Year Gone Past Feels Like One Long Day
Dec. 18th, 2011 07:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eilonwyhasemuIn our last episode, while techie John was fetching a PBR and a solution to complex problems, Cook got a most unusual offer involving his hair. As a result, John, Cook, and Ben Bernanke are at the Wall Street Journal's New York City offices for an important live-streamed event.
Meredith Whitney: In 2012, the future of the global economy may hang by a slender thread... a thread as slender as one rock star's hair. Tell me, Mr. Cook, are you serious about running the Fed if you win this hair-growing contest?
Cook: Absolutely.
Whitney: And may I ask why you've brought a chicken with you today?
Cook: Um... uh... it's a reference to Franklin D. Roosevelt's pledge of "a chicken in every pot."
Chicken: Squawk!
Whitney: Is it your plan to return to New Deal policies?
Cook [with a wink]: That'd be telling.
Whitney: And how about you, Mr. Bernanke? What's in this for you?
Bernanke: The big break I've worked for and longed for, all these years.
Whitney: A vacation from presiding over a prolonged recession?
Bernanke: A chance for my band to open for a major act. The Devalued Currencies has paid our dues at a lot of dive bars--
Cook: Dude. You're Backwardation Ben in The Devalued Currencies?
Bernanke [sings]: I need a lover with a whole lot less beta. I want a vixen less jumpy than the VIX. Give my life some alpha or say "see ya later"; looking at my options, I'd say our futures stink.
Cook: Dude. I flove that song. I had it on repeat on my iPod for like two weeks.
Bernanke: Want to cover it? Do a duet?
Whitney: First, we need to get down to business. In order to have a fair benchmark, I've brought in José Eber to make Mr. Cook's starting coiffure identical to that of Mr. Bernanke. Mr. Eber, what clipper setting do you intend to use?
Meanwhile, on Twitter
Nooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!
I think I'm going to throw up.
I'm crying.
Get a load of Dave's expression. He didn't expect that.
He looks like a stuffed moose.
No, Dave, don't let them cut your hair!
Cook: Fuck this.
Bernanke: The hair? But you agreed--
Cook: No, fuck this. I don't want to be a story character any more.
Whitney: What do you mean?
Cook: Look. I signed this Stand Up Guy pledge that says I'll go to bat for the principle that it's not okay to harm or objectify women. But look at me. I'm holding a chicken and about to have my head shaved so I can compete to run the Fed.
Whitney: I don't see the connection.
Cook: In the past, I've been stranded in time and space, killed on a journey into the past of rock 'n' roll, and sent to hell. I get dragged all over creation for people's amusement, subjected to every indignity, and nobody gives a shit how I feel about it. If that's not the definition of objectification, I don't know what is.
Bernanke: Isn't that the price of fame?
Cook: It's the price of being a character in a fucking fan-fic, and I want out.
John the Techie: If you're sure that's what you want, it can be arranged. Sort of.
Cook: Arrange it.
Chicken: Squawk!
Cook: Wait a sec. How can you do anything about this? You're a fictional character, too.
John: As it happens, I'm also an angel second-class trying to earn my wings.
Cook: Fuck that. I don't want to be dragged through some It's a Wonderful Life pastiche in which I decide that I've had such a beneficial impact on people's lives that hauling around 26 dogs and a chicken turns out to be hunky-dory. I want a real solution.
John: I can't do anything about the reality that fans can't truly know who David Cook is.
Cook: Hell, I'm not sure I always know who David Cook is.
John: But I can give you three chances to move into a fantasy world that suits you better.
Cook: Anything has to be better than this.
John: Are you certain? Once you choose to leave this story, there's no going back.
Cook: You promise?
John: I promise.
Cook: This isn't some exercise to make me decide I like it here?
John: Nope. No tricks.
Cook: Then of course I'm certain.
John: Think carefully, dude. In this fantasy, you get to be funny, smart, and a sharp musician. And you pretty much always win in the end.
Cook: After running from giant doppelgängers in diapers, wading through shit, singing Monkees songs, and getting told off by women in tiger costumes. You know this time, she's going to strand me in some Mittel-European hell with a currency crisis and have me trying to escape on a sled pulled by the 26 stray dogs, armed only with a guitar and a chicken. I get jerked around, humiliated, beaten up, forced through the fires of hell, and I never, ever get laid.
John: That can change.
Cook: Do it.
John: Just stand up and walk through that door over there. Don't worry. I'm right behind you.
Cook, absent-mindedly holding the chicken, does so. On the other side of the door is the same room.
Cook: Nothing happened.
Whitney: Touch me!
Cook: What?
Whitney: Touch me! I can't resist you.
Cook: What the fuck?
Whitney: Marvelous idea. Much better idea than cutting your hair. Your soft, silky, oh-so-touchable hair. Let me touch it. And your lips... your perfect lips...
Cook: Um...
Bernanke: It takes a man with an incredible body to wear that shirt.
Cook looks down and sees his shirt is transparent mesh.
Cook: Man, this chafes.
Bernanke: And those pants.
Cook: The pants are kinda hot, aren't they? I have six pairs in case I get behind on laundry.
Whitney [rolling around on floor at Cook's feet]: Hot. So hot in here.
Bernanke: My wife has to look at your Vanity Fair spread before she can get in the mood.
Cook: What did I... I mean... they'd interview me about symbolism in my album, right?
John [producing a glossy scented magazine]: Here you go.
Cook [flipping through it]: I'm not... I didn't... why the hell am I wearing socks?
John: You said your feet were kinda grotty from all the running.
Chicken: Squawk!
Cook: I don't mean "why am I wearing socks in this photoshoot?" I mean "why am I not wearing anything but socks in this photoshoot?"
John: It's what the people imagining this story wanted.
Whitney: I need to see your knees. Now.
Cook: This is ridiculous. You're an intelligent woman with an unparalleled understanding of the banking system--
Whitney: But you're so hot that you make 1+1 equal 42.
Cook: My pledge to not demean women is pretty worthless if I'm willing to stay here.
John: Walk through the next door. I'm right behind you.
Cook does. This room is the same as before, except that Meredith Whitney is back in her chair, looking dignified yet concerned.
Whitney: Are you all right? I didn't expect you to start crying over a little hair-clipping--
Cook: It's my bond with my fans. They can't deal with my hair being cut.
Whitney: It's just hair. It grows.
Bernanke: Indeed, that's kind of the point.
Cook [wiping tears]: Ow. Ow. Ow.
Whitney: What now?
Cook: Some of the fans have headaches. One has a bad back. Two or three have cramps. Ow!
Whitney: Your relationship with your fans is really that close?
Cook: Being symbiotic with the fans is the only way to survive in the music industry today. [sobbing] Ow! Ow! I have to... I have to do something...
John: Have a glass of water.
Cook [wiping tears]: My ass is so tight, I fart and only dogs can hear it. Ow!
Whitney: That wasn't funny.
Cook: Yes, it was. Did you hear about the constipated mathematician? He worked it out with a pencil.
Bernanke: [guffaws]
Cook: Laugh, damn it! Laugh! Please. We need some humor to stop the pain. [sings] I stare into space... when will that time and space arrive? I know you're out there--
Chicken: Squawk!
On Twitter
OMG. I wish he was singing that to me.
See how he longs for true love?
My heart is thumping.
I want to cry. If he'd sing that in a live show, we'd all be ded.
Thud!
It breaks my heart when I think of the pain he must feel. How can we help?
Cook [still sobbing]: How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb?
Dave's telling us that he's in therapy.
I thought his song-writing was supposed to be therapeutic.
Cook: One: but it has to really want to change! How many Lilliputians does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Lilli-what?
Dave! TMI!
TMI what? What did I miss?
Cook: Two. You just put them in a light bulb and let them do it! [to John] We've got to get out of here. I can't handle the empathy.
John: Are you sure? You have only one door left.
Cook: I'm sure! Just make it somewhere that people are focused on my work. Please!
John: Will do. Go ahead. I'm right behind you.
Cook walks through his last possible door. He is in the same room again.
Whitney: I'm so sorry we had to cancel this publicity stunt.
Cook: Huh? Uh, okay. Great. Nice to meet you. Nice to meet you, Ben. Hope the band does well.
John: Your next meeting is with some higher-ups at RCA.
Cook: Great. We can get things firmed up for the next album. We've even got time to stop at Magnolia Bakery for a banana-pecan-pineapple cupcake.
Cook's phone makes its text beeping noise.
A few minutes later, at RCA headquarters...
Extremely Polished Receptionist [to phone]: Mr. Muckimhuk? David Cook is here to see you with his guardian angel and his chicken.
Hiram "Hi" Muckimhuk: Daverino! It's a pleasure! Have a seat. I see you've joined the urban farming movement. Good thought. Good, good thought. Always an eye to the future.
Cook: Oh, the chicken. Well--
Hi Muckimhuk: It'll come as no surprise that you're being dropped by the label.
Cook: Huh.. wha?
Hi Muckimhuk: You must have guessed, when we chose your singles... or if not then, when we forced you to make a commercialized album that wasn't true to your musical vision--
Cook: But This Loud Morning was true to my vision. I poured my heart and soul into that.
Hi Muckimhuk: Forced you to make a highly commercialized album that somehow wasn't commercially successful... or was it that we forced you to be non-commercial... I mean, any fool could see that we were sandbagging you from the git-go. RCA has never wanted you to succeed.
Cook: Then why sign me?
Hi Muckimhuk: To protect our hot properties. If any other label had signed you, you might have been able to compete effectively with the artists we really wanted to push.
Cook: Who? Daughtry? Chris never needed to be protected from me. He's a mega-star.
Hi Muckimhuk: Not Daughtry. Adam Lambert.
Cook: That makes no sense. Lambert's from the season after mine.
Hi Muckimhuk: We knew. Trust us, we knew.
Cook: But the great things my A&R dude said about the album... the terrific support I got with the launch... the millions of dollars you guys spent...
Hi Muckimhuk: You've really convinced yourself all those things happened?
Cook: They did! I was there!
Hi Muckimhuk: Lies you told your fans as part of the PR. And you've convinced yourself to believe them. How sad. But we always knew you'd crack under the pressure.
Cook: I can't believe this is happening! You and I were getting along so well! I thought we understood each other.
Hi Muckimhuk: Right. And pigs have wings and you're pals with Stevie Van Zandt. Go retreat to your sad little fantasy world. RCA is done with you.
Outside 30 Rock, Cook regroups.
Cook: So I'll hop in a taxi to Picador Records and go indie. That'll show 'em.
John: On an indie budget, I'd be thinking E-train, more than taxi.
Cook takes the subway to SoHo. He is not the only person carrying a chicken. Indeed, the bearded hipsters waiting in Picador's reception area have, among them, three chickens, four ukeleles, an upright bass, and a small goat.
Funky Hipster Girl Receptionist: May I help... oh! You've got an Appenzeller Spitzhauben. I've never seen one of those in person before.
Cook: Actually I've got an Affenpinscher. But I left it on the bus three realities ago. My name is Dave--
Funky Hipster Girl Receptionist: No, the chicken. Is it a good egg layer? Some people say they're just ornamental, but I read in Urban Chickens that they're good for 140 eggs a year--
Cook: My name is David Cook, and I'm here to talk to somebody about getting signed.
FHGR: Fanfuckingtastic! We were wondering when you'd be free. We already have a plan.
Cook: That's great to hear--
FHGR: First, you need to put out a real rock album. The hard stuff you've been longing to do--
Cook: Actually, as I've said in a bunch of interviews, my view of rock's pretty eclectic--
FHGR: No one believes that bullshit. Hard rock. You are a hard rocker. No more HAC pap for you. Modern rock chart all the way.
Cook: So you've got a solution to how being on Idol kinda trashed my alt-rock cred?
FHGR: Sure. You're going to change your name.

Cook: Huh?
FHGR: Change your name. Like, get married or something. Or go with your pirate name. But you can't be David Cook. There's already an indie David Cook. People would get confused.
Cook: Rock album. Change my name. Okay, so how much of an advance do I get for this project?
FHGR [checks a file on her Mac]: All in, for the whole recording fund, you get $42,000.
Cook: Forty-two...
FHGR: For the number of albums you're likely to sell as an indie alt-rocker, we can't put a whole lot of money into this. That's why we advise our artists to stretch the budget by raising their own food. You already have a great chicken there, and I can hook you up with some dudes who have shares in a cow and a chick who raises bees. Start a vegetable garden, and you're good to go!
Cook: I need to think about this. [to John, once they've retreated to a nearby pub] Shit. Maybe I should just make an album in my home studio and self-release it.
John: It's a thought. With radio play for two singles, a video on the VH-1 countdown, something like eight television appearances, and some online media placements, you sold what, 100,000 albums?
Cook: 103,000 at last count.
John: So self-releasing without radio support, just selling on your web site and CD Baby and maybe iTunes, you could totally sell 10,000, easy.
Cook: That's still an order of magnitude more than I sold of Analog Heart.
John: And you always liked dive bars, so you won't mind playing them again. The Rhythm Room in Phoenix actually looks pretty cool.
Cook: I'll... I'll... I'll... Look, you may think you've been clever, but I won't go back and spout witticisms while hoarding dogs and making fart jokes through the collapse of civilization, or whatever punishment that chick has in store for me. There has to be a better solution.
John: No one's offering to let you go back. You got three chances at choosing a different story to live in, and this one is where you'll stay. So you might want to start thinking about restaurant choices that don't involve $18 hamburgers.
Cook: You're kidding me.
Chicken: Squawk!
John: I told you this up front. You said you were certain--
Cook: You can't do this. You can't make me into a character in a story that doesn't make sense. All the facts--
John: You chose to be here.
Cook: I chose to have something better than being humiliated, mauled, put in absurd situations, and manuevered from pillar to post as if I had no mind of my own. That's what I fucking chose. And what did I get? I've endured chafing, experienced killer cramps, lost my major-label contract, and I'm still carrying around a chicken and I still haven't gotten laid.
John: Them's the breaks.
Cook [sings]: It's a never-ending attack. Everything's a lie, and that's a fact. Life is a lemon and I want my money back.
Waitress: No Meat Loaf except on Mondays!
Cook: I don't think this is where I have to be at all. I think this is a bad dream. You know what people do to wake up from a dream.
John: Dude. Chill. This isn't Inception. This is the story you're in. This is the story where you stay. This is the career you get.
Cook [sings]: I'm leaning on the edge. I'm jumping off the ledge. Watching the night do what the light never could.
John: Dude. This is the story you're in. You have to make a go of it here.
Cook [sings]: So tell me I'm crazy. It's not gonna save me from holding my breath till the lines blur.
He hands John the chicken, walks out of the bar, and steps in front of a speeding UPS delivery van.
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Andrew Cook: Bro! Rise and shine! [sings] We're in New York. These streets will make you feel brand new, bright lights will inspire you!
Cook [feels pillow]: What did you do with the chicken?
ACook: We finished all five buckets last night. You tried to keep a wing to put under your pillow, but Monty took it away.
Cook: Have I posed in nothing but my socks for Vanity Fair?
ACook: Please tell me that's a rhetorical question.
Cook [checking Twitter]: My fans are talking about music.
ACook: No shit. You're a musician. That's what your fans are going to talk about.
Cook: No shitzu.
ACook: Gesundheit.
Cook: How's the little Affenpinscher?
ACook: I don't care what anybody says, I did not pinch any asses at VIP. None.
Cook: How many dogs do I have?
ACook: One. What's all this about?
Cook: Who's my guitar tech?
ACook: Mel, just like for the whole tour. And he keeps totally borking your set-up. I'd think about replacing him for the next leg--
Cook: What happened to John?
ACook: John who? Are you okay?
Cook [checking Twitter some more]: My fans are totally talking about music. And current events. And sports. And music. And what they're doing for the holidays.
ACook: What the hell else would they be talking about? You've got some of the smartest fans out there. Everybody knows that.
Cook turns on radio.
Ryan Seacrest on radio: And here's the HAC Top 40, at number 37, it's David Cook with Fade Into Me.
Cook: I don't have a hair-growing bet with Ben Bernanke?
ACook: Dude. Shit like that doesn't happen. Have a Diet Coke and say hello to the real world.
Cook: Real world?
ACook: Real world. The world in which you're a decently successful musician in a tough market, with loyal fans who appreciate your music, a tight band, the respect of some impressive rockers, and a bus that's ready for fumigation. That real world.
Cook: Good morning, real world. I think I'm going to like it here.
THE STORY ENDED 26 PARAGRAPHS AGO. OR MAYBE 162 PARAGRAPHS AGO.
REALITY IS ONGOING.
Meredith Whitney: In 2012, the future of the global economy may hang by a slender thread... a thread as slender as one rock star's hair. Tell me, Mr. Cook, are you serious about running the Fed if you win this hair-growing contest?
Cook: Absolutely.
Whitney: And may I ask why you've brought a chicken with you today?
Cook: Um... uh... it's a reference to Franklin D. Roosevelt's pledge of "a chicken in every pot."
Chicken: Squawk!
Whitney: Is it your plan to return to New Deal policies?
Cook [with a wink]: That'd be telling.
Whitney: And how about you, Mr. Bernanke? What's in this for you?
Bernanke: The big break I've worked for and longed for, all these years.
Whitney: A vacation from presiding over a prolonged recession?
Bernanke: A chance for my band to open for a major act. The Devalued Currencies has paid our dues at a lot of dive bars--
Cook: Dude. You're Backwardation Ben in The Devalued Currencies?
Bernanke [sings]: I need a lover with a whole lot less beta. I want a vixen less jumpy than the VIX. Give my life some alpha or say "see ya later"; looking at my options, I'd say our futures stink.
Cook: Dude. I flove that song. I had it on repeat on my iPod for like two weeks.
Bernanke: Want to cover it? Do a duet?
Whitney: First, we need to get down to business. In order to have a fair benchmark, I've brought in José Eber to make Mr. Cook's starting coiffure identical to that of Mr. Bernanke. Mr. Eber, what clipper setting do you intend to use?
Nooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!
I think I'm going to throw up.
I'm crying.
Get a load of Dave's expression. He didn't expect that.
He looks like a stuffed moose.
No, Dave, don't let them cut your hair!
Cook: Fuck this.
Bernanke: The hair? But you agreed--
Cook: No, fuck this. I don't want to be a story character any more.
Whitney: What do you mean?
Cook: Look. I signed this Stand Up Guy pledge that says I'll go to bat for the principle that it's not okay to harm or objectify women. But look at me. I'm holding a chicken and about to have my head shaved so I can compete to run the Fed.
Whitney: I don't see the connection.
Cook: In the past, I've been stranded in time and space, killed on a journey into the past of rock 'n' roll, and sent to hell. I get dragged all over creation for people's amusement, subjected to every indignity, and nobody gives a shit how I feel about it. If that's not the definition of objectification, I don't know what is.
Bernanke: Isn't that the price of fame?
Cook: It's the price of being a character in a fucking fan-fic, and I want out.
John the Techie: If you're sure that's what you want, it can be arranged. Sort of.
Cook: Arrange it.
Chicken: Squawk!
Cook: Wait a sec. How can you do anything about this? You're a fictional character, too.
John: As it happens, I'm also an angel second-class trying to earn my wings.
Cook: Fuck that. I don't want to be dragged through some It's a Wonderful Life pastiche in which I decide that I've had such a beneficial impact on people's lives that hauling around 26 dogs and a chicken turns out to be hunky-dory. I want a real solution.
John: I can't do anything about the reality that fans can't truly know who David Cook is.
Cook: Hell, I'm not sure I always know who David Cook is.
John: But I can give you three chances to move into a fantasy world that suits you better.
Cook: Anything has to be better than this.
John: Are you certain? Once you choose to leave this story, there's no going back.
Cook: You promise?
John: I promise.
Cook: This isn't some exercise to make me decide I like it here?
John: Nope. No tricks.
Cook: Then of course I'm certain.
John: Think carefully, dude. In this fantasy, you get to be funny, smart, and a sharp musician. And you pretty much always win in the end.
Cook: After running from giant doppelgängers in diapers, wading through shit, singing Monkees songs, and getting told off by women in tiger costumes. You know this time, she's going to strand me in some Mittel-European hell with a currency crisis and have me trying to escape on a sled pulled by the 26 stray dogs, armed only with a guitar and a chicken. I get jerked around, humiliated, beaten up, forced through the fires of hell, and I never, ever get laid.
John: That can change.
Cook: Do it.
John: Just stand up and walk through that door over there. Don't worry. I'm right behind you.
Cook, absent-mindedly holding the chicken, does so. On the other side of the door is the same room.
Cook: Nothing happened.
Whitney: Touch me!
Cook: What?
Whitney: Touch me! I can't resist you.
Cook: What the fuck?
Whitney: Marvelous idea. Much better idea than cutting your hair. Your soft, silky, oh-so-touchable hair. Let me touch it. And your lips... your perfect lips...
Cook: Um...
Bernanke: It takes a man with an incredible body to wear that shirt.
Cook looks down and sees his shirt is transparent mesh.
Cook: Man, this chafes.
Bernanke: And those pants.
Cook: The pants are kinda hot, aren't they? I have six pairs in case I get behind on laundry.
Whitney [rolling around on floor at Cook's feet]: Hot. So hot in here.
Bernanke: My wife has to look at your Vanity Fair spread before she can get in the mood.
Cook: What did I... I mean... they'd interview me about symbolism in my album, right?
John [producing a glossy scented magazine]: Here you go.
Cook [flipping through it]: I'm not... I didn't... why the hell am I wearing socks?
John: You said your feet were kinda grotty from all the running.
Chicken: Squawk!
Cook: I don't mean "why am I wearing socks in this photoshoot?" I mean "why am I not wearing anything but socks in this photoshoot?"
John: It's what the people imagining this story wanted.
Whitney: I need to see your knees. Now.
Cook: This is ridiculous. You're an intelligent woman with an unparalleled understanding of the banking system--
Whitney: But you're so hot that you make 1+1 equal 42.
Cook: My pledge to not demean women is pretty worthless if I'm willing to stay here.
John: Walk through the next door. I'm right behind you.
Cook does. This room is the same as before, except that Meredith Whitney is back in her chair, looking dignified yet concerned.
Whitney: Are you all right? I didn't expect you to start crying over a little hair-clipping--
Cook: It's my bond with my fans. They can't deal with my hair being cut.
Whitney: It's just hair. It grows.
Bernanke: Indeed, that's kind of the point.
Cook [wiping tears]: Ow. Ow. Ow.
Whitney: What now?
Cook: Some of the fans have headaches. One has a bad back. Two or three have cramps. Ow!
Whitney: Your relationship with your fans is really that close?
Cook: Being symbiotic with the fans is the only way to survive in the music industry today. [sobbing] Ow! Ow! I have to... I have to do something...
John: Have a glass of water.
Cook [wiping tears]: My ass is so tight, I fart and only dogs can hear it. Ow!
Whitney: That wasn't funny.
Cook: Yes, it was. Did you hear about the constipated mathematician? He worked it out with a pencil.
Bernanke: [guffaws]
Cook: Laugh, damn it! Laugh! Please. We need some humor to stop the pain. [sings] I stare into space... when will that time and space arrive? I know you're out there--
Chicken: Squawk!
OMG. I wish he was singing that to me.
See how he longs for true love?
My heart is thumping.
I want to cry. If he'd sing that in a live show, we'd all be ded.
Thud!
It breaks my heart when I think of the pain he must feel. How can we help?
Cook [still sobbing]: How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb?
I thought his song-writing was supposed to be therapeutic.
Cook: One: but it has to really want to change! How many Lilliputians does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Dave! TMI!
TMI what? What did I miss?
Cook: Two. You just put them in a light bulb and let them do it! [to John] We've got to get out of here. I can't handle the empathy.
John: Are you sure? You have only one door left.
Cook: I'm sure! Just make it somewhere that people are focused on my work. Please!
John: Will do. Go ahead. I'm right behind you.
Cook walks through his last possible door. He is in the same room again.
Whitney: I'm so sorry we had to cancel this publicity stunt.
Cook: Huh? Uh, okay. Great. Nice to meet you. Nice to meet you, Ben. Hope the band does well.
John: Your next meeting is with some higher-ups at RCA.
Cook: Great. We can get things firmed up for the next album. We've even got time to stop at Magnolia Bakery for a banana-pecan-pineapple cupcake.
Cook's phone makes its text beeping noise.
MarcoReed: Put the cupcake down and back away slowly.
DavidCook: Pecans are an important source of protein.
DavidCook: Pecans are an important source of protein.
A few minutes later, at RCA headquarters...
Extremely Polished Receptionist [to phone]: Mr. Muckimhuk? David Cook is here to see you with his guardian angel and his chicken.
Hiram "Hi" Muckimhuk: Daverino! It's a pleasure! Have a seat. I see you've joined the urban farming movement. Good thought. Good, good thought. Always an eye to the future.
Cook: Oh, the chicken. Well--
Hi Muckimhuk: It'll come as no surprise that you're being dropped by the label.
Cook: Huh.. wha?
Hi Muckimhuk: You must have guessed, when we chose your singles... or if not then, when we forced you to make a commercialized album that wasn't true to your musical vision--
Cook: But This Loud Morning was true to my vision. I poured my heart and soul into that.
Hi Muckimhuk: Forced you to make a highly commercialized album that somehow wasn't commercially successful... or was it that we forced you to be non-commercial... I mean, any fool could see that we were sandbagging you from the git-go. RCA has never wanted you to succeed.
Cook: Then why sign me?
Hi Muckimhuk: To protect our hot properties. If any other label had signed you, you might have been able to compete effectively with the artists we really wanted to push.
Cook: Who? Daughtry? Chris never needed to be protected from me. He's a mega-star.
Hi Muckimhuk: Not Daughtry. Adam Lambert.
Cook: That makes no sense. Lambert's from the season after mine.
Hi Muckimhuk: We knew. Trust us, we knew.
Cook: But the great things my A&R dude said about the album... the terrific support I got with the launch... the millions of dollars you guys spent...
Hi Muckimhuk: You've really convinced yourself all those things happened?
Cook: They did! I was there!
Hi Muckimhuk: Lies you told your fans as part of the PR. And you've convinced yourself to believe them. How sad. But we always knew you'd crack under the pressure.
Cook: I can't believe this is happening! You and I were getting along so well! I thought we understood each other.
Hi Muckimhuk: Right. And pigs have wings and you're pals with Stevie Van Zandt. Go retreat to your sad little fantasy world. RCA is done with you.
Outside 30 Rock, Cook regroups.
Cook: So I'll hop in a taxi to Picador Records and go indie. That'll show 'em.
John: On an indie budget, I'd be thinking E-train, more than taxi.
Cook takes the subway to SoHo. He is not the only person carrying a chicken. Indeed, the bearded hipsters waiting in Picador's reception area have, among them, three chickens, four ukeleles, an upright bass, and a small goat.
Funky Hipster Girl Receptionist: May I help... oh! You've got an Appenzeller Spitzhauben. I've never seen one of those in person before.
Cook: Actually I've got an Affenpinscher. But I left it on the bus three realities ago. My name is Dave--
Funky Hipster Girl Receptionist: No, the chicken. Is it a good egg layer? Some people say they're just ornamental, but I read in Urban Chickens that they're good for 140 eggs a year--
Cook: My name is David Cook, and I'm here to talk to somebody about getting signed.
FHGR: Fanfuckingtastic! We were wondering when you'd be free. We already have a plan.
Cook: That's great to hear--
FHGR: First, you need to put out a real rock album. The hard stuff you've been longing to do--
Cook: Actually, as I've said in a bunch of interviews, my view of rock's pretty eclectic--
FHGR: No one believes that bullshit. Hard rock. You are a hard rocker. No more HAC pap for you. Modern rock chart all the way.
Cook: So you've got a solution to how being on Idol kinda trashed my alt-rock cred?
FHGR: Sure. You're going to change your name.

Cook: Huh?
FHGR: Change your name. Like, get married or something. Or go with your pirate name. But you can't be David Cook. There's already an indie David Cook. People would get confused.
Cook: Rock album. Change my name. Okay, so how much of an advance do I get for this project?
FHGR [checks a file on her Mac]: All in, for the whole recording fund, you get $42,000.
Cook: Forty-two...
FHGR: For the number of albums you're likely to sell as an indie alt-rocker, we can't put a whole lot of money into this. That's why we advise our artists to stretch the budget by raising their own food. You already have a great chicken there, and I can hook you up with some dudes who have shares in a cow and a chick who raises bees. Start a vegetable garden, and you're good to go!
Cook: I need to think about this. [to John, once they've retreated to a nearby pub] Shit. Maybe I should just make an album in my home studio and self-release it.
John: It's a thought. With radio play for two singles, a video on the VH-1 countdown, something like eight television appearances, and some online media placements, you sold what, 100,000 albums?
Cook: 103,000 at last count.
John: So self-releasing without radio support, just selling on your web site and CD Baby and maybe iTunes, you could totally sell 10,000, easy.
Cook: That's still an order of magnitude more than I sold of Analog Heart.
John: And you always liked dive bars, so you won't mind playing them again. The Rhythm Room in Phoenix actually looks pretty cool.
Cook: I'll... I'll... I'll... Look, you may think you've been clever, but I won't go back and spout witticisms while hoarding dogs and making fart jokes through the collapse of civilization, or whatever punishment that chick has in store for me. There has to be a better solution.
John: No one's offering to let you go back. You got three chances at choosing a different story to live in, and this one is where you'll stay. So you might want to start thinking about restaurant choices that don't involve $18 hamburgers.
Cook: You're kidding me.
Chicken: Squawk!
John: I told you this up front. You said you were certain--
Cook: You can't do this. You can't make me into a character in a story that doesn't make sense. All the facts--
John: You chose to be here.
Cook: I chose to have something better than being humiliated, mauled, put in absurd situations, and manuevered from pillar to post as if I had no mind of my own. That's what I fucking chose. And what did I get? I've endured chafing, experienced killer cramps, lost my major-label contract, and I'm still carrying around a chicken and I still haven't gotten laid.
John: Them's the breaks.
Cook [sings]: It's a never-ending attack. Everything's a lie, and that's a fact. Life is a lemon and I want my money back.
Waitress: No Meat Loaf except on Mondays!
Cook: I don't think this is where I have to be at all. I think this is a bad dream. You know what people do to wake up from a dream.
John: Dude. Chill. This isn't Inception. This is the story you're in. This is the story where you stay. This is the career you get.
Cook [sings]: I'm leaning on the edge. I'm jumping off the ledge. Watching the night do what the light never could.
John: Dude. This is the story you're in. You have to make a go of it here.
Cook [sings]: So tell me I'm crazy. It's not gonna save me from holding my breath till the lines blur.
He hands John the chicken, walks out of the bar, and steps in front of a speeding UPS delivery van.
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Andrew Cook: Bro! Rise and shine! [sings] We're in New York. These streets will make you feel brand new, bright lights will inspire you!
Cook [feels pillow]: What did you do with the chicken?
ACook: We finished all five buckets last night. You tried to keep a wing to put under your pillow, but Monty took it away.
Cook: Have I posed in nothing but my socks for Vanity Fair?
ACook: Please tell me that's a rhetorical question.
Cook [checking Twitter]: My fans are talking about music.
ACook: No shit. You're a musician. That's what your fans are going to talk about.
Cook: No shitzu.
ACook: Gesundheit.
Cook: How's the little Affenpinscher?
ACook: I don't care what anybody says, I did not pinch any asses at VIP. None.
Cook: How many dogs do I have?
ACook: One. What's all this about?
Cook: Who's my guitar tech?
ACook: Mel, just like for the whole tour. And he keeps totally borking your set-up. I'd think about replacing him for the next leg--
Cook: What happened to John?
ACook: John who? Are you okay?
Cook [checking Twitter some more]: My fans are totally talking about music. And current events. And sports. And music. And what they're doing for the holidays.
ACook: What the hell else would they be talking about? You've got some of the smartest fans out there. Everybody knows that.
Cook turns on radio.
Ryan Seacrest on radio: And here's the HAC Top 40, at number 37, it's David Cook with Fade Into Me.
Cook: I don't have a hair-growing bet with Ben Bernanke?
ACook: Dude. Shit like that doesn't happen. Have a Diet Coke and say hello to the real world.
Cook: Real world?
ACook: Real world. The world in which you're a decently successful musician in a tough market, with loyal fans who appreciate your music, a tight band, the respect of some impressive rockers, and a bus that's ready for fumigation. That real world.
Cook: Good morning, real world. I think I'm going to like it here.
THE STORY ENDED 26 PARAGRAPHS AGO. OR MAYBE 162 PARAGRAPHS AGO.
REALITY IS ONGOING.
