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Stories About Roy Orbison Wrapped in Cling-Film's Journal
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Below are 20 journal entries, after skipping by the 20 most recent ones recorded in Stories About Roy Orbison Wrapped in Cling-Film's LiveJournal:

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Wednesday, May 19th, 2004
4:27 pm

What do you think is the best way to protect your children from Brood X?

That's right: clingfilm.

Friday, March 26th, 2004
10:09 am
Saturday, March 20th, 2004
11:48 am
To the Woe is all owed
To the Woe is all owed.

Therefore is this that.
Therefore are you here.
Therefore am I neverwhere.
Therefore do they grin in much pain.

It always ends the same way. I cover Roy Orbison, that mysterious man in black, in one or several rolls of Cling-Film and I am absorbed by the void of his trademark dark sunglasses as the world is reflected by the shiny substance covering him, and reflection upon reflection is transposed and juxtaposed into otherworldy shapes - contorted, eldritch figures beckoning me into their realms of skewed geometries and the piping of flutes.

Yet the moment passes, and this world returns, and Roy Orbison is gone. Then I pass some time in a correctional facility and dream of the towers reaching through the clouds, through the starry sky, past the boundaries of this unbounded Universe, and I long to step into that other world, to ascend the staircase inside the tower and enter the madness. The slithering predators. The reason that is not.

I sit and listen in the dark, I listen to those voices that are not yet shall be, I listen to that one voice that was and shall not be. Then I see a small terrapin lying on the floor, covered in blood. And I know the meaning of sanity. It is death.

The mountain of eyes
gazing contentedly at cold stone
and the pit of fingers

There is the peace of insanity
and the whistling of the flutes.
There is not wisdom
nor purity of the soul.

Banish vision and sink into cacophony.
Listen. There is madness.

They release me and I wander the streets. I remember happier times. They fill me with a nameless dread now. Only this is left: the glittering darkness, the shiny cocoon, the shifting shapes through spaces unknown to man. Yet they move through our world and we fear them even as we pretend they do not exist.

I hear them in the wind and in the fire, and I see them in the dead and the newly born. I know them in my blood. He is one of them now. He speaks with many voices, yet is never heard. I imagine our conversations and I am surprised when I rise from my nightly reverie to find my skin ghostly white and my nails loose in the soft flesh.

I am turning. I can see them more clearly now than ever before. I see a river circling the shreds of reality and eerie shapes following it in a neverending line. Soon I too will begin the journey. I will follow the stream and I will walk for aeons. One day I will find myself on the other side of the stream, looking across the blood-red water at the point where I begun and I will laugh in mindless mirth. Then he will come to me. It always begins the same way.

A face through the net
gurgling and burbling
foaming the waters of infancy
crying with your voice
nebulous imitations of death.

Some never die
but live uncaring
and silence their thoughts
from the spiteful gods
of Choronzon's progeny.

Silly is the putty of life
not caring for death.
Thursday, March 18th, 2004
11:45 pm
the clingy kibbutz
Radovan the Robot was walking along the streets of Detroit one day when he noticed something lying in the gutter. It was a sponge.

"Oh what a nice sponge," he drilled out in his tinny, unemotional voice. "I think I shall keep it."

He wrapped this sponge in cling film and then took it home. But accidently, while he was sleeping, it fell into a glass of water. It was not wrapped in cling film very well. The sponge expanded into Kylie Minogue.

She greeted Radovan upon his awakening. "Hello, love," said Kylie, "are you my robot master?"

"Yes I suppose so."

"Well, I should let you know that I would like to go on a journey. To find other pop stars like me, wrapped in cling film."

"Sounds good. What is your name?"

"Kylie Minogue!"

So then they traveled the globe and found a village where Roy Orbison reigned king and was wrapped in cling film up to the neck.

The village was brown and had little shacks spread across it. There also lived Ruslana, Whitney Houston, and the first incarnation of Christina Aguilara. There were many Serbian robots, also, so Radovan and Kylie Minogue lived happily ever after, and he lovingly wrapped her in cling film each night.
10:19 pm
Cling-Film Sorority
I never thought dating a sorority girl would be so great. Fantasies never turn out the way I want them to, and I’d about given up on romance altogether. Yet here I find myself, dating a sorority girl who on top of that is a foreign exchange student.

Talk about a dream come true. Boy is she a knockout. It’s spooky, as if she were somehow more than a woman. She just seems to have that special "something extra." The only thing is, she won’t let me get in her panties.

“I’m sorry,” she said to me on our fifth date. “I hope you won’t think ill of me, but the truth is I -- I’m a very peculiar girl. I have a, well, a fetish, you could call...”

“Shhh,” I said. “It’s okay. We all have our little quirks.”

“But my fantasy is so...”

“Come on, what could be so strange as to turn me away from a great girl like you?” I held her tight and smiled to reassure her. “You can tell me your fantasy.”

“Well, I suppose I,” she stammered. “No, I can’t say it. It’s far too personal. However, if you are willing to come with me to that magical realm of fantasy, I can show you.”

That was three days ago, and I’ve been intrigued by the strange proposition ever since. She told me only that the basement of her sorority house has mystical properties. She said that if I went there with her, I could experience the ultimate erotic adventure.

What could it be? Well, more importantly, how could I resist such a tantalizing offer!

I arrive at two o’clock in the morning, wearing a black sweat suit, as instructed. The other sorority girls must be asleep, because the windows are all dark. My girlfriend opens the door and I see that there is no light anywhere in the house. She beckons me inside.

I can’t see anything. Of my surroundings, I am aware only that there is dust and a strange musty smell in the air. An allergic reaction sets my nose twitching. However, as we climb down the stairs to the basement and my girlfriend flips the light switch, I am relieved to find myself in a well-kept sorority rec room.

There is a big screen TV against one wall, with three small couches facing it. There are two arcade machines, Asteroids and Elevator Madness, against the wall to the left. On the opposite side of the room are a ping-pong table and dartboard.

My girlfriend beams as she holds my hand tight to her chest. She literally screams, “Welcome to my fantasy!” Then I notice the queerest thing.

There, on top of the ping-pong table lies a mysterious man in black. His dark leather jacket is accented with silver buttons and zippers. His eyes are shielded by thick, dark glasses.

“My God,” I say. “Is that who I think it is?”

“Yes,” she says. “Roy Orbison!”

“But I thought he was dead?”

“He may be deceased in that cold, dead world outside, but in this world of fantasy he is very much alive.”

She smacks her lips with a devilish grin and the suggestive way she leers at both Roy Orbison and me is shocking in its luridness. I am speechless, even before I hear Enigma's "Principles of Lust" swell up from hidden speakers and I see the roll of cling-film in her hand.

Roy, I presume sensing my disbelief, sits upright on the ping-pong table and stretches his arms in front of his body, swaying to the music like a zombie possessed by snake charmers. Is that a sly grin on his face, or is it my imagination?

My girlfriend sways her hips in rhythm with Mr. Orbison and the music as smoke machines cover the floor with a purple fog. Then he dismounts the ping-pong table and holds his arms above his head, snapping his fingers as she dances around him with the cling-film. It is sexier than any music video I have ever seen.

“Feel free to masturbate if you desire,” Mr. Orbison says in that rich baritone voice of his.

“I believe I would like to do that,” I respond. “This is quite erotic. The two of you dance like professionals!”

“We have lots of practice,” my girlfriend says as she grinds her pelvis against Roy Orbison’s body, pulling the cling-film tight. Oh, so tight.

“Although,” Roy Orbison says, “This is the first time we’ve had an audience.” I’m so excited I rip the drawstring out and let my sweatpants fall to my ankles.

They are like a sexy cling-film Fred & Ginger -- kinky yet sophisticated. For a moment I imagine Roy Orbison in a white tuxedo, sipping a martini. Though he is wearing those dark glasses, I could swear that he winks at me.

Then the temperature rises as his arms are completely bound by cling-film. It’s inconceivable that he could dance, for his legs and arms are immobilized. I pull on my cock, moaning as he rolls his neck around like a quadriplegic and my girlfriend wraps his head. Roy Orbison is now completely wrapped in cling-film, and I am spent.

I wipe my hands on the carpet and pull my pants up. Everything is a gossamer blur now. The world is different, yet somehow the same. That was so carnal, I don’t know if any experience could ever compare.

Then I look around the basement and to my dismay everything is gone. There is no music, no smoke machines, and I find myself completely alone in an unfinished basement containing only a dusty old ping-pong table.

Was it all a dream? Did I really experience my girlfriend’s fantasy, or was it all in my imagination?

“One can never be certain,” comes her voice from somewhere in the darkness.

“Ulli? Is -- Is that you?” I stumble over something on the floor and bang my head against a ventilation pipe.

Then I am blinded by a bright light. It is my girlfriend Ulli, who has turned on a flashlight. She walks towards me slowly, her hips swaying seductively like those of a runway model.

“What just happened?” I ask her. "I don't know what to think."

“Fantasy does not judge,” she says with a condescending frown. Then she shows me that beautiful smile of hers. “You can believe it was all in your imagination, or you can believe as I do that we traveled together to a special place, wherein we shared that beautiful moment with Roy Orbison, who is undying and eternally erotic.”

“But how did Roy Orbison come to life that way?” This talk of immortality and magic creeps me out, yet also arouses me. I suspect my girlfriend's a witch, maybe a ghost even. I feel she’s hiding some secret knowledge from me.

“Perhaps only the cling-film knows,” she whispers as she slips her hands under my sweatshirt and runs her fingers along my bare, shaved chest. “As I said, this sorority house basement lies in a magical realm of fantasy. Not all is as it seems here.”

That European accent of hers makes me so hot. Is it Norwegian or German? She often spoke fondly of both Oslo and Düsseldorf. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure of her full name. It’s only a guess, perhaps a wild one, but I imagine Ulli to be short for Ulrica. She is quite a beauty, although she does go a bit heavy on her makeup.

Ulli leans in close to blow in my ear as my cock grows quite hard and she takes my hand, pulling it down towards her crotch. Closer and closer, I finally am about to get my hand inside her panties.

“Sometimes,” she coos, “Illusion and reality blur. Sometimes it is quite erotic.”
Wednesday, March 10th, 2004
8:39 pm
Between Love & Cling-Film
It always begins the same. It is well past bedtime and I am watching paid commercial announcements, when I am again reminded of that certain man. Again I experience the delight that comes only when I venture to that delicious realm of fantasy.

“And just wait until you see what we have to show you...a new and exciting way to steam vegetables in your microwave oven!”

This television program is quite boring, I muse. I look at Jetta. She appears quite bored also. Terrapins often do. I consider changing the channel, but then it becomes suddenly quite interesting.

“Struggling with cling-film? Accidentally tearing holes in the cling-film as you roughly stretch the substance across bowls and sundry objects?”

“Ach! They are stretching cling-film over sundry objects!” It startles Jetta, but I can not contain my enthusiasm. How they wrap the vegetables and cooking pottery arouses me, and who was the genius that decided to wrap a clothes iron in cling-film? There are quite many objects which may be wrapped in cling-film, if one has an adventurous soul. I must find a VHS cassette and record this program at once.

“Exacerbate yourself no more!” comes a familiar baritone voice.

I glance up to see the man on the television. A man dressed in black clothing, wearing dark glasses. The fingers of my right hand quiver, forgetting for a moment the act they are engaged in presently.

“Also!” That man in black. How I despise him, and yet how I feel irresistibly drawn to him.

I clearly remember the day when first we met. I was attending a culinary academy in Oslo, and had thus far earned high marks. The head master personally selected me for the demonstration of steaming vegetables. It would have been the high point of my bourgeoning career had it not been for an uncontrollable obsession.

You see, it had been arranged that Roy Orbison would attend the demonstration on that fated day, and I could not help myself. At the moment the head master lifted the lid of the serving trays to reveal the vegetables, he was met with a shock. “There are no vegetables present,” he gasped. “Whatever shall we do?”

“I have a suggestion,” I said. “Perhaps we might wrap something else in cling-film?”

“But what? We must find something. Mr. Roy Orbison is here. It will be so embarrassing to disappoint our guest of honor.”

“Since he is our guest of honor, perhaps we might make Roy Orbison our centerpiece?”

“You don’t mean?”

“Yes. I suggest we wrap Roy Orbison in cling-film.”

“Very well. I suppose there is no other recourse.”

Roy Orbison was directed to the table, upon which he stood. I started at his ankles, binding them together in the loving embrace of cling-film. I swooned as I proceeded to encase his trembling knees. I leaned in close and pressed my face against the stretched miracle substance as I wrapped it around his waist, marveling at the way his belt buckle and the lower portion of his jacket bulged against the gossamer cocoon.

Then I heard the most shocking wail from near the lecture hall entrance.

“Stop that man! We have found the vegetables! He has deliberately sabotaged this demonstration!”

I never did finish wrapping Roy Orbison in cling-film. I was expelled from the culinary academy, and made the laughing stock of Oslo.

Neither would that be the last time our paths were fated to cross...Roy Orbison, cling-film, and I. In fact an eerily similar incident occurred last Autumn in Dusseldorf, when I was again confounded. Some would say it became an obsession. Some would say madness.

But now, seven years after our first encounter, having been humiliated so by a society that fears and shuns men such as me, I will wrap him. I will wrap Roy Orbison in cling-film if it is the last thing I do.

I walk calmly to the adjoining pantry which lies between my living room and the kitchen, touching the needle to a vinyl record of Roy Orbison’s “Only the Lonely” as I pass the gramophone. In the pantry I find my black leather trench coat, mirrored sunglasses, and several rolls of cling-film. The walls are lined with various newspaper clippings: “Orbison Stalked by Fan,” “Oslo Concert Date Cancelled,” and so forth.

I finish by placing Jetta in my coat pocket and walk out to the car. It takes me all night to drive to the U.S.A., but I presently find myself outside the Detroit home of my quarry. I watch him, watching television, unaware that I am watching him.

I observe as he rises and walks to his hall closet. It is dark, but I am certain of what I see. His closet is completely filled with cling-film; an unusual amount for one to possess, if one were not fascinated by the substance.

Perhaps he is intrigued by the possibility of rejoining our strange relationship. Could it be that the various restraining orders were put in place so that Mr. Orbison could restrain himself? Jetta nods wisely as I stroke her forehead with my left index finger.

So it is decided. I exit the vehicle and march henceforth to Mr. Orbison’s front door. There, I am met by a police officer who informs me of the restraining order. I toss my head back in laughter.

“I am afraid I shall have to pummel you immediately,” I observe.

“Very well. Proceed.”

I then remove two rolls of cling-film and pummel him with the agile grace of a white tiger, leaving him a heap at the front door. However, another officer appears round the corner by the stair.

“Ready, Jetta!” I pull Jetta from my pocket and fling her like a whirling shuriken at him. He also is rendered unconscious.

Proceeding into the heart of the building, I arrive at a large wooden door which I presume leads to Mr. Orbison’s bedroom. This is the moment of truth. I steel my resolve and swing the door open.

There he stands, that mysterious man in black. Although it is night his trademark black sunglasses are present as always. In his right hand he holds a brandy snifter half-full with Courvoisier.

“I knew you would find me,” Roy says in that rich baritone voice of his. “I suppose we both knew.”

“Indeed,” I say as I unwind a roll and begin wrapping it around his calves. “It was inevitable.”

“There’s just one thing I want to know before you wrap me in that cling-film of yours.”

“Yes?” I am at his hips now and frankly perturbed by the interruption.

“Does it fill you with such immense pleasure as it does me?”

Imagine my surprise when Roy Orbison plants a wet kiss on my mouth. I stop wrapping immediately. “Mein Gott! I am sorry, Mr. Orbison, but I fear there has been a terrible misunderstanding. Now if you will please remain still so that I can proceed wrapping you in the cling-film!”

With a look of shame, my black-clad angel complies.

I proceed wrapping him. I bind his arms tightly against his torso, such that he cannot move them. He is like a shiny black mummy, with whom I shall transcend the bounds of mortality and travel to the stars.

Roy Orbison is now completely wrapped in cling-film, from his toes to the top of his head. We share this beautiful moment together in a magical silence, interrupted only briefly by the faint sq-squeek-squeek as Roy adjusts his legs, and finally by the sound of approaching police sirens.

I am content.
Monday, March 8th, 2004
5:43 am
“An Appointment with Ecstasy”
It is February and I find myself at an inpatient psychiatric facility on the outskirts of Oslo. They do not allow me to keep Jetta. I wonder if perhaps she misses me.

I have been obsessed for some time with a certain image. An image of a certain man wearing black clothing and dark glasses, wrapped in cling-film. The facility oddly does nothing to deter me, and the drugs have little effect.

Every day it’s the same. After breakfast, I contently work on arts and crafts projects and then there is a break for lunch. After lunch, I attend a one-hour therapy session during which I recount my endless fantasies of wrapping Roy Orbison in cling-film. It is only a suspicion, perhaps a delusion, but beneath the doctor’s impassive expression I detect a hint that he enjoys these sessions as much as I do.

I am just putting the finishing touches on a fingerpaint of Roy Orbison when a nurse pops her head round the easel and says, “Ulrich Haarburste?”


“The doctor will see you now.”

“But my therapy session is always after lunch and I have not yet finished my arts and crafts session.”

“This is a special therapy session,” she insists.

Ach! Such torture never to finish what one begins.

We exchange small talk about terrapin care and sundry topics as I am escorted to the psychiatrist's office. I suspect I shall spend this session describing my dream of last night, but can you imagine my surprise when the nurse opens the door and who do I see but Roy Orbison?

I am speechless as the nurse closes the door and I am completely alone with Roy Orbison. His trademark black clothes are as real as my desire to cover them in cling-film.

“But where is the doctor?”

“I hope you do not object,” Roy Orbison says, “But he has consulted with me about your condition.”

“You know him?”

“Only casually,” he responds. “He approached me about the matter at a discotechque in Dusseldorf. He tells me you have an obsession with a certain act.”

“And why have you come?” The anticipation tears my insides apart.

“He tells me that the fulfillment of desire is not always unhealthy.“


“No more words,” he says. He places a finger upon my lips and a roll of cling-film in my outstretched hand.

I start at his shiny black boots. I wrap the magical substance around his calves several times and then proceed to encase his trembling knees. I marvel at the way his belt buckle and the buttons of his black jacket bulge against the stretched cling-film. I nearly wet myself in ecstasy as the roll passes his elbows.

I have nearly wrapped Roy Orbison completely in cling-film. I am up to his neck, pausing to admire my handiwork. His shimmering black clothing looks as though it were coated in my saliva and I imagine that the whole of him had just been in my mouth. For a moment I am a reptile who has just given birth to Roy Orbison as he squirms within the cling-film egg sack.

My meditation on his dream-like gossamer figure is interrupted by a familiar baritone voice.

“I want you to really wrap me in cling-film,” he says.

“But I am wrapping you in cling-film. I have nearly wrapped you completely.”

And then I watch breathlessly as he mouths the single most spine-tingling word I have heard uttered in all my existence.

Saturday, February 21st, 2004
9:38 pm
Monday, February 9th, 2004
1:24 pm
Warning over clingfilm 'condoms'

Cash-strapped teenagers are using clingfilm and crisp packets as condoms because they cannot afford the real thing, say experts.
Friday, January 9th, 2004
7:57 pm
Radio Clingfilm
A word to Canadian fans of the Roy in Clingfilm stories: A Saturday afternoon radio show on the CBC will be discussing the phenomenon of Roy in Clingfilm. There may be ways for people outside Canada also to listen. I do not know.

The story will be broadcast at about 2:40 PM CST on Saturday, January 17. The radio story will contain surprising new readings of the stories and a verbal examination of the universal appeal of wrapping Roy Orbison in clingfilm.

Unglaublich, you may be thinking to yourself. But listen if you can.
Friday, December 19th, 2003
12:19 am
Greetings from Dsseldorf
Mr. Haarb�rste has just contacted me especially to pass on to the LJ community that he has now posted two new 'Roy in Clingfilm' stories, which of course can be found at the usual place.

The first, Roy in Clingfilm in Space, was specially requested by me to appear in my humble but award-winning science fiction fanzine Zoo Nation. It is, as they say, Capital.

Also. The second story contains a special Christmas clingfilm treat. I would also like to pass on Ulli and Jetta's good wishes to all for the Christmas season. Danke.

Current Mood: recumbent
Saturday, December 13th, 2003
11:24 pm
It generally happens in a fashion similar to this.

Jetta and I were at the market, procuring ingredients for our nightly repast. As is often the case with man and terrapin, an argument broke out between us on the subject of lettuce selection vis a vis indicators of freshness.

A tall, dark shadow fell across us and I turned towards the figure, not initially lifting my gaze from the head of lettuce grasped gingerly in my hand.

"Pardon me, sir or madam", I said, still deeply engrossed in leafy contemplation, "can you enlighten me as to the proper criteria on which to judge the freshness of lettuce? This query is clearly not a pick-up line as it does not relate to the ripeness of sexually suggestive fruits."

There was no reply, and I glanced up from the green orb to confront dark sunglasses perched upon the unmistakable face of one Roy Orbison, darkly attired and allegedly dead.

Thus we arrive at the present.

"So.", I say.

He remains silent and unreadable.

"You are unmistakably Roy Orbison, a mucian of no small reknown and additionally one thought to be deceased."

His emotionless facade seemed to deflate slightly at this. "I must admit that in spite of my cover being blown I am relieved to for once not be improperly identified as Elvis."

"It is the sideburns", I tell him, "and the large, dark sunglasses." Out of politeness I fail to include his jowls and girth is this list.

He admits the vague resemblance.

"If I may be so bold", I say, "I will hazard a guess that you are also on occasion misidentified as Tony Clifton, alter ego to the equally deceased Andy Kaufman."

"You are very perceptive", he says.

I allow that this may be the case.

Jetta, whose appreciation of allegedly deceased public figures is somewhat less than my own, begins to fidget.

"Returning to your query", Roy Orbison says, "I judge the specifics to be essentially moot. This establishment does not offer for sale lettuce which is not currently fresh, and does purvey cling film, by use of which one may preserve such freshness more or less indefinitely."


That Roy Orbison should demonstrate familiarity with the application of cling film has sent my mind racing, but I effect a casual nonchalance in order to spare his peace of mind.

"And is this the secret to your own preservation?", I inquire as if in jest, daring him to answer in the affirmative.

"The details of my illusory death are better left undiscosed, as they are entirely mundane and would prove incriminating to those who aided in my deception. As to your suggestion that cling film may be used as a means of preserving youth, I must admit I am intrigued by the possibilities."

"I have some measure of expertise in the application of cling film", I explained. "And it occurs to me that when I was an adolescent I had the importance of sleep impressed upon me with the explanation that it is in sleep that one grows -- can the same be said of aging in general? Perhaps you would allow me to wrap you head to toe in cling film tonight before you retire to bed? Merely as an experiment in age suspension."

If you were to express your opinion that I at that point began to hold my breath, I would be forced to correct you, asserting that you had made a massive understatement.

He seems to deliberate for a moment. "Yes", he says, "it will be done as you say."

"Let us depart, then."

"What of your lettuce?" He gestures towards the vegetable object still in my hand.

"It will wait", I reply.

"Should we not venture more deeply into this market in order to purchase cling film?"

"It just so happens that I have what I believe to be a sufficient quantity of cling film in my car parked just outside."

"So be it", he says.

Roy Orbison, Jetta, and I arrive at his condo. I gather up my cling film and my terrapin and follow him in. It is very sparsely furnished.

As if reading my mind, Roy Orbisson fixes me with a shrouded gaze. "Due to the nature of my 'post mortem' existence, if you will, I by necessity live a somewhat nomadic life."

I say nothing, but follow him up to his bedroom.

"For reasons which I do not care to go into, I prefer to sleep fully attired in the manner in which you see me", he said.

"This will be no impediment."

He stands before me, waiting. I kneel at his black shoes and begin to slowly wrap Roy Orbison in cling film. I wrap him like a pharaoh, his arms crossed at his chest.

"Close your eyes", I tell him.


I remove his glasses and finish wrapping his head, making a hole for his mouth and then replacing his glasses.

"It is done", I say.

"Would you be so kind as to tip me back onto the bed?", he inquires in a somewhat muffled manner.

"But of course." I lower him back onto his bed and then, taking initiative, roll him into the center of it.

"Thank you", he says. "You may let yourself out."

"I will do so in time", I reply. I seat myself in a lounge chair across from his bed, laying Jetta upon my knee, and lose myself in contemplation.

The next morning I awake to find Roy gone. It appears that he has managed to roll himself out of the condo and away, abandoning his few possessions. I collect Jetta and we return to the market in pursuit of breakfast.
Saturday, November 15th, 2003
8:55 pm
roy once played in a band called the traveling wilburys with tom petty, george harrison, bob dylan, and jeff lynne. their hits included "handle with care", "last night", and "end of the line".

the traveling wilburys played an entire american tour in 1988, wrapped in cling film onstage. their tour was sponsored by glad wrap.

the group reportedly lost weight while performing onstage in clingfilm and sweating off the pounds. as a result, glad wrap began a marketing campaign aimed towards weight conscious americans, urging them to wear clingfilm while exercising.

after complaints and theats of lawsuits from consumer groups who claimed the clingfilm ads were unsafe for toddlers and infants, glad wrap dropped the campaign, and withdrew their sponsorship of the traveling wilburys shortly thereafter.

although roy passed away in 1988, the traveling wilburys posthumously released their second cd, entitled Volume III, in 1990 and it topped the charts.

Current Mood: melancholy
Tuesday, July 22nd, 2003
3:02 pm
A Winter Morning in Oslo
Every day I walk the same route to the post office. This morning was very cold in Oslo but still I put Jetta in my pocket on the walk. Then who should I see when I walked into the post that afternoon? None other than Roy Orbison!

He stood by the mailboxes wearing his trademark dark glasses and black clothing, but I did notice his jacket was missing. "Hello," I said to him, shifting the backpack from one shoulder to another. It is a good thing I always have two or three rolls of clingfilm on me for just such instances.

"Good afternoon," said Roy Orbison sardonically. He noticed Jetta trying to crawl out of my pocket. "Is it safe to carry a terrapin around in your pocket on a morning this cold in Oslo?

"Yes," I answered. "It is completely safe." The sun filtered in from the outside and shone off his glasses.

"Perhaps you could help me," said Roy. "I seem to have lost my jacket and I am very cold. Do you have a jacket you could lend me."

"No," I told him. "But if you would like, I would be able to wrap you entirely in clingfilm until you are warm enough to carry on about your day."

"That sounds very nice," he told me. "How thoughtful of you."

I took the rolls of clingfilm out of my backpack and began methodically wrapping Roy Orbison up, very tightly. I knew that the clingfilm would not breathe as much as his trademark clothing, and would thus warm him. I wondered what a profound change this might make in him, if he would still be the same person when he eventually was unwrapped. Perhaps this would later affect his singing style or his way of life in the future.

When I was done, I looked at my handiwork. "There," I said. "Now you are completely wrapped in clingfilm."

I could tell he was trying to nod, but he did not have much range of movement. So for some time I simply chatted with him about fuel shortages and other matters of the day whilst Jetta crawled all over Roy. I think perhaps Roy very much enjoyed warming up on that cold morning in Oslo.
Saturday, July 12th, 2003
8:26 pm
i forgot about this community.
the other day i was driving along the highway and noticed that the female, mulleted equivalent of roy orbison was in the minivan in front of myself. dark shades and all.
Thursday, May 8th, 2003
7:17 pm
The story of Gary and his favourite pop sensation Roy Orbison
this post is a little long sorry-and urm i think the ending is alittle dissapointing and i'm working on an alternate and adult-explicit ending which should improve the story. please excuse the spelling mistakes etc.

it was a Tuesday afternoon, and Gary hated Tuesday afternoons, because it meant he had to go visit his aunty in West Yorkshire for afternoon tea and lessons in life-it was such a trek and he hate it, he really did. However this was to be a strange Tuesday for Gary, because as he was boarding his train he noticed his idol and favourite pop singer Roy Orbison staring at him from a huge billboard poster. The poster was advertising his latest tour of Europe, Roy looked as sophisticated and welcoming as ever to young Gary who had dreamed of this visit ever since he had found a copy of 'Ooby Dooby' in his fathers old record collection. 'This can't be' Gary whispered under his breath, 'after his last tour thirteen years ago, Roy swore he would never return-I never thought this day would come-i was resigned to an incomplete life'. It was true, last time he was here Roy had told the British press that he would never visit Europe, let alone Britain after he had gone to such lengths to secure a court injunction against the woman who had kidnapped Roy after a Gig in Manchester and driven him to a cottage in the remote parts of Yorkshire. To this day it remains unclear what had happened in the cottage during the three months, four days and twelve hours that Roy was held against his will. It had taken A mass search using the whole of Scotlands police force to find Roy. In the cottage police found nothing but canned food and a supply of cling-film that would last an everyday family three years. Roy has never spoken about his ordeal and has been known to walk out of interviews when the subject was mentioned. Gary thought himself to be Roy Orbisions biggest fan, and knew that he had to see Roy sing, but wait- the gig was tonight! Gary turned to his mother and begged to be allowed to skip visiting his aunt and to go and see Roy, but she scolded him saying 'Your aunty is very lonely and she does so very much enjoy your visits, your father and I have already told you that we are concerned about your interest in Roy-it really isn't healthy'; although she did not refer to it outloud, Gary knew his mother was referring to the countless times his mother had caught him in the middle of self-love whilst listening to 'only the lonely' and watching a DVD of Roys latest concert in Texas with the sound turned low. Gary tried to explain to her that if he missed Roy singing his songs then his reason for living would no longer exist and he would have to kill himself, but alas, his mother did not understand Garys love for Roy and bundled him onto the train. Gary arrived in Yorkshire a few hours later, his aunt met him at the station, 'Gary it's so nice to see you!' his aunt said taken hold of his bag- Garys aunt was always so nice and polite-but he felt that they had nothing in common and wondered why he was forced to visit her when all the other boys his age were allowed to play football and go to town with their friends(although, of course, Gary did want this he only wanted to be left alone with his Roy Orbison record collection- he had no friends anyway-they mocked his big black sunglasses and oversized suits). 'Hello Aunt Agatha' Gary Sighed, 'Why, You seem sad, whatever is wrong? his aunt replied. 'Well, it's nothing personal Aunt Agatha, but it has been my dream ever since I can remember to see Roy Orbison play his songs-and he is playing tonight and my parents won't let me go because I was due to visit you.' Agathas face had gone pale and her mouth had dropped wide open- 'R-R-RRoy Orbison is playing- and your parents won't let you go-how terrible-I know how much you love him-I understand-you simply must go.' With that Aunt Agatha escorted Gary to her car and instead of driving him to her cottage she drove him straight back to London- on the way Agatha turned to Gary and said sharply 'There is only one thing that I ask of you in return for me driving you to see your all time hero-you must never tell your parents.' after that they drove in silence accept for Agatha muttering under her breathe, which Gary heard only the occasional words, 'Roy ... back ...who..ever ...would..of...thought....' .As they approached the building where Roy was playing Garys Aunt asked Gary to check her brown basket bag in the seat next to him and tell her its contents. 'Just five roles of cling-film and nothing else,' Gary replied confused. 'Hmm..five roles, do you think that will be enough? maybe i should stop off at the supermarket and buy some more?..no we haven't got time.' Gary and Aunt Agatha queued up and bought tickets at the box office, 'How very strange people are,' Gary mused, 'I cannot understand why the world is not here tonight let alone that there are plenty spare tickets-and in such a shoddy venue!-I fear people are ignorant of the wonders of Roy and his music.'
'I quite agree' Agatha said, whilst undoing her handknitted blue and creme cardigan-underneath it she was wearing an oversized Roy Orbison t-shirt with his face on and underneath written in big bold letters 'UK tour- Manchester'. 'Why Aunt Agatha, you have seen Roy Orbison before?'
'Yes, I saw him on his last British tour-I went to see him at every venue he played- I am a big fan of Roy- in fact I have never taken this t-shirt off ever since I saw him in Manchester'
'How strange it is that my parents have never mentioned this to me, they know that I am a big fan, and you Aunt, why have you never mentioned this to me all those times I have spoken about Roys soft soft voice and his beautiful melodies.'
'I wanted to Gary- I so very much wanted to- but your parents have banned me from ever talking about him to you-and I-well I never thought I would see Roy again so I thought it was for the best to try and push him to the back of my mind.'
At this point Gary and Agatha walked into the venue, but instead of going straight to the front to watch Roy as Gary had assumed they would; Agatha took Gary down a corridor and through a door into the backstage area. The security guard was simple enough to get past when Agatha explained that she was diabetic and had been sent backstage to purchase some chocolate candy bars from the vending machines in Roys dressing room. 'What..what..are we doing here Aunt Agatha?' Gary stammered, confused but at the same time entranced by his surroundings; his idols dressing room. 'We must wait here for Roy to return, then, I think we should wrap him in clingfilm.' Agatha replied whilst taking off all her clothes. 'But why must we wrap in him cling-film and why must you be naked-i am very confused-i thought we had only come here to hear Roys sweet sweet voice?'
'No, things are not that simple-you see Gary- years ago I met Roy Orbison backstage at a charity concert, we became very very good friends and i joined him on his tourbus and eventually became lovers.' Agatha had turned away from Gary, but she could hear his breathing deepen..but she continued telling the story she had wanted to tell him for thirteen years. ' We became lovers and spent our days wrapping each other in cling-film and at night he would sing his songs- he wrote 'Pretty Woman' about me. But then one day he told me that he no longer wanted to wrap me in cling-film- I begged him to change his mind- and I told him that I was two months pregnant as I was, I had found out only the other day-I was happy-I felt like I was carrying Jesus. Roy was not so happy, but he agreed to stay with me for the sake of our child-however things changed and although I continued to wrap him in roles and roles of cling-film he did not reciprocate. One day after I had been shopping I came back to where the tour bus had been parked to find that it had gone and that Roy had driven to his next gig-in Manchester- without me. I followed him and got backstage to confront him- he refused to say he still loved me and said that he had never even wanted to be wrapped in cling-film. Of course I was hurt and shocked and there was nothing left to do but kidnap him, so I held him at knifepoint and took him to my cottage where I kept him for three months, four days and twelve hours, wrapping him in layer after layer of cling-film.'
'So you are the reason I have waited so long to see Roy!' Gary shouted angrily. 'Yes,' Agatha sighed, 'But there is more, I was giving birth to the child in my front room in front of a full log fire with Roy lying beside me wrapped in fifty-six layers of cling-film. Oh Gary, you should of seen it-it was the most beautiful moment of my life, when the police burst in as I gave birth to a baby boy. It was awful, they took Roy away and made him go to court and stopped us from seeing each other again.' At this point Agatha was sobbing loudly and uncontrollably.
'Wait!' Gary exclaimed, 'what about your son-I have never met him- whatever happened to him?'
'The authorities claimed I was an unfit mother and tried to take him away, however my sister- a highly respected lawyer managed to negotiate a deal where she would look after him and I would see him once a week...'
'So, you are my real mother, and Roy Orbison is my father?' Gary felt dizzy from this revelation- He had always considered Roy a kind of father figure in a twisted way yet also much more than that, so much more. At this point as Gary was trying to put order to the chaos that had been unleashed in his head Roy Orbison walked in. He stepped into the room and saw Agatha and Gary, he looked straight at Agathas naked body and fear spread over his face, 'You!' he spurted out. 'You are not allowed near me, the courts ordered it-I'm calling security' turning as if to find the guard that had so foolishly let Agatha into the room. 'Roy please-this is your son, don't deny him the love that he deserves. Come in and talk to your son.' Roy looked apprehensive but stepped back into the room, 'okay but only for a few seconds then I am going to get security to throw you out onto the street.'
Roy and Gary smiled at one another and Roy extended his hand for Gary to shake, Gary took it and his knees buckled. Roy said to Gary, 'I understand that I have not been around for you whilst you were and indeed still are growing up, but I would now like to offer you one wish to try and rectify my absence in the past.' Gary thought long and hard, he thought of every day dream and night time dream he had had about Roy(even the ones that had made him feel guilty-more so since he had discovered Roy Orbison was his father), eventualy Gary lifted his head and said calmly and confidently. 'I would like it very much if my mother and I were able to wrap you in cling-film, as a family.'
' So it shall be.' and Roy stepped forward and put his arms flat against his body and stood with his legs close together. Agatha took out the roles of cling-film and began to wrap one of them around Roys legs, Gary followed his new mothers actions and began wrapping the cling-film around his new fathers waist and wrapped up towards his head. The family continued until Roy was completely covered in cling-film.
Just as Gary thought he was the happiest he had ever been and indeed would ever be, he jolted upright on the train seat -it had infact just been another dream and he was just arriving into Yorkshire station where he would be met by Aunt Agatha. 'Oh well' he sighed to himself, ' I guess it's best that Roy Orbison isn't my father, I suppose it isn't exactly normal to dream about wrapping your father in cling-film!' he chuckled to himself and closed his eyes and had one last thought about Roy before the train came to a stop.
Friday, April 25th, 2003
8:30 pm
omfg. ok so i went to go watch my friend play at this little coffeeshop 'round here. i look at the little blackboard at the door, and who's name do i see right before ian's? why, none other than ROY ORBISON HIMSELF. meaning he played there TODAY, and i may have missed him by mere minutes! all i could think was WHY was i not informed, so i could be present and armed with a fresh and festive roll of cling-wrap?!?!!!1!111. all my dreams, shot to the ground.

Current Mood: i will kill myself now
Saturday, April 26th, 2003
11:42 am
Being a secret agent for a top secret government agency, I am always on a top secret agency mission. My most recent mission was like something from that eighties television show MacGuyver, in that my mission was to take cling-film, the brand being of no object, a music legend, no preference so long as he or she was clad in black, and it said ingredients, create a bomb to blow up Uganda, for colored people with AIDS and too many skinny children are far from acceptable.

So I set out on my mission, wearing a trenchcoat and fedora, for that is what all top secret government agents wear, beginning at the local food shoppe. Scanning the queues, I finally came to the picnic item row, where the cling-film could be found, and oh boy did I find it! Stalled for a moment as I perused which brand and color to use, I finally procured a giant box of Saran wrap, in a lovely shade of fuschia. Waiting in line like a normal civilian so as not to be discovered as a top secret government agent, I paid for my cling-film and set out to continue my sojourn. Hopping on my government-issue black helicopter which was conveniently parked on the roof of this humble food shoppe, I set my course for Los Angeles, City of Angeles [my Spanish is not so good], in the state of California, for there are many celebrities in this den of intrigue, and at least a handful were bound to be clad in black. The chopper touched down on top of the Hollywood sign, which is actually an establishment for government experiments in the wonders of cling-film. I took a government-issue automobile, and set out for the hangouts of the stars. One would not believe my luck on nearly dashing a black-clad celebrity to the asphalt, for my driving skills are not nearly on par with my helicopter flying skills. Jumping out of my smashed auto, for it could explode, i scurried to the crumpled celebrity's side, cling-film in hand, on the somewhat bloodied pavement, but that could have been from an unrelated accident. With suprise on taking in the figure's torn black garments and cap of thick black hair, not to mention the signature black sunglasses, I shouted, "Oh my word! You are countrypop legend Roy Orbison, are you not?!" The maimed being of great musical prowess croaked out, "Hell naw, sonny, I'm Johnny Cash, the man in black! And furthermore, Roy Orbison has been dead for quite some time now!" I quickly recovered my composure as a top secret government agent, and without further ado, began to wrap up Johnny Cash, living legend in black, in my hot pink cling-film, so as to stop the blood gushing from a flesh wound, leaving only a hole to breathe from by his flared, indignant, celebrity nostrils. After such an arduous task, I was in dire need of refreshment, so I left the cocooned Johnny Cash by the roadside while I stepped over to a nearby hot dog stand. I purchased some crab juice and a soy dog, and fell to consuming it ravenously. By the time I had finished, Johnny Cash had partly wriggled from his swaddlings of magenta. I dashed over and re-enveloped the struggling legend, and threw the weight into the back of my dented government-issue vehicle. "You are off to the African nation of Uganda, Mr Cash!" I cried gleefully, at having my mission come to its fruition. "But first, would you mind signing an autograph, if it is not too much trouble?" The forlorn singer took my Uniball pen betwixt his clenched teeth, and crudely signed my copy of his newest CD, which, thankfully, I carry with me at all times, for one never knows when one needs to bust out the tunes. At that, we returned to the Hollywood sign, and throwing Mr Cash on the government-issue helicopter bound for Uganda, I never saw him again.
Thursday, April 24th, 2003
4:28 pm
I was in the grocery store having just seen the commercial on tv. "You too could wrap Roy Orbison in Clingfilm! Just check specially marked boxes of Clingfilm for details!" then they cut to the kid who opens the box of Clingfilm, a flash of magic, and Roy Orbison was with him! "Well, you'd better get to it!" Orbison says while patting the small boy on the head like the small dog the child resembled. "Gee whiz Mr. Orbison!". The plastic mummification process then began as the commercial ended.

I could be that boy....

I immediately found the box. Roy's smiling face and approving thumbs up could not be mistaken for any other man. Without so much as a thought as to what I was doing, I opened the box, yes RIGHT THERE IN THE STORE! "OOOOOOOOOH ooooh pretty....WINNER!" Oh my! I was the winner! I was then surrounded by a wave of important looking men in suits and yes, Roy Orbison!

"You've won the contest, what's the first thing you're going to do?" "Well, I'm going to wrap Roy Orbison in Clingfilm of course!" I shouted back. The men in suits all laughed, but Mr. Orbison, well, he hugged me. "Come on son, let's do this for the good of the American people!" And I did the best damn job of wrapping another living creature I could.

That was 10 years ago, Roy went onto take my house, my family and yes, even my commemorative dinner plate of when Tony walked on Angela in the shower on that one episode of Who's the Boss! Damn you Roy Orbison and all your ilk!
9:43 am
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<center><img src="http://seemesmile.com/photos4/2870227a.jpg"</a></center>
<center><font size=1>(No it's not Warhol; it's a young Roy in colorful cling wrap for that special occasion)
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