3/22/2023 0 Comments Postcards from the edge![]() In case you haven’t heard, Bono is up for the Nobel Peace Prize. Is he secretly full of shame? Every night when he lies down in his silk sheets, does he toss and turn knowing that his political activism is obviously more an exercise in ego-stroking than genuine goodwill? Does he weep? Does he think about hurling himself from his penthouse balcony and landing with a sickening splat on the pavement below, Bono no more? Oh, I have a new goatee. At the news conference, Bono wore sunglasses. Tonight we are playing a free concert in Johannesburg. This morning I was next in the toilet after Bono’s friend Salman Rushdie. Because Bono talks so often about how much he loves to “rock.” Bono would stagger around gasping for air before he collapsed in a Zen rock garden, dead. Any one of them could crumple Bono’s windpipe with a single swift blow to the throat. He thinks the monks are so serene, but what Bono doesn’t know is that they are, in fact, killing machines. And in this annoying reverential whisper. The monk would say a word and Bono would repeat it. Bono kept asking what things were called in Japanese. The picture on this postcard is of a monastery. And behind us onstage is a giant screen and I look up through the eyeholes in my giant head and see my giant head on the giant screen and I just want to tear the thing from my body and stamp it to bits on the stage, then crank all my pedals and smash my guitar against my amp, drowning out Bono’s caterwauling in a wall of feedback, and then just run and run and run and run. It has something to do with being pop stars. On the new tour, Bono has us wearing giant heads. ![]() The President of America asked, “Not enjoying the soup?” and when I said nothing his wife said, “Quiet, dear … you’re putting him ‘on edge’” and everyone laughed again, hard, and I wished the earth would implode upon itself like a neutron star and suck me screaming into the eternal void. I bent my spoon in half and had to hide it under my napkin. Last night we were having dinner with the President of America and Bono made a joke that I was “the edgy one.” Everyone laughed, even Adam and Larry. Yesterday I broke a string at rehearsal, and while restringing my guitar I watched Bono prance about and felt a small part of my soul crumple inward upon itself and wither like a spoiled fruit. On the cover is only Bono, squatting, and a sunset. Still, the rest of us are more about the music. He struts about on stage like a regular peacock. That is what he has us calling him, anyway. We are myself and my friends Adam (bass) and Larry (drums). ![]() We are becoming quite popular here in Dublin. It is a revealing look at the dangers-and delights-of all our addictions, from money and success to sex and insecurity.Hello, this is The Edge. Postcards from the Edge is more than a book about stardom and drugs. This stunning literary debut chronicles Suzanne’s vivid, excruciatingly funny experiences inside the clinic and as she comes to terms with life in the outside world. Just as Fisher’s first film role-the precocious teenager in Shampoo-echoed her own Beverly Hills upbringing, her first book is set within the world she knows better than anyone else: Hollywood. When we first meet the extraordinary young actress Suzanne Vale, she’s feeling like “something on the bottom of someone’s shoe, and not even someone interesting.” Suzanne is in the harrowing and hilarious throes of drug rehabilitation, trying to understand what happened to her life and how she managed to land in a “drug hospital.” This bestselling Hollywood novel by the witty author of Wishful Drinking and Shockaholic that was made into a movie starring Meryl Streep and Shirley MacLaine.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |