"Football Season is Over" the last words of Hunter S. Thompson before he blew his brains out, and his friends respected his wishes that whatever remained be blown out of a giant cannon. Beyond judging Hunter, or judging suicide, beyond good or bad sense...can you understand how he felt? How it feels to be a man? The vessel of your own creation, however flawed; your very existence hewn from ruin, everyday. Trying to thrive, only to find that the Super Bowl as usual was predictable, just like all the others and in the end an anticlimactic let down– just like before. It's enuff to "make a nughhh go craaaayyyzaayyyy!" or at least get your ODB on and do some drugs... ...or a cocktail of heroin, ecstasy, cocaine and special k(fuck!)
Off topic, my question is why do we keep letting these maladjusted motherfuckers make our minds up for us in the first place? Are we all just a sucker for a moving sermon and a few well placed couplets? If an opinion is expressed in song form is it that much more convincing? Hell, rap music is the reason I stopped eating pork inthe 80s. So I know I'm always swayed, maybe more than I even know, y'know?
Back on topic: lately, say the last 9 years or so; I have felt like I'm standing in the berth of Hunter's canon and checking my shotgun, and my mouth for fit, and– I just haven't been writing, there– I said it. I haven't been writing, not really writing, not for a long, long time. Sure, I been moonlighting doing other people's term papers and giving away my best lines but my voice went mute a long time ago, it just didn't realize it was mute. But after my voice found out it was gone? Sheeit, we were really through.
You see, at one time I fancied myself a man of letters, furthermore I scoffed at those who would offer themselves up to the world part and parcel without the benefit of any life experience. Hemmingway haters be damned, just because you can doesn't mean that you should. I mean, come on dude, your droning on about "your student loans are late, and you miss your dead mom, and cancer, cancer really sucks, and you already named your kids and she still left you" and WHO THEE FUCK CARES? That was my refrain. Writing should transcend. I mean come on yawl: Emerson? Anyone? Ralph, Waldo, Emerson? Anyone? Anyone? Something-something-dentalism? The question we should all be asking ourselves in this post-post-post party is: Is it transcendent? Is it something that people can use? And seriously, how can you ever know without the benefit of some life experience?
Back in the day, I felt like I had better stories to tell then and better ones even still yet to come, or so I thought. So I sought them out, MY stories, good stories, things that I would go through that people could use. Transcendent experiences. So I set about subconsciously scripting my life, maybe even making choices that were not the best in the "service of my art" (no bullshit, I'm kind of a douche.) But I would be lying if I didn't say that I was thrilled by the material that my misfortunes, misogyny, misinformation and plain old mistakes provided. I was as much observer as participant making me some sort of emotional conscientious objector, in it but not of it.
Committed or not, emotionally– spiritually, even... ...episode by episode I have been killing myself. Unintentional suicide makes a shotgun an easy fit. But I can't go out like a nut, so you branch out, you try something different you don't say you quit writing, you just take some time away and promise yourself you will finish what you started another day. Of course you can't deny your voice, so you make some failed attempts at other things. Other things that don't satisfy you nearly as much, but all that gets you is that extra special soul crushing defeat that can only be manufactured from inside. THAT surprise ending is enough to make you start to think that maybe February is the cruelest month. Cue the Greek Chorus for a resounding cry of:"Hey, Deus Ex Muthaphucka– muthaphucka." Game's over, it's a fucking blowout, and you? You lose...again. Surprise! Ha, ha! For me, February has turned to August and unfortunately all that ammo that I loaded in my gun? What the fuck am I gonna do with all that sweet Pearl Jam? What are you going to shoot it at? You can't go blind, steadily complaining that you "slap the ham" because you can't find the pussy right? And hey, you can't go out without at least busting a nut...soooo..... you gotsta get your fuck on. Self propagation, that's even better than self preservation, right? Looks like I better find a pen.
Committed or not, emotionally– spiritually, even... ...episode by episode I have been killing myself. Unintentional suicide makes a shotgun an easy fit. But I can't go out like a nut, so you branch out, you try something different you don't say you quit writing, you just take some time away and promise yourself you will finish what you started another day. Of course you can't deny your voice, so you make some failed attempts at other things. Other things that don't satisfy you nearly as much, but all that gets you is that extra special soul crushing defeat that can only be manufactured from inside. THAT surprise ending is enough to make you start to think that maybe February is the cruelest month. Cue the Greek Chorus for a resounding cry of:"Hey, Deus Ex Muthaphucka– muthaphucka." Game's over, it's a fucking blowout, and you? You lose...again. Surprise! Ha, ha! For me, February has turned to August and unfortunately all that ammo that I loaded in my gun? What the fuck am I gonna do with all that sweet Pearl Jam? What are you going to shoot it at? You can't go blind, steadily complaining that you "slap the ham" because you can't find the pussy right? And hey, you can't go out without at least busting a nut...soooo..... you gotsta get your fuck on. Self propagation, that's even better than self preservation, right? Looks like I better find a pen.
In the midst of upheaval and mental unrest forms the perfect storm of impetus. Is it a herald of encouragement or a harbinger of the end of days? I still just want it all to be over, but somewhere between Cary Tennis' thoughts on creativity, Californication, numerology and Art and Fear; I've found myself the chance to get some niiice pussy. It's either that or the "lead- based" version of the master cleanse. 21 grams might not seem like incredible results, but damn the effects would be long lasting and how could that not be satisfying? I guess what I'm trying to say, and what you will see if you click them lainks is that I know I am not alone, but sometimes you just feel like you are by yourself. So this missive was my first shot out of the canon, fired over the bow; it was the only way I could think of to not become the ammunition.
