peg22 | Crackfic: The Is-Ness of Paulie and Davey (Reply)

So, in honor of Laura's anniversary, as well as the spread of Is-ism accross the fandom, I took time out of my crack about StephenJensenJaredDaveyPaulie for Sheila, to scribble this bit which was DYING TO BE WRITTEN. Absolutely DYING.

This stuff writes itself. Really. It does.

It's crack. It's RPS (well if Davey has anything to do with it). It's in response to some interesting wordcrafting our Starsky has been engaged in.

The Very Is-ness of Paulie and Davey

(Paul is typing madly on his laptop, sitting in a lounger on his deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean when the phone rings)

Paul Glaser.

Is this Gertrude Stein?

Davey?

Well, apparently now I’m Alice B Toklas, Ms. Gertrude.

What are you . . .?

Well, apparently you’ve gone all butch and started spouting random shit I haven’t heard from you since you used to have that giant water bong hidden in your trailer. Remember that water bong, where you’d take a hit right down in the mermaid’s snatch? Man, I loved that bong. So, what gives, Gertrude? Jake turn you on to some of that genetically engineered stuff?

I still have no idea what you’re talking about. By the way, nice to hear from you.

You’ve heard from me.

I’ve heard ABOUT you. Stephen calls me with weekly updates of your adventures.

Fucking Fry.

Apparently.

What does that mean?

What are you doing in Vancouver, anyway? Stephen said you were hot on the trail of the next new thing – or something like that.

Well, I came up here to shoot a couple of scenes for that Welsh TV show I told you about and Stephen was already here, doing a guest gig on some vampire show. And you are just avoiding my question – what the hell are you smoking. And more importantly – why aren’t you sharing?

(sigh)

And don’t get all sigh-y with me. I hate when you do that.

I’m just waiting for you to actually start making sense. That’s all.

That’s all? You’re not squirreled away in your attic, typing madness on some old laptop, making all the fucking fan girls lose their minds, those same fan girls, by the way, you used to abhor, and now seem to be taking on the role of old fat fart guru-

Wait, now, that’s not exactly fair . . .

Not exactly, Gertrude? Is there no there there, there?

Davey, seriously. I have things to do.

The new one doesn’t know about us, huh?

What new – Davey, you’re an asshole. My personal life-

Is my personal life. Remember? Fucking hell, she must have some mad technique. Or really raunchy pictures . . . wait, I have those.

I can tell you’ve been spending too much time with Stephen . . .

Why, because I don’t just let you get away with shit? Or because, one moment, oh yes, here it is . . . because Isness Is . . . dude.”

Oh that.

And Paul joins the party already in progress.

Fuck off. It’s just a blog.

Just a blog? Apparently, it’s the new Sermon on the Mount – I fully expect Moses to appear shortly to-

Davey. Please.

Please? Really, please?

It’s just a blog. A place to write down some thoughts. Some things I’ve been wrestling with . . .

Jesus, Paulie. Are you really that unhappy?

I’m not unhappy.

You are officially unhinged. You’re not even on the planet. You’re in some kind of self-induced Paulie meets god and it doesn’t go so well funk. What is this shit? “We are in that we can see that we are.” I read that and I’m booking the next plane south, buddy. Be glad Stephen was here to stop me.

Remind me to send him some flowers.

Seriously, are you okay?

Jesus, Davey, really? I mean I know you gave up the esoteric about the time you gave up any sense of public decorum, but really? You’ve read my stuff. We’ve had long talks about this.

About is? We’ve talked about the isness of the is? Of the are in the are of the asshole of are?

Now you’re just being rude. Why don’t we talk about what’s really going on here.

You mean besides the egregious misuse of passive verb tenses?

Okay, I’m done. Why don’t you call me when you can be civil?

Alright, you fussy old woman. I’m done. I just didn’t want to be always known as the one who shaved Gertrude’s moustache . . .

Davey . . .

I give. I is done. So, when are you coming up here? Stephen’s dying to show you his new toys.

I’ve got things to do down here. I just can’t . . .

Yes, I know. All of a sudden you just can’t. I get it. So, it’s been great to talk to you . . .

Davey, don’t.

I’m not.

You are. And I can recognize it all the way down here. So why don’t you tell me now and we can both avoid the 4 am call that explains everything except why you waited until 4 am?

You love my 4 am calls.

No, you love your 4 am calls. I love your 6 pm calls. When you’re doing a show, I even enjoy the 8am calls. 4am-not so much. Or would you like me to just tell you why you called?

Oh, this should be good. Let me get my is on, my chi in place, my zen off my ass . . .

I’d like to get the zen off your ass . . .

Oh, Paulie, talk dirty to me.

You’re jealous.

Ouch. No foreplay?

I thought that’s what we’ve just been doing the last five minutes?

Okay, well, then, no lube? No “Davey, I know you find it difficult when my interests wander . . .”

She’s not an interest. She’s . . .

I’m hanging up now.

Davey.

Seriously, Paulie. First you wax on wax off in public to adoring grandmothers, and now you’re actually going to try to justify this latest what? Indiscretion?

Indiscretion? Is that what we’re calling you, Stephen, and the cast of Cirque De Soleil? An indiscretion?

No, I’d call that being in the being of being. I’d call that a big ol mind-blowing circle jerk.

Now, you’re just trying to piss me off.

I didn’t think that was possible, what with all your Zen-ness and your social calendar. I remember when Thursday actually meant something to you.

Ah, Davey, I’ve just been . . . well, oh hell. Are we going to spend our lives doing this?

Having phone sex?

No, recriminations and reconciliations and recriminations.

You forgot remembrances . . .

Don’t . . .

You know . . . re-member, as in; my arm is a ‘member ‘of my body and when I remember, I re-attach my arm to the rest of my body), - that’s a direct and rather insane quote, you know.

It’s just a blog, Davey.

Whatever, Paulie. I’m over it.

Just like that?

Just like that. Now when are you going to come up here and blog me? Aren’t I deserving of your wafting wordness?

Wow, you are over it.

Well, I’m just over fighting. Let’s make out.

Up. Make up.

Out, up, whatever. Come to Canada, Paulie. We can rent some obscenely expensive cabin on some ridiculously gorgeous lake. We can make up for an entire week. We can even get married.

What?

It’s legal here, you know? I can officially make you an honest man, Paulie. Till death do us part for real.

I thought we were already married.

Yes, but Vegas doesn’t count. Plus I don’t think that dwarf was a licensed minister.

He’s a little person, not a dwarf, Davey.

Oh, yes, Paulie, PC to the end, eh? So come on. I’ll wear my baby blue tux for you.

If your baby blue tux still fit you – I think I would marry you.

Are you calling me fat?

I’m calling you exhausting. Plus, I’m waiting for California to overturn Prop 8 before I get married. To anyone.

Oh, so it’s your political convictions holding you back?

Yes. I think it’s only right. If we can’t get married here, we shouldn’t get married.

Well, at least come up here for the cabane à sucre.