Before Editing, Final Words About A Classic 911 Story

any day

This is a basic attempt reading what I don’t have time to write out. I will work on it in the winter when I get around at starting ‘A Flask of Gin’, which will be a totally different kind of book for me and focus on gonzo journalism and features a new voice, a character named Auden Wyatt. It is faster than it was originally read for timing reasons. It was structured like a pop song in a four four beat. Letting the typewriter and the oldies move out focusing on your memories that are ten years or more older while also living in the present real world. It was just an experiment and it was damn worth it. It’s a good feeling when you’re done with writing and you need a shower and your muscles are tired…So yeah, the structure is spontaneous with the verses being all over the place but always coming back to the chorus and the main themes of the story, which are the White Bonneville and the World Can’t Wait Rally in Chicago, the pizza lunch with my old political science professor who was from Iraq and the mission accomplished speech given by W. That along with Hunter S. Thompson and what he would say now about the current historical period we are now witnessing. Those were the main concepts that I always tried to come back to, they acted like the story arcs if you will, and from the middle out you have the other thoughts both real and dreamlike that filtered in and out creating a sort of breathing story of the universe of a decade of actual living. I will finish it for the book. When read (without me reading it out loud because of the terrible recording equipment and reading voice I have) on paper (hopefully) all of this nonsense might create a mosaic of what I think sort of happened. You write to learn what you know. You write in order to discover what really happened. You write to see into the future. That is the nature of the scientific revolution. P.S: This is a picture I snapped with new camera wandering around the grand river. I don’t know. I didn’t mess with it. Same ol’. No big deal. It was a nice day. That’s all. Peace. Good Luck Out There Humans. 



Chapter Three: Of Course. Bats.

A classic 911 story ending: The spontaneous revolutions are further apart as you get older and you need to experience the creative human spirit when it takes a hold of you. I believe in taking the picture when you see it, like you might not ever see it again, the now or never, and even when you’re chained you can run. Of course The work takes your time up and this is alright, you need to relax and count with the abacus more and more often than not, that is, if you don’t want to drop dead before you’re fifty. Once in a while though it snaps into place and you just have to go. So (Auden Wyatt, the character of my gonzo style) got six solid pages typewritten single spaced. I don’t know, many words later. And it was fun and I tried to make it to 9:11 on the Patio. Didn’t happen. It ended alright I suppose. The story ended The way it should have. I was getting to a real good part and then I heard them scratching and yawning…Two bats, not even nine yet, dropped out of the rafters and couldn’t find the damn door. Back and forth I keep trying to tap. It’s weird and I know, but it’s kind of scary because I don’t like bats too much. They’re flying around and so I go outside to collect my nerves. The sun is setting and it’s fucking beautiful for a second, but then a butterfly goes on a kamikaze mission into my face as the radio breaks from ‘you aint nothing but a hound dog’ to ‘breaking news about chemical weapons, the BIG O speaks within the hour’. I’m holding a book, it’s about free speech, another quote…but I can’t remember the source off-hand. It reads something like, ‘those that hold the law in mind hold the wolves by the leash’. Sounds good to me. One bat hits the screen door. Idiot. Who the hell is weed whacking right now? My lord…and so I light a smoke and I’m surrounded by old cracks and steps and  the savage cell phone use about bills and pills and broken coin operated laundry. Who are these people? Why do they want to scream all day long. It’s alright…it’s just that when I smile A dragon-fly is chasing a hummingbird and I think neither won…. It’s over. I know it. I’m tired and drunk and so I sneak in and turn the typewriter off…Bats still circling. Monkcap Pulled down like I’m in the Cosby Cartoon gang. It’s a sick joke. Need a bat zapper but I respect em’ too much. It’s weird. I respect everything too much and everything only wants to kill me. Peace. The last song on the radio is Nowhere man by the Beatles. The last line is, ‘making his nowhere plans for nobody’. That’s it. It’s over. That’s about right.  The end. That’s a classic 911 story. (There’s so much more…) 

Chapter Two: Many Interruptions.

Notes Reported by Guest Writer, Auden Wyatt

Intro: Nothing says gonzo journalism more than a wet burrito and sparks energy drinks. (save the bathroom humor for dad-time or something)

2. The radio just said that the Michigan state police now have a drone in their “arsenal” that will go to help “the farmers”. This is a classic 911 story. There are many interruptions. The police are in the alley. The savages wont give a child back to its owner or something, and of course there are dogs. The swamps remind me of Chicago. The Bonneville was missing half of everything by this point. The big rally was over and we were eating chicken nuggets with young business students and Marxists alike. The nightmare before Scarborough country that was Ann Coulter. What a Nazi. The days of the real double cheese. I don’t know man, It’s such a terrible timeline that the years don’t even matter. It starts 2000-01ish and ends on the U.S.S Abraham Lincoln. What a shit show. Thank god for taco Tuesday. The Story needs to stop.

2. My mind is a particle accelerator. The history of my 9-1-1 is as absurd as W’s MISSION ACCOMPLISHED sign. World can’t wait bro. AND I’ve found out that Hunter S. Thompson does not like PBR and White Pontiac Bonnevilles. Geezer.

3. That was a close one. Almost went on rampage, but don’t worry. I found my pipe pen. Great product. (this is the actual one, I’ll hunt you down like a dumb dog if you steal it drunk)


Chapter One: A Pizza Party (fiction theory)

DOT DOT DOT…I will say this: My memory is up there with the best of folks who’ve ever lived. Now being able to somewhat match the prose with ideas is interesting. I can really have fun with writing, very much like how people watch movies once in a while I can let go and the fingers just go and dance around whatever you call human history. It’s a fine line and sometimes it’s fun to cross  The editing is the hard part but for today I’ll put that on hold. It’s the Last day of summer. 95 out. Back then gas was a little over a dollar. I was driving around in a White Pontiac Bonneville we took to Canada and Florida and instead of… I’m not sure what happened, but instead of the blue ceiling there was an american flag hanging down from the inside part of the roof. I don’t know why but it was annoying. The flag always came un-pinned and  got in the way when I was driving.  I got a couple running red light tickets because of this. And Super drag, In the Valley of Dying Stars… Just one of many compact discs that were spinning and have since all been stolen, some tens of thousands of dollars, theft, crime, gone forever, taken by those females called, damn ex girlfriends. But wait… Before the trips and the smuggling of pet gerbils in trunks across lines on made-up maps, well that month it was September.

I was in the good ol’ merican university. Let the loans pile and wherever in Wyoming the checks just came, and beer, it was everywhere. Actually being a decent student well that day I grabbed my Polaroid and snapped the fear lined out to the highway trying to get some gas. It started by the back door. I was smoking and already missed non western worlds. So be it. I guess I’ll go. I didn’t know what was going on yet but we weren’t at war and the recession hadn’t hit yet either, so everything was alright.  I was a freshman in college and watched the whole thing eating square cafeteria pizza with  my intro to political science teacher who just so happened to be from Iraq. Fate brings us here. That doesn’t mean a thing. But it sure is a good story. Anybody want to give me a job? The rest will be typed and I’ll get it out to the masses within a year. I’ve Edited my soul away and I’m tired and broke, but I’m taking the day off and being a writer and typing on the typewriter and going to write a classic gonzo journalistic piece about nine eleven.(Below is an interesting read. I’m not a political agent so please don’t associate me into a block of crab meat. I’m beyond the savagery. Writer Rule: Sometimes you have to get cocky.)

why the gulf war did not happen