“We have to get a better understanding of who we are as people before I ruin my credit rating,” begins Bret Easton Ellis’s debut novel. OK actually it doesn’t, but that sounds like something he would write, doesn’t it? I relish Bret Easton Ellis. I feel like “love” is too common a word and “adore” too dainty; relish has the right amount of passion and zest and it reminds me of delicious, succulent hotdogs.
I think Bret Easton Ellis and I should be best friends. We both enjoy drinking, going to restaurants, and repeating these activities WHILE wearing sunglasses. If that’s not the basis of a lasting friendship then what is? I read an interview with BEE — I’m not going to type Bret Easton Ellis over and over, I don’t know him well enough to call him Bret, and I’m not calling him Mr. Ellis because that’s lame, though I suppose BEE is just as lame but it’s his fault for having a dashing name that looks silly when abbreviated, much like how my brother’s initials are DMV — anyway, I read an interview with BEE in the most recent issue of Los Angeles Magazine that made my passion for the man even greater. This was difficult, actually, probably because I could feel the hard-on of the guy interviewing him from here; I know BEE is great, but my God, keep it together, Buddy. You don’t need to wax poetic on his tie. Just chill, bro. Anyway this entire piece was basically about how much BEE drinks and how he orders his drinks and how perfectly glamourous it all is without trying to be. It was like the 80s were back. Or what I would assume that would be like because I was barely alive and functioning in the 80s. BUT WHO WAS, AM I RIGHT?
I also wonder sometimes if Bret Easton Ellis isn’t actually Kiefer Sutherland in an elaborate method acting gig. I also wonder if Bret Easton Ellis actually exists. I used to follow him on Twitter but it felt strange to read the common updates of someone I revere so highly. I don’t want to know that he’s going to the movies in Union Square. I don’t want to know he’s a real person and yet I also want to be his friend. But since I have a better chance of having tea on the moon with Michael Caine, I suppose I don’t really need to worry about it.
I don’t think I’ll get his new novel the day it comes out. BEE is not the most prolific of authors (which is totally fine, not every writer needs to be Joyce Carol Oates, the showoff) and I’d rather not wait six years for the next one, so I’m going to take my time in picking up and reading Imperial Bedrooms. I’m sure I’ll love it. The only one of his books I haven’t really enjoyed as much as the others was The Rules of Attraction which in my imagination causes him to hang his head in shame and whisper my name disappointedly. To make up for it I’d buy him a drink and then he’d buy me a drink and then we would continue this until we got so smashed we would prank call Andrew McCarthy asking him if he left his career at that weekend at Bernie’s. Then we’d go to a party in the hills, leave after about twelve minutes, and go to another bar where things would suddenly get very serious and he would say to no one in particular, “I believe hell is all around us” and I would offer to drive home but we would stop at Carney’s in Studio City first for delicious, succulent hotdogs and he would insist on smoking inside and no would stop him because he’d look like someone on the threshold of violence. Gosh we would have the best times together.