Son of Youth in Revolt: The Journals
of Scott Twisp
Book VII, Youth in Hollywood
a novel
by C.D. Payne
[ALERT: contains spoilers if you haven't read through Book VI]
THURSDAY, January 7 – My friend Lucien got a crummy Android phone for Christmas. More confirmation that the economy sucks in Nevada. Of course, my iPhone and I had to take him on. I beat him 38 words/minute (with three errors) to his 26 words/minute and countless errors. Another upstart vanquished by my merciless thumbs!
FRIDAY, February 5 – My report card arrived in the mail today. As expected, I aced all my subjects except gym. Coach Wilson smoked my ass with a C. Had that guy been born 2,500 years ago, they would have handed him a whip and made him captain of the galley slaves. A guy could pitch a no-hitter in the World Series and still only score a B-minus from that lowbrow guerilla.
WEDNESDAY, March 10 – I replied to 43 texts and tweets in the last 24 hours–a new record for me. Not bad for an unathletic proto-nerd of marginal popularity. If present trends continue, in a few generations humans will have evolved into a life-support system for their thumbs.
TUESDAY, March 16 – Mary Ellen Fropic told me in class today that my name sounds like a snack food. “Scott Twisp.” It does suggest something crunchy with a mild tang. Not to mention a list of artificial ingredients a mile long.
Appropriately, my middle name is Sin, although for some reason Dad felt compelled to tack “atra” onto it. Yeah, I get to walk around for a lifetime with that Hoboken crooner’s name spliced into mine. It could have been worse though. Dad might have been a big-time fan of Liberace.
I no longer have the hots for Mary Ellen. My Fropic infatuation lasted for one week and three days. Needless to say, no intimacies of any sort were achieved.
SATURDAY, March 20 – I fear I lack the discipline required for daily journal writing. I should make an effort, though, for the sake of future biographers researching my fabulous life. Such a record could offer valuable insights into those obscure early years. And starting a journal now will assist me in keeping track of the innumerable love affairs I intend to have. I suppose names and faces start to blur over time as the trysts mount into the hundreds and then thousands. Note to myself: query Uncle Tyler on this point the next time I see him.
THURSDAY, March 25 – Another argument in my parents’ bedroom last night. Not sure what’s up. Perhaps my father is not up and that’s the trouble. What if the guy can juggle every sort of balls except his own. Hope it’s not hereditary. All my life people have been telling me I look just like my dad. I don’t see why those foul Twisp genes have to be so dominate. In her younger days my mother was the most beautiful oral surgeon in town. And all of my Olson relatives are pleasing to the eye (excepting only Uncle Lars, who is not pleasing in any category).
Thankfully, I have twin half-sisters who are both knockouts. So being a Twisp does not necessarily condemn one to a lifetime in the “Not Hot” category. Miren and Nerea run a circus in Argentina with Nerea’s husband, so I rarely see them.
Dad is 46 and his daughters are 31.
You do the math.
Whenever my parents fight, I smell d-i-v-o-r-c-e. I’m amazed that anyone can stay married for months, let alone years. I’ve never liked a girl longer than two weeks. The whole thing gets so tiresome! That’s why I’m thinking of becoming a divorce lawyer. The work is steady (especially in Nevada), reliably lucrative, and you have a constant stream of newly single babes to console.
THURSDAY, April 1 – Dire news: Dad’s mid-life crisis is officially under way. He’s terminated his long-time gig at the Normandie casino! His explanation: “I don’t want to become the Wayne Newton of comic jugglers.”
He’s moving to L.A.!
He’s going to star in his own cable TV show!
And frighteningly worse: he’s proposing to drag us along with him!
No, this is not some horrible April Fool’s Day joke.
The guy intends to uproot his family and totally disrupt our lives, just on the off-chance he can make it in TV. Somehow he’s hooked up with the obscure RIM (retards, imbeciles & morons?) Network, whose only “hit” program features tattooed rednecks customizing pick-up trucks with hugely oversized tires, ear-pummeling stereos, and other obnoxious accessories.
Doubly worse! Dad has somehow browbeaten Mom into supporting the idea.
SATURDAY, April 3 – My friend Zack came over to plot strategy. Our plan is for me to live with his family until I graduate from high school or get married–whichever comes last. His parents are loaded, so I shouldn’t be a burden. They have a large guestroom and a pool (my minimum requirements). The problem is Zack is currently on the outs with his parents. They dislike his girlfriend, who is not Catholic. Nor is she particularly Caucasian (being of the Thai persuasion). So Zack may be forced to choose between Mai (beautiful, curvaceous) or me (a loyal pal since kindergarten). Unfortunately, I know which I’d choose, but I’m hoping Zack is more selfless.
SUNDAY, April 4 – A disquieting text from Zack. He proposes that I get my parents to agree to our plan before he goes to the extreme step of dumping Mai. Can’t say I blame him. Damn, is there anything worse than groveling to one’s parents? Why shouldn’t they give their consent? Las Vegas is the only home I’ve ever known. I was born here and all my friends are here. I don’t mind that in the summer your brain boils inside your skull. I’m used to it! Why should I move to some smoggy, overcrowded metropolis so my father can achieve a 0.02 Nielsen rating before being ignominiously cancelled?
MONDAY, April 5 – My parents just won the Benito Mussolini Award for Domestic Fascism. I put on my docile son’s face at breakfast and brought up the subject of living with Zack’s family.
“No way,” said Dad. “The idea is absurd. We can’t have a 14-year-old living on his own unsupervised.”
of Scott Twisp
Book VII, Youth in Hollywood
a novel
by C.D. Payne
[ALERT: contains spoilers if you haven't read through Book VI]
THURSDAY, January 7 – My friend Lucien got a crummy Android phone for Christmas. More confirmation that the economy sucks in Nevada. Of course, my iPhone and I had to take him on. I beat him 38 words/minute (with three errors) to his 26 words/minute and countless errors. Another upstart vanquished by my merciless thumbs!
FRIDAY, February 5 – My report card arrived in the mail today. As expected, I aced all my subjects except gym. Coach Wilson smoked my ass with a C. Had that guy been born 2,500 years ago, they would have handed him a whip and made him captain of the galley slaves. A guy could pitch a no-hitter in the World Series and still only score a B-minus from that lowbrow guerilla.
WEDNESDAY, March 10 – I replied to 43 texts and tweets in the last 24 hours–a new record for me. Not bad for an unathletic proto-nerd of marginal popularity. If present trends continue, in a few generations humans will have evolved into a life-support system for their thumbs.
TUESDAY, March 16 – Mary Ellen Fropic told me in class today that my name sounds like a snack food. “Scott Twisp.” It does suggest something crunchy with a mild tang. Not to mention a list of artificial ingredients a mile long.
Appropriately, my middle name is Sin, although for some reason Dad felt compelled to tack “atra” onto it. Yeah, I get to walk around for a lifetime with that Hoboken crooner’s name spliced into mine. It could have been worse though. Dad might have been a big-time fan of Liberace.
I no longer have the hots for Mary Ellen. My Fropic infatuation lasted for one week and three days. Needless to say, no intimacies of any sort were achieved.
SATURDAY, March 20 – I fear I lack the discipline required for daily journal writing. I should make an effort, though, for the sake of future biographers researching my fabulous life. Such a record could offer valuable insights into those obscure early years. And starting a journal now will assist me in keeping track of the innumerable love affairs I intend to have. I suppose names and faces start to blur over time as the trysts mount into the hundreds and then thousands. Note to myself: query Uncle Tyler on this point the next time I see him.
THURSDAY, March 25 – Another argument in my parents’ bedroom last night. Not sure what’s up. Perhaps my father is not up and that’s the trouble. What if the guy can juggle every sort of balls except his own. Hope it’s not hereditary. All my life people have been telling me I look just like my dad. I don’t see why those foul Twisp genes have to be so dominate. In her younger days my mother was the most beautiful oral surgeon in town. And all of my Olson relatives are pleasing to the eye (excepting only Uncle Lars, who is not pleasing in any category).
Thankfully, I have twin half-sisters who are both knockouts. So being a Twisp does not necessarily condemn one to a lifetime in the “Not Hot” category. Miren and Nerea run a circus in Argentina with Nerea’s husband, so I rarely see them.
Dad is 46 and his daughters are 31.
You do the math.
Whenever my parents fight, I smell d-i-v-o-r-c-e. I’m amazed that anyone can stay married for months, let alone years. I’ve never liked a girl longer than two weeks. The whole thing gets so tiresome! That’s why I’m thinking of becoming a divorce lawyer. The work is steady (especially in Nevada), reliably lucrative, and you have a constant stream of newly single babes to console.
THURSDAY, April 1 – Dire news: Dad’s mid-life crisis is officially under way. He’s terminated his long-time gig at the Normandie casino! His explanation: “I don’t want to become the Wayne Newton of comic jugglers.”
He’s moving to L.A.!
He’s going to star in his own cable TV show!
And frighteningly worse: he’s proposing to drag us along with him!
No, this is not some horrible April Fool’s Day joke.
The guy intends to uproot his family and totally disrupt our lives, just on the off-chance he can make it in TV. Somehow he’s hooked up with the obscure RIM (retards, imbeciles & morons?) Network, whose only “hit” program features tattooed rednecks customizing pick-up trucks with hugely oversized tires, ear-pummeling stereos, and other obnoxious accessories.
Doubly worse! Dad has somehow browbeaten Mom into supporting the idea.
SATURDAY, April 3 – My friend Zack came over to plot strategy. Our plan is for me to live with his family until I graduate from high school or get married–whichever comes last. His parents are loaded, so I shouldn’t be a burden. They have a large guestroom and a pool (my minimum requirements). The problem is Zack is currently on the outs with his parents. They dislike his girlfriend, who is not Catholic. Nor is she particularly Caucasian (being of the Thai persuasion). So Zack may be forced to choose between Mai (beautiful, curvaceous) or me (a loyal pal since kindergarten). Unfortunately, I know which I’d choose, but I’m hoping Zack is more selfless.
SUNDAY, April 4 – A disquieting text from Zack. He proposes that I get my parents to agree to our plan before he goes to the extreme step of dumping Mai. Can’t say I blame him. Damn, is there anything worse than groveling to one’s parents? Why shouldn’t they give their consent? Las Vegas is the only home I’ve ever known. I was born here and all my friends are here. I don’t mind that in the summer your brain boils inside your skull. I’m used to it! Why should I move to some smoggy, overcrowded metropolis so my father can achieve a 0.02 Nielsen rating before being ignominiously cancelled?
MONDAY, April 5 – My parents just won the Benito Mussolini Award for Domestic Fascism. I put on my docile son’s face at breakfast and brought up the subject of living with Zack’s family.
“No way,” said Dad. “The idea is absurd. We can’t have a 14-year-old living on his own unsupervised.”
“I’ll be 15 in two months, Dad. And isn’t that what you were doing when you were 15?” I pointed out.
“The situation was entirely different.”
“How was it different?”
“It was different because I had parents who didn’t give a rat’s ass about my welfare.”
“Scotty, I think you’ll like it in L.A.,” added my mother. “You just have to give it a chance.”
I won’t bore you with the rest of the conversation, which featured me pleading and them not budging.
The facts cannot be denied. I am cursed with the worst sort of parents: clinging and caring. I’m their sole jointly conceived offspring, so the parental Velcro is unyielding. My mother, for example, clearly dotes on me. And has since Day One, when I nearly killed her emerging into this world. Alas, I am the apple of her eye. My father may gaze frequently at me with ill-concealed disgust (monumental culture clash), but can anyone doubt I am lodged somewhere near the center of his ironclad heart?
Rats!
Why couldn’t I have been blessed with normal Twisp parents, who have regarded their children with malign indifference for untold generations?
TUESDAY, May 4 – I keep thinking I’m going to wake up from this nightmare, but things keep getting worse. The only home I’ve ever known has just been sold out from under me. In less than a week! The snotty real estate agent suggested I “reduce the clutter” in my room to “facilitate the sale,” but I just ignored her. In revenge she alerted the Nick Twisp Fan Club. (Yes, such an organization actually exists.) A rich but obviously delusional couple in Dallas made an immediate full-price offer. They’re thrilled that they will soon be part-timing it in the actual house where their favorite entertainer once changed his underwear. Meanwhile, the object of their adulation has already flown the coop. I’m told he’s in L.A. enmeshed in endless script conferences. He talks to Mom nightly, but I refuse to take the twit’s calls. It’s a good thing for him I’ve never saved a cent of my allowance; I’d be thinking seriously of hiring some thugs to bash in his knees.
THURSDAY, May 6 – Only four more weeks of school, then Mom says we blow this state. She’s already packing! How can I derail this runaway freight train? I’d flunk all my classes, but I’m too damn competitive not to excel in every subject. That “C” in gym still smarts, since Lucien, who came into this world with KLUTZ REJECT stamped on his butt, somehow scored a “B.” Is it my fault I have to punctuate those hours of mindless calisthenics and ball dribbling with the occasional sarcastic remark? Doesn’t my being the class clown help relieve the tedium for everyone–teachers included? Must everyone be a mute gym drone? Coach Wilson will be sorry when I become a prominent divorce attorney and offer my services to his wife–for free!
SATURDAY, May 15 – Sunny and a pleasant 109 degrees. The tourists were wilting, but no problem for us desert rats. Zack and I donned our swim trunks and sneaked into the Mandalay Bay. We chatted up some cute girls from Seattle we met lounging poolside. Very untanned, so we knew they were newly arrived out-of-towners looking for a good time. Parents were all off gambling. Heavy flirting by Zack who has an advanced degree in bikini removal. I cracked a few jokes, but get kind of nervous and shy around semi-nude chicks. I mean it’s all out there on display with very little left to the imagination. Zack was angling for an invitation up to their rooms, but they wanted to sneak into the Moorea Beach Club adult section where everyone goes topless. We gave it a shot, but got nailed by security, who escorted the chicks back to the family pool and kicked us off the premises. Zack wanted to try the Normandie, but everyone there has known me since I was five days old. So we went to the Flamingo (our old standby) and rode the waterslides. We both agree it’ll be a shame when that place gets imploded, especially since Zack lost his virginity on the 16th floor to an unknown tourist teen from Arkansas. (Yes, in the excitement, he somehow forgot to get her name.)
FRIDAY, May 28 – Only one more week of school! The packing continues unabated throughout our house except for my room, where normal life continues bravely on despite entreaties and threats. No sign so far of any farewell parties in my honor being planned by my so-called friends. Don’t they realize that their lives may soon be Devoid of Scott?
“The situation was entirely different.”
“How was it different?”
“It was different because I had parents who didn’t give a rat’s ass about my welfare.”
“Scotty, I think you’ll like it in L.A.,” added my mother. “You just have to give it a chance.”
I won’t bore you with the rest of the conversation, which featured me pleading and them not budging.
The facts cannot be denied. I am cursed with the worst sort of parents: clinging and caring. I’m their sole jointly conceived offspring, so the parental Velcro is unyielding. My mother, for example, clearly dotes on me. And has since Day One, when I nearly killed her emerging into this world. Alas, I am the apple of her eye. My father may gaze frequently at me with ill-concealed disgust (monumental culture clash), but can anyone doubt I am lodged somewhere near the center of his ironclad heart?
Rats!
Why couldn’t I have been blessed with normal Twisp parents, who have regarded their children with malign indifference for untold generations?
TUESDAY, May 4 – I keep thinking I’m going to wake up from this nightmare, but things keep getting worse. The only home I’ve ever known has just been sold out from under me. In less than a week! The snotty real estate agent suggested I “reduce the clutter” in my room to “facilitate the sale,” but I just ignored her. In revenge she alerted the Nick Twisp Fan Club. (Yes, such an organization actually exists.) A rich but obviously delusional couple in Dallas made an immediate full-price offer. They’re thrilled that they will soon be part-timing it in the actual house where their favorite entertainer once changed his underwear. Meanwhile, the object of their adulation has already flown the coop. I’m told he’s in L.A. enmeshed in endless script conferences. He talks to Mom nightly, but I refuse to take the twit’s calls. It’s a good thing for him I’ve never saved a cent of my allowance; I’d be thinking seriously of hiring some thugs to bash in his knees.
THURSDAY, May 6 – Only four more weeks of school, then Mom says we blow this state. She’s already packing! How can I derail this runaway freight train? I’d flunk all my classes, but I’m too damn competitive not to excel in every subject. That “C” in gym still smarts, since Lucien, who came into this world with KLUTZ REJECT stamped on his butt, somehow scored a “B.” Is it my fault I have to punctuate those hours of mindless calisthenics and ball dribbling with the occasional sarcastic remark? Doesn’t my being the class clown help relieve the tedium for everyone–teachers included? Must everyone be a mute gym drone? Coach Wilson will be sorry when I become a prominent divorce attorney and offer my services to his wife–for free!
SATURDAY, May 15 – Sunny and a pleasant 109 degrees. The tourists were wilting, but no problem for us desert rats. Zack and I donned our swim trunks and sneaked into the Mandalay Bay. We chatted up some cute girls from Seattle we met lounging poolside. Very untanned, so we knew they were newly arrived out-of-towners looking for a good time. Parents were all off gambling. Heavy flirting by Zack who has an advanced degree in bikini removal. I cracked a few jokes, but get kind of nervous and shy around semi-nude chicks. I mean it’s all out there on display with very little left to the imagination. Zack was angling for an invitation up to their rooms, but they wanted to sneak into the Moorea Beach Club adult section where everyone goes topless. We gave it a shot, but got nailed by security, who escorted the chicks back to the family pool and kicked us off the premises. Zack wanted to try the Normandie, but everyone there has known me since I was five days old. So we went to the Flamingo (our old standby) and rode the waterslides. We both agree it’ll be a shame when that place gets imploded, especially since Zack lost his virginity on the 16th floor to an unknown tourist teen from Arkansas. (Yes, in the excitement, he somehow forgot to get her name.)
FRIDAY, May 28 – Only one more week of school! The packing continues unabated throughout our house except for my room, where normal life continues bravely on despite entreaties and threats. No sign so far of any farewell parties in my honor being planned by my so-called friends. Don’t they realize that their lives may soon be Devoid of Scott?
