Jarett Kobek: I Hate the Internet

“Excuse me,” said Erik Willems, leaning over the table, “but are you M. Abrahamovic Petrovitch?”

“Why yes,” said Adeline, standing up, “I am.”

They moved over by a window. Coit Tower was visible through the glass, rising above North Beach. Adeline found North Beach très déclassé , as it was chock-a-block with tourists and strip clubs and the kinds of tourists who went to strip clubs.

Her friend J. Karacehennem, whose last name was Turkish for Black Hell , loved North Beach. He was always in Caffe Trieste at the corner of Vallejo and Grant.

“I read Trill, ” said Erik. “In the omnibus.”

“And whatever was your opinion, young man?” asked Adeline.

“I thought it was interesting.”

“Only interesting?” asked Adeline.

“It was a gootbluck ,” said Erik.

“Darling, a what?” asked Adeline.

“A gootbluck .”

There was a very awkward pause.

“I’m sorry,” said Adeline, “but dost thou sprechen ze German? Je ne parle pas allemand! ”

“How can you not know what a gootbluck is?”

“Should I?” asked Adeline.

“A gootbluck is a work of art that you recognize has high merit but doesn’t appeal to you on the personal level. Some people don’t like James Joyce but everyone knows that Ulysses is a good book. For some people, Ulysses is a gootbluck. ”

“Darling,” said Adeline, “why ever would yours truly know the definition of gootbluck? ”

“It’s a word from Annie Zero, ” said Erik.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” said Adeline. “Fucking Baby and his fucking book.”

Adeline hadn’t read Annie Zero. Baby told her to skip it. He said it wasn’t very good. She took him at his word.

Later that night, Adeline ended up sleeping with Erik Willems.

Why not?

J. Karacehennem met Adeline during the run up to the feature film adaptation of Trill. They were both in Los Angeles.

He was asked by the editor of an ephemeral magazine to conduct an interview with the artist responsible for the original graphic novel .

They met in a house that was once owned by Walt Disney’s Uncle.

Walt Disney was America’s most beloved Anti-Semite and racist. He hated labor strikes, unions, organized labor and Communists. He named the names of troublesome employees before the House Un-American Activities Committee, saying that they were probably Communists.

In 1938, Disney granted a private audience to Adolf Hitler’s favorite director, Leni Riefenstahl. After World War Two, Disney hired Werhner von Braun.

Werhner von Braun was a Nazi rocket scientist and a Major in the Schutzstaffel. He invented the V-2.

The V-2 was a rocket that bombed the living fucking shit out of London during World War Two. Werhner von Braun used slave labor to build the V-2s.

12,000 people died building the V-2. 9,000 people died being bombed to shit by the V-2.

After the war, the CIA’s immediate precursor, the Office of Strategic Services, brought Werhner von Braun to the USA. They forgave the National Socialism because they wanted him to build rockets for the American military.

The rockets would be used to threaten the Russian government. The members of the Russian government were all Communists.

Like any member of any government, the Russians were a bunch of dumb assholes. The Russians were the reason that the CIA had funded literary fiction. It was thought that American writers and good novels could help destabilize Communism.

In the 1950s, Disney hired Werhner von Braun. The Nazi rocket scientist appeared in a Disney television program called Man in Space.

Forty-two million people watched the broadcast.

The creation of Mickey Mouse was the greatest achievement of Disney’s studio, which was founded in the garage of the house where Adeline met J. Karacehennem.

Mickey Mouse was a scampish anthropomorphic rodent who hung around a barnyard. His friends were barnyard animals. Their existential concerns were underscored by barnyard humor.

Mickey’s pals included Clarabelle Cow and Horace Horsecollar and Dippy Dawg. They appeared together in black-and-white synched sound cartoons and a newspaper strip.

A guy named Ub Iwerks invented the characters and drew the early animated shorts. A guy named Floyd Gottfredson drew the newspaper strip. Both men worked-for-hire.

Disney took all the credit.

The company that Walt Disney founded in his uncle’s backyard became one of the world’s most metastatic entities, consuming every available piece of intellectual property.

Walt Disney’s company ended up buying Marvel Entertainment.

This meant that Walt Disney’s company owned the most valuable intellectual output of Ub Iwerks, Floyd Gottfredson and Jack Kirby.

During the run-up to Don Murphy’s Trill, Adeline was living, temporarily, in Los Angeles. She’d picked up a storyboarding job. It was interesting work and gave her a chance to visit her hometown.

J. Karacehennem had moved to Los Angeles after the collapse of a seven year long relationship. He arrived with the unconscious idea that he’d join the swelling ranks of people who go to California to die.

Much to his surprise, dying required more than a move to Los Angeles.

The interview went well. J. Karacehennem hung around for hours.

They shot the shit. Off the record. He and Adeline exchanged cellphone numbers. He went home.

Then J. Karacehennem went through several interpersonal catastrophes and a month long trip to İzmir, Turkey. When he got back to America, he called Adeline. She was still in Los Angeles.

She’d been spending time with her mother Suzanne. The less said the better.

Adeline told J. Karacehennem to come on over.

They ended up sleeping together. Only a few times. This did not last long. The less said the better.

When J. Karacehennem moved to San Francisco in late 2010, he got in touch with Adeline. They hadn’t spoken in about a year. Soon they were hanging out all the time. There was a distinct absence of romantic or sexual tension.

He’d moved to San Francisco because he was following a woman.

This woman wasn’t Adeline. This woman was The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter.

J. Karacehennem and The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter had dated for a few years, long distance, with him going to San Francisco and her going to Los Angeles.

It was rocky until it wasn’t. At some point it became solid.

J. Karacehennem went north.

He moved into the apartment of The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter, which was located on Bryant between 23rd and 24th in the Mission District, a historically Latino and working-class neighborhood which was ground zero for gentrification driven by obscene Internet wealth.

The apartment sported several strange features.

It was 1,000 square feet but it had no interior walls.

It was one giant room.

The floors were all grey masonite.

The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter had installed a 15-foot tall tree into the middle of the room.

Moving into an apartment with no walls and a giant tree required not only a lot of love but also a great deal of trust. But that was his relationship with The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter. All love and all trust, with a dash of pointless arguments.

Mostly, J. Karacehennem hung around writing, performing the daily chores of the common law househusband, and thinking about the lack of eumelanin in the basale stratum of his epidermis.

Before he moved to California and the Sun exacted its terrible vengeance, he was as pale as milk. This was unusual as he was Turkish.