Thursday, August 25, 2005

Can I come to your BBQ on bicycle?

It's to be a weekend for sages to drink and remember everything good about this world is best left hibernating between dusty covers until an innocent imagination is ready to create a new horizon for the world to wake-up to.

It's going to be verbose. It's going to be inebriated philosophy. It's going to be escapism from the laboring existence that we celebrate. It'll most likely be spent at home because gas prices are eating into out beer and beef money.

Damn this determined nonfiction kick. I'm reading The New New Journalism - the current literary journalism, creative nonfiction genre that has spun from Tom Wolfe's and Hunter Thompson's journalism of the '60s and '70s...only, imagine ivy leaguers and red, anti-drug ribbons. It's the party i want to crash because Hunter said so.

"Respectable, literary" - admirable, naieve and delusional masturbation. What is "literary" anyway? well-read? well-spoken? well-to-do? Well, shit and what about Shakespeare? What about Swift, Fitzgerald, and King? What about entertainment without depression? Why does everything lasting have to be real?

I say "real" and not "true" because truth is as real as a little boy's talking blanket. Where has fiction gone? Lost in the desert? And where's the midget winch with my beer?!!

So I've been reading this new age journalism and it's like sitting in on a seance with hippies and their PDAs ( ... ) and I look forward to reading Tom Wolfe's collection of essays where he actually coined the phrase "New Journalism" next. Why am I not reading something fictional?

My determination, yesterday, suffered a slow death. I walked into the library this afternoon and looked-up the Tom Wolfe book in the card catalog, nothing. Okay, fine, I'll "shop" around; I've been meaning to get a library card anyway. I take the elevator up into subtle emptiness, the notion of full shelves and shoulder-to-shoulder seating seemed to be rotting away under the ghost town dust.

I'm so used to the university library and having to ask for directions just get out! Here, I could scream and the echo would bounce off the municipal building across the street. This brought back memories of the last time I came into this library. I was on a deadline mission to find a copy of the AP Stylebook only to find the lone copy was out-dated. Yet, I keep returning hoping to be inspired and comforted by the musty smell of written imagination.

Anyway, so i come home and smoke a cigarette in the back yard while the dogs bark at children walking home from school and the mosquitos snack on my legs and torso. Walking back into a book environment was a little heartbreaking. Maybe I should've double-majored in business start-up and English rather than Journalism and English. I remembered my gripes about B&N and it's coorporate focus.

I remembered talking to myself in the echoing bathroom as if I were talking to Steve Riggio. I offered bookseller advice on how he needed to change the largest chain bookstore on the globe. And, today, I remembered I'm only a writer with no clips. I'm not ready to change the world. I need to change my focus. To what...I have no fucking clue.

And like that, this post has gone seriously unhumorous. With everything that's wrong outside my front door, I can't laugh at it, can't change it, and all I can think about is that culture of people that sell, re-sell, and check-out books to the mostly ignorant public. How many writers work in such environments and never make it? And, what about the aspiring novelists that take dictation for pediatritions or bag groceries?

And now i'm lost.
(sticks thumb out)
(thinks of homicidal drivers and interstate rest stops)
(puts thumb in mouth)

I'll just wander around. Bother the bookseller or librarian only for A) you've exhausted all other options while looking for a particular book or B) you want to know what they personally recommend. Never bring a list. Leave yourself open to finding the one book that has been looking for your home since it was unpacked. Converse with the covers; see yourself for the first time - every time - through the eyes of a new author. Avoid sleeping with the bestsellers.

It's time to put some distance between myself and this one-night-stand before she wakes up. With gas prices f-ing us all in the ass without even an presidential reach-around, travelling is something only afforded by those with stock in Exxon, Mobile, Shell, and Haliburton. All week, we've cut-back on daily splurges so we can enjoy this weekend of celebration. Exploit the shit out of that responsibility. God knows, we all need a weekend of reckless abandon.

I don't know what the local city councils have planned for this weekend. There will probably be fireworks and it all drunk and happy. Live in that world because everything pressing and real can't be done on Monday. Monday, we and Uncle Sam will have something in common: we'll be sleeping off hangovers. Revel in that. It's a fictional world that we rarely allow ourselves to thrive in.


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