|
Loser Angeles >> Why John Ridley won't get sued for libel by JULIET WATERS
Unfortunately, I've never read any advice for what to do if your nasty character is a woman. But you might want to follow the example set by John Ridley in his third novel, Everybody Smokes in Hell. He gives his sadistic, creepy villainess a really, really big thing for Bachman Turner Overdrive. So much so that she's compelled to jump up in glee and start grinding to "Hey You," even if she's in the middle of torturing her victim with a lit cigarette. I don't know many women who would risk being suspected of being a closet BTO groupie, no matter how badly they've been painted in other ways. I also don't know if Ridley actually based any of the women in his novel on anyone he knows. But he seems to be asking for trouble in his dedication: "Sorry Gayle, this one's for Kaila"--given that there are two not especially likable characters in the novel named Gayle and Kaila. He does, however, guard himself nicely with the following disclaimer: "This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities between the miscreants in this story and the actual insipid degenerates who populate the city I hate more than cancer is purely coincidental. Anyone claiming to be represented in this novel is suffering from severe closet-psychotic ego issues that would best be dealt with immediately." And true enough, I can't imagine there's anyone who would want to be suspected of having inspired any of the characters in this non-stop, though entertaining, L.A. loser-ama. The closest thing there is to a central character in Everybody Smokes is Paris Scott, a failed actor, writer, musician, etc. A disappointment to his black suburban parents, Paris works the night shift in a 24/7 Mart. Although not a particularly decent person, one night he takes pity on a filthy, white, barely alive junkie who collapses in front of Paris' '76 Gremlin. When he drives "Filthy White Guy" home, Paris discovers he's actually Ian Jermaine, alternative superstar and lead singer for Will of Instinct. Jermaine plays Paris the masterpiece he's been working on, and fills him in on his very short life plan: to cement his icon status, Jermaine wants his last record released right after he shoots his own brains out. Paris doesn't take him seriously, but nevertheless swipes the tape just before leaving. Turns out, however, that Jermaine was serious, although not very competent. He misses his brains, but hits his foot, then falls out a window and chokes to death on a pile of manure. Meanwhile, Paris' roommate Buddy, has stumbled onto another cash cow, a small fortune in stolen drugs. Enter Brice, the BTO-loving, sadistic hitgirl, hired to recover the drugs and punish Buddy. Things get messy when Paris, who thinks Buddy has been killed by Jermaine's agent, splits town for Vegas--and Brice, who thinks Paris is running away with the drugs, follows him. What ensues is a plot so twisted and violent that a movie version could make Pulp Fiction look like an episode of Scooby Doo. Still, it's a fun book, even if just as you're starting to like a character, they usually end up gruesomely murdered. But the most disturbing thing about Everybody Smokes in Hell is that Brice is not the first sadistic character in literature this year to be a big BTO fan. Irvine Welsh's bad detective in Filth also had a tendency to crank up "You Ain't Seen Nothin' Yet" at key plot points. Coincidence? Trend? Plagiarism? Or is there a special shelf in hell these days reserved just for fat Canadian rockers?
Everybody Smokes in Hell by John Ridley, Knopf, hc, 236pp, $35 |
I once read some good advice for fiction writers worried about libel. If you're basing a negative character on someone you know, change his profession and any obvious physical similarities. Then, just to be safe, give him a really, really small penis--about the size of a snail. Apparently this will discourage him from wanting to publicize the connection.