One Christmas, Dennis Dermody, the movie critic of 'Paper,' gave

Host: The apartment was a shrine to cinema and chaos. Posters of old films — Pink Flamingos, Sunset Boulevard, Rocky Horror — plastered the walls, curling at the edges like well-worn memories. A lava lamp pulsed in the corner, casting psychedelic shadows across a cluttered coffee table piled with magazines, ashtrays, and half-drunk martinis.

A faint Christmas song drifted ironically from a battered record player, slow and warbled, like nostalgia performed by ghosts.

Jack and Jeeny sat in the middle of the mess — Jack sprawled on the rug, cigarette dangling between his fingers; Jeeny perched on the arm of the couch, a glass of red wine swirling lazily in her hand.

On the table before them lay a leather-bound book, aged and exquisite, its pages yellowed, the edges gilded. It was absurdly elegant amidst the wreckage of life.

Jack flipped it open, grinning.

Jack: “You’re kidding me. This is the invitation list? Rock Hudson’s memorial?”

Jeeny: smirking “Dennis Dermody gave it to John Waters for Christmas. He said it was ‘so great’ because everyone was in it. With personal addresses. Bound into a book.”

Jack: laughing “That’s the most John Waters gift I’ve ever heard of — glamorous morbidity wrapped in social commentary.”

Host: The room smelled faintly of tobacco, perfume, and irony. The kind of scent that sticks to walls and memories alike.

Jeeny: “He also said someone once gave him Ike Turner’s will.”

Jack: grinning wider “Of course he did. Only Waters could curate death like it’s pop art.”

Jeeny: “And you know what? He’s right. It’s great stuff. But not because it’s macabre. It’s great because it’s real. The glitz, the downfall, the myth — all bound together in leather. It’s America’s religion.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, and the Christmas lights on the sill flickered. They weren’t festive — just faintly tragic, like someone trying to convince themselves the season still meant something.

Jack: taking a drag from his cigarette “You know, there’s something genius about that kind of collecting — not of objects, but of stories stolen from endings. That’s what Waters does. He turns decay into camp. Death into décor.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Exactly. He finds truth in trash. The whole point of his aesthetic is that the grotesque is honest. Everyone wants to look pretty while they’re rotting — he just calls it out with a laugh.”

Jack: flipping another page of the memorial book, eyes glinting with dark amusement “I mean, listen to these names. Studio heads. Actors. Directors. The power and the pity of it all. Every single one of them was pretending to live forever.”

Jeeny: softly “And now they’re alphabetized.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like cigarette smoke — elegant, inevitable, disappearing too soon.

Jack: “That’s the punchline of fame, isn’t it? You spend your whole life trying to be unforgettable. And in the end, someone’s flipping through your name at a cocktail party.”

Jeeny: smiling, not unkindly “Unless you’re John Waters. Then you make the cocktail party the memorial.”

Host: The fireplace (electric, humming faintly) glowed, casting a plastic warmth across their faces. The lava lamp bubbled slower now, its red light pulsing like a lazy heartbeat.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about him? He’s not mocking death — he’s befriending it. Like a gossip columnist for the afterlife.”

Jack: grinning “Yeah. He’s the only guy who could say, ‘I got Rock Hudson’s memorial list for Christmas,’ and make it sound like winning an Oscar.”

Jeeny: “Because he sees culture in the dark corners. He collects the things everyone else throws away — the stories, the scandals, the absurd artifacts of people pretending they weren’t human.”

Host: She leaned forward, turning a page delicately — as though she might wake someone by accident. The names shimmered faintly under the dim light, a roll call of an era that glittered itself to death.

Jeeny: whispering, almost reverently “All that glamour, all those perfect faces — and here they are, reduced to ink and paper. It’s beautiful in a strange way.”

Jack: smirking “You call death beautiful a lot.”

Jeeny: “Only when it’s honest. Most of us die pretending we’re still living the part.”

Host: Jack stubbed out his cigarette, his eyes thoughtful, his tone less sardonic now.

Jack: “You think that’s why Waters collects things like this? Because deep down, he’s terrified of being forgotten too?”

Jeeny: pausing “No. I think he already made peace with that. He’s not trying to escape death — he’s trying to laugh with it. That’s the real rebellion.”

Jack: “Turning mortality into a punchline.”

Jeeny: “Or into art.”

Host: The record crackled and skipped, the crooning voice looping for a moment before fading into silence. The room felt suspended in amber — a time capsule of irreverent beauty and tragic wit.

Jack: leaning back, exhaling “You know, it’s strange. Somewhere out there, a man spent his life chasing cameras, premieres, and applause. And here we are, decades later, reading his name like a charm.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s immortality. Not the spotlight — the aftertaste.”

Host: The Christmas lights buzzed softly, their glow soft and forgiving. Jeeny closed the book, her hand lingering on the leather cover — not out of reverence, but respect.

Jack: “You think he’d be okay with us talking about him like this?”

Jeeny: grinning “John Waters? He’d light a cigarette, pour a martini, and say, ‘Finally, someone gets the joke.’”

Host: They both laughed — low and tired and real — and for a moment, the whole scene felt cinematic: two cynics surrounded by relics of the glamorous dead, discovering that irreverence could be holy.

The lava lamp made its final, lazy bubble. The fireplace hummed.

Outside, the snow began to fall, silent and slow, covering the city in a thin layer of forgiveness.

And as Jack and Jeeny sat in that glowing mess of art and ashes, the spirit of John Waters himself seemed to whisper through the room — a laughter both wicked and wise:

“Collect what others fear to touch. That’s where the truth hides — in the trash, in the irony, in the leftover shimmer of people who once dared to be extraordinary.”

The book stayed open on the table, the names still gleaming faintly under the soft light — a roll call of ghosts who, in death, had found the perfect host: a man who knew that beauty and decay were never enemies.

And that, sometimes, the best Christmas gift is a reminder —
that even the endings still have stories worth keeping.