which I'm holding onto for my life -- I see myself mentioning some headphones in his house. Yes! The Islander had a supplement article which was virtually a list of facts gained from the July 13 police report. I have it in front of my walnut eyes!

Paragraph six ➳ The opening is classic. The first sentence reminds himself and us that this isn't some freeform writing pursuit but a (loosely) professional critique of a music album. Then Flake writes: "Bad album." What follows is remarkable. Vanished is any attempt at professionalism, formalism, or objectivity. He enters a new zone. No longer a possibly-drug-induced terrible media critic but a lonely psychotic pedophile on an unknown American quest. Can't summarize it. Can't really do anything but reprint it. And we will. I will. Sentence by sentence. Together we'll enter a story that needs to be understood as soon as possible.

"Imagine walking in the meadow with your hot eleven-year-old cousin and she has like no clothes on but you have to wear a big coat and jeans for some upcoming formal gathering." Why don't we know whether or not Flake has an eleven-year-old cousin yet? If he does that'll be ever-so revealing; we can almost prove that this isn't satire. He's admitting to almost eighty readers, by calling his cousin "hot" rather than "cute" or "precious," that he likes little girls. Oh, and ones that are related to him.

"You realize that not only are you uncomfortable but that there's nothing you can do about it." He draws a salient parallel as he builds up his disgusting metaphor. It would be inappropriate to take off his heavy attire at a "formal gathering" just as it would be downright unethical to review an album he hadn't fully listened to. His cousin is wearing "like no clothes" and he's forced to watch her, sweating erratically, jealous, lustful. Stolen Visages keeps playing and he's forced to absorb every minute of it. The pause button stares at him but he must not surrender. Another hole: he mentioned that he daydreamed about Haley for the entirely of Stolen Visages. Wouldn't her imaginary company, almost by default, give him some comfort?

"Also, your cousin keeps talking to you in three-word bursts and you're pretty angry by now; you may want to hit her in the face." This is the turning point. During this revelation the party yelling "Drugs!" disappears. We're left with those claiming satire, conspiracy, insanity, or a combination of the three. It's not understood where the "three-word bursts" line originates from. My guess is thus: Flake employs it to make Jordan's lyrics appear random -- almost childlike in their spontaneity and lack of continuity. It makes him furious -- and that's (somewhat) understandable. Why, though, would he want to punch his cousin in the face? Don't we get the sense that he fancies to do something else to her -- equally brutal, infinitely more disturbing. And how about the real-life parallel? We've heard of throwing CDs in the street but does anyone ever, even jokingly, speak of punching a stereo? Hmm. Maybe. In jest, of course.

"But then you go to do it and you realize that you just threw your CD player out the window and it hit a car and fuck -- I have to go!" The preceding sentence is bathed in depth; it's confusing, funny, and the most important line of the twenty-first century. The question that bubbles to the top: is this fiction entering reality or vice-versa? If I learned right now that this story was a joke -- that every ounce of media relating to John Quentin Flake is false -- I wouldn't think much of this paragraph's opening quotation at all. It would be connected to everything else and I'd be in admiration of all players involved for such a densely-referential and multiple-layered scheme. But if this is truth (any of it), then we've truly entered a new era in American society. It's not that some literate lunatic threw his CD player out the window in fiery fury -- even that's graspable. My mind doesn't want that statement converted into dust. No, it's that Flake, in an act of delusional self-awareness, saw his stereo hit the car, wrote this down, and published it for us all to read!

"Don't ever listen to this album!" Is that really funny, satire proponents? Is this the perfect ending to a perfect joke? I don't care what mood I'm in, what drugs I'm on, or what the American perception of comedy is -- this is not comedic. And it's only amusing because of what it ends. The typed words that Mr. John Quentin Flake will forever be remembered by are those. His life is soundtracked by Stolen Visages & Antiquated Sweaters. It has to be on repeat in his perverse cranium as he's in some police station getting questioned. (By the way, it's strongly argued that he had already listened to the disc once -- on the same burned copy he made off a BitTorrent rip -- before playing it for his Fictional Account review.) And you know what, Flake? I'm not taking your advice. In fact, I hope everyone in America listens to what is, invariably, the most important album in our history.

Final thoughts ➳ it's now time to tie this to 2010. We kind of did already. A lot of my points could have been followed with a self-assured "And this could only have happened in the twenty-first century." Each time I made that proclamation I would have raised my chin and squinted my eyes.

As I enter my sixth hour typing this mostly-unsourced rubbish I scan through all the literature written about John Quentin Flake. Everything I read appears translated disinterestedly. People I've talked to have given their sincere opinions to me. Radio guys and daytime television talk show hosts have screamed ridiculous assumptions based on what they've read. Where, though, is the video footage? Forty-six hours have passed since this small-scale but widely-covered American tragedy occurred and I still don't know what the perpetrator looks like. Huh?

The problem with the story is that there is a distinct linear narrative to it. Data isn't leaking out; every person that cares is on the same page. Each fact has been provided from a reputable news organization. Some conspiracy theorists don't believe what they've read but none are providing something else that would make any normal person view the tale from their eyes. They aren't even mentioning this total absence of photography and film. They, like me, just find New Jersey Journal's original article hugely absurd and -- and . . . that's it!

Flake's review is the almost-polar opposite of what's written about him. Rather than factual it's not only opinion-based but fictional. Reviewers just spew their subjective nonsense (or so we like to think). But Flake goes the extra mile and litters his analysis with lies. Conversely, there's nothing that can be readily-disproved in the writings about The Alia-Flake Incident.

Also, while our famous review has a short attention span -- its few ideas are scarcely elaborated on, and the paragraphs don't sync with one other -- TA-FI literature, although often poorly-written, is oozing with connectivity. Everything blends and there are no divergences. First-person is used sparingly and opinions are nonexistent.

Our narcissism is glowing in Flake's prose. What we get in his review isn't a critical evaluation but a personal experience. Not even a full one, though. He includes direct quotations from his friends and sentences that aren't even tangibly related to the album at hand. In fact, the stuff that can't be (directly or indirectly) connected to Stolen Visages is biographical. Flake's review is as much about the record he's reviewing as his ego. It's disgusting. Even today he couldn't score a job in journalism if he submitted a piece even half as bad as that. But how about the Flake coverage? Come to think of it: I forget who wrote the Islander piece! This thing I read one hundred times -- don't even know its creator!

I've taken up too much of your time and will write miles more on this subject as new pieces of information slowly and systematically enter the mediascape. But I have one more idea that is living and beating equally in my mind as my heart. It comes directly from this PBS documentary I saw a few months ago -- Digital Nation.

Ultimately, Flake's review is a bunch of "bits" while the coverage seems to be in full, flowing articles. This was stated earlier but the striking and confounding aspect of these two examples is the way they were ordered. Flake, a representative of twenty-first century information overload, wrote his review first. The traditional essay-form came next to -- is this it? -- correct him. What I believe is that he's behind this correction. It's a subconscious phenomena. By making his piece obviously wrong -- and creating a media story that places it into canon -- criticism will, by default, be something people are more conscious about. They'll see themselves emulating Flake and get the signal: "That's wrong." I'm not sure how he did it but I'm also not sure if any non-New Jersey newspapers have covered this story. I'm afraid that Flake is a creative-but-close-minded fool with so many associates that he was able to pull of the biggest hoax in American history.

That is not a human being (although it is kinda cute). Deflated, I leave you with our last segment. Wait one sec, grabbing a final pic. Jordan leaked this shit a few minute ago. By the way: Fez Rex is The Ironic Ketchup Sextet's lead bassist. And with that . . .

"James Anderson" "has left the building."

The John Quentin Flake Interview (By Catharine Scarf; Transcribed by Anthony Guerrilla; Edited by Angelo "The Situation" Martinez; Reprinted Without Permission)

Catharine Marinade: Why'd you do it?

John Quentin Flake: Revenge.

CS: For what?

JQF: You're so stupid. It had nothing to do with revenge. But they'll believe anything at this point.

CS: "They"?

JQF: The media. The talking heads. The readers. The consumers. You.

CS: Actually, I'm incredibly skeptical right --

JQF: You always will be, too.

CS: Yes. I suppose.

JQF: Doesn't feel good. You don't know what sincerity means anymore, right?

CS: Well, many have suggested that your review is a complete satire. I don't know if I can believe that review is a parody but somehow still think the rest of the story is truthful. Now that you're facing a --

JQF: I knew it would happen.

CS: What?

JQF: I knew America was too smart enough, or just too saturated with irony, to fall for everything.

CS: Can you tell me what's factual and what isn't?

JQF: No. But I can tell you that my review for Stolen Visages & Antiquated Sweaters wasn't meant to be taken seriously.

CS: I'm not sure that it was. But please tell me what it means.

JQF: It's certainly not me railing against the digital era or anything. Christian Puff needs to get a life. I love this age so much.

CS: Okay, then what is it?

JQF: If I told you know then will you promise not to tell anyone else?

CS: John, we are on live television. It's estimated --

JQF: Are you kidding me?

Catharine motions to the director to take a commercial break. We see her notify the audience that the program will continue in a moment. She whispers something unintelligible to John. He shrugs his shoulders and motions to the director. Catharine cancels out this gesture and communicates to both of them that they'll be on in five seconds.

CS: Hello. We're back with the world-famous John Quentin Flake, an hour away from serving a life sentence in New Jersey state prison for the murder of a mother and her two sons. John, you're aware that millions of people are watching you, right?

JQF: Fish.

CS: You wish? Ha! No, I'm --

JQF: Fish.

CS: John, you should probably stop it. I'm serious -- millions of people are watching your every move right now.

JQF: Catharine, let me speak.

CS: Well, if we can get back to what we were discussing before the short break.

JQF: My darling, it doesn't look like you finished your sentence.

CS: We were discussing your review of Stolen Visages & Antiquated Sweaters before our little break.

JQF: I guess you could say that.

CS: Look John: you're not being manipulated. You're going to jail and you know everyone is confused. Please just tell us something about your review. Something behind-the-scenes. If you won't reveal the full story then give us a little piece. Please.

JQF: I wrote it.

CS: We understand that. Now can we talk about the content itself?

JQF: I created it.

CS: I understand! But --

JQF: No, listen to me.

CS: Go on. The floor is yours.

JQF: I didn't listen to Stolen Visages & Antiquated --

Catherine signals the director for another commercial break. Her eyes are wide and, without hesitation, she gets out of her seat to whisper something to John. He smiles understandingly. She carefully takes a few steps back to her seat and sits. The director, commandingly, says "Five"; everyone in the room begins preparing themselves for what seems like the last few minutes of the interview. The air is frozen.

CS: Welcome back, viewers. We're here, of course, with John Quentin Flake -- the murderer, the music critic, the future inmate. Please, Mr. Flake, finish what you were saying before our unexpected break.

JQF: Sweaters.

Catherine bursts out laughing. Flake sits there puzzled. The director grimaces at Catherine. Her eyes are wider than they've ever been; she fights to maintain composure.

CS: I'm not sure when we went on commercial break before but John just completed a thought that I'm not sure I can say aloud. Please, Mr. Flake, repeat it for us.

JQF: I've never listened to Stolen Visages & Antiquated Sweaters. You hear that, Ironic Ketchup bros?

CS: Then what in blazing -- then what is the review? I don't understand. Jennifer Alia is dead! You threw a CD player out your window that had a burned copy of Stolen Visages in it!

JQF: Relax, Madam Scarf. I'll be in prison in an hour.

CS: I don't care! Tell me what you did!

JQF: Sarah and Angelo don't exist.

The director cuts to a commercial immediately. Catherine screams "Fuck!" as she rises from her chair. Flake stares at her, fright radiant in his light green eyes. She walks away. Two minutes pass. She comes back looking prettier and calmer. The director says "Five" and the air is hot and inviting.

CS: Hi viewers. I am Catharine Scarf. I am joined this afternoon with John Quentin Flake. If you don't know what this means then you must have been living under a rock lately. I'm not going to speak anymore. I'm not important. This man may or may not give you the answers. But please Mr. Flake -- say what you can.

JQF: Thank you, Catharine. You've been great to me. And I hope you don't mind if I speak to you directly but treat you like the audience of millions that is watching my every move.

John thinks for a moment. He seems genuinely confused on how to deliver his farewell message. Then, as Catherine is about to say something, he begins speaking.

JQF: First and foremost, my review isn't supposed to be taken seriously in its most basic sense: as mine. These aren't my thoughts on the record -- as I mentioned, I haven't listened to it. On that first level it's a parody. (Oh, and by first level I don't mean the actual first level -- that is my second level.) Take it as a satirization of what music criticism has become. Writers are so selfish these days! They think people care about the circumstances surrounding their experience with an album. Maybe these people should care. But my point is that this doesn't help me understand the music at all. We move higher to two minutes ago before I told you about my "parody." Without background what is my criticism? It has infinite meanings, as it still does now, but the words are the only basis you have for assessing it. Of course no one looked analytically at the text but searched for information about its author. They wanted to know why it was there rather than know what it meant. They wanted to confirm that I was crazy. "Oh, Flake is insane. Now I don't have to bother looking for a meaning." The third level is seen most clearly in the last two sentences. Although I break the fourth wall with previous first-person expressions I actually entered a new, confusing reality because what I wrote is written fictitiously but is entirely truthful. This is what I think happened. So the CD I burned is in the player. This will make everyone know I did hate that album so much that I couldn't even be bothered to take it out of the CD player. Just can't stand it. I'm at the end of the review -- something I wrote in twenty minutes. Made sure I spent very little time on it so it would appear incomplete, rushed, and just wrong. So I'm at the end of the review; let's write a few more sentences. But wait! What if, instead of publishing this an entire lie, I throw this thing out the window. No one's gonna see it, and if they do -- what do I care? They'll probably think it's funny. So I unplug it and take it and open my window with one hand and throw it out with the other. I see the car coming and dart. I'm on my only staircase as I hear the first noise. By the time I hear the second I'm running on my own goddamn street. For whatever reason no one is following me; I jump into a neighbor's treehouse and whip out my iPhone 4G. I write the two final sentences, and publish my story. No spellcheck. No editing. Boom. But there's a two minute difference between the first noise and the time of publication. No one notices; victory. Wasn't ever trying to get away with what I did. Couldn't ever see it coming but now I'm glad -- no, I'm beaming with ecstasy -- that it happened. I am no longer the writer of the review, or even the subject of my review. I am my review. In jail I'll live on because those 499 words will never be gone. The Internet has them and loves them. This is live TV, right? No, Catherine, I don't care what you say. I'll pretend it is. Anyway, people are seeing this and thinking they know anything. They don't and they'll finally begin to analyze the words themselves. Hey, world -- I'm neither brilliant nor a great writer but have more attention than you'll ever have. That's what everyone wants. Originally I satirized it but now I'll celebrate it. In jail I'll be loved for it. Here's my theory -- once you get people to think they're thinking, they'll love you. But once you remind them that they don't think, they'll first silently prove to you that they do, then secondly, loudly prove to you that they don't. You understand that I've told you exactly who I am Cathy, right?

CS: Yes. But I don't think --

JQF: I know.

CS: Ha, you're great. You're great. You're great. You're going to jail you piece of shit.

Catharine's eyes close. She falls off her chair. Her face hits the carpet. Her nose is bleeding. John rises from his seat and grabs her. He carries her to the director who accepts the body. She seems to be breathing well. John confidently walks out of the studio -- into five hundred years of American imprisonment.