Day one at Broken Arrow magazine. It feels good to be the man at the top. Not . . . that . . . I'm going to dominate everyone. I'll just snoop around and jot random little ideas onto a sort of communal notepad and post that sheet of paper on the bulletin board, then have everyone choose their assignment for the month. Yeah . . . well, I think I'll go do that orientation meeting . . .

“Alright, then . . .” I begin hoarsely. I've been screaming at photographers for interrupting me screaming at myself so far today, “welcome to Broken Arrow, where the pen is mightier than the sword, and now we've run amok with it.”

Only the army-savvy people laugh. I let it slide.

“You guys have to have true grit to work in the rough and tumble world of Gonzo journalism. Are you willing to reside in a camp with infamous bikers . . . drive at night with the lights off, in the middle of the desert . . . go for days without sleep?” Some of them raise their hands. “Good. Those of you who aren't must learn or lose. This is the 21^st century, man! And those of you who thought you dumbed down your resumes to get in here can fuck off; you know who you are. Any questions?” Some girl raises her hand. “Yes, you?”

“Do you approve of chemical stimulation?” she asks me sweetly, brushing her red hair out of her eyes.

“Ooh. Pedantic. Uh, so long as it works. Go ahead. God, I feel like Bill Murray . . .”

There's a more general laugh at that. Most everyone here has seen Where the Buffalo Roam. I smile.

“Well . . . okay . . . I have a notebook here and, each month, I will write a bunch of ideas, and you choose what you want to write about. Got it?”

They nod. The suckers . . . the Hell they will go through . . . at least half of them will quit, I bet. That's Gonzo. Pure Gonzo.

Back at my desk, I'm checking messages from the new staff for any questions while balancing out the same ol'-same ol' with some good-old-fashioned Gonzo on the Internet. I'm halfway through “The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved” when I hear a knock on my door. I jump and quickly minimize the window.

It's that pretty little redhead.

“Yo.” I growl from the desk, signaling for her to come hither with an underhanded snatch at the air. She opens the door and makes to close it.

“Leave it.” I tell her. She stands over my desk and leans over my monitor to see what I'm doing. In this process, her fifty-million-or-so hippie necklaces swing forward and hit me in the face.

Without saying a word, I grab the ends of those necklaces and tuck them into her peasant top. No discreet precautions about it.

“Hi.” she says calmly, ignoring what would otherwise be considered sexual harassment.

“Can I help you, Sweetie?” I ask her, not looking up. I will admit to being a bit of a misogynist . . .

“My name is Barbara, but you can call me Barbie.”

“Not 'Barbie-doll'?” I whined in mock-disappointment.

“Just Barbie. Um . . . anyway, I'm wondering if you've got assignments for me more along the lines of Thompson?”

“Such as?”

“Stuff he did in his books.” she explained gently. I tell you, this girl would make an excellent kindergarten teacher and an even better mother. Regardless, I groan: I selfishly save these assignments for myself. After all, that candy-apple red convertible is the unofficial company car, and I am the owner of the company . . .

It must be written all over my face, 'cause she says:

“You're not the only one who wants to be the new Thompson.”

“Oyyy . . . Okay. Barbie, I've got an offer for you.” I tell her sleepily, lighting a cigarette. Not that the nicotine will wake me up any . . . “would you like to come to Vegas with me? I'm covering the Mint 400.”

Her eyes light up. It's almost disturbing how bright they got.

“Ooh, yes!”

“Good. I'll need you to get plenty of medication. Especially aspirin. Oh, and drinks . . . yeh.” I can't help but laugh to myself. Hysterically.

She blinks.

“Are you just going to stand there 'til 2012?! Get the stuff! We head out in that damn firebomb of a car tonight!” I shout, jumping up and making like I'm about to swat her. She's smart, though. She knows I'm just playing, but she doesn't hesitate to grab the wad of bills in my hand (which I got out of petty cash) and repeat my request back to me.

“I know this sounds insane, but . . . see if you can still afford some Glenfiddich—let alone find it—and some chocolate while you're at it.” I add. “I'll handle the shirts and sound equipment. You can take the VW, I have dibs on the Chevy.”

“Take the Chevy to Vegas.” she adds before dashing away. She clearly strives for authenticity. I like that.

I lean back and turn on the intercom:

“You're listening to WBBR, the only Gonzo radio station in a closed-circuit setting. Come to think of it, the only Gonzo radio station in the whole world.

“Starting off with 'White Rabbit' by Jefferson Airplane, from their album Surrealistic Pillow. Now, I don't have a surrealistic pillow, but I have a psychedelic mattress. Send in your requests to Psychedelic Mattress and I'll see what I can do . . .” I hold the last word, spiraling into a voice-lashing low tone as the applause from my crew starts up in contrast.

“Now taking song and assignment requests.” I add quickly.

One of the guys asks about the Kentucky Derby. I tell him yes and remind him to get Revlon for the illustrator, because we strive for authenticity! Regular art tools will not do!

He nods. He leaves.

Now I'm bored. “White Rabbit” has peaked and gone. Barbie hasn't come back yet, and some of the employees are so damn stupid that they're coming straight to me for assignments. I tried to explain to these fools that they have to choose. They should be grateful, but they just don't get it. Ah well, too fucking bad for them.

Damned to defy . . .

Now sitting at a bar in whatever's still left of the Mint Hotel. Just after getting here I discovered that they no longer have the Mint 400, and boy, do I feel like an ass. Never the motherfucking less, I've managed to catch up on what happened so far:

We were somewhere around Austin when we left, trying not to hit folkies at yet another festival (I swear to God, it's like ancient Rome here. Every day's a holiday!) I could sometimes forget that these “beautiful people” were the main reasons that I came to live here.

But they're not beautiful people. They're just misguided.

Back to business. Barbie insisted on driving because I'd already pounced upon the drinks and chocolate. Because of the alcohol and the cannabis-like effects of the chocolate (chocolate is pretty much the most psychoactive thing legally in the market with no restrictions applied to it), coupled with the fact that they both induce heartburn, she couldn't trust me to drive like I wasn't suicidal, or something. I did, of course, get into the Pepcid—this girl is smart, man, very smart indeed—to douse the flames that were making buffalo wings of my insides, and lit several cones of “china musk” incense to put in a burner dangling off the rearview mirror. It was like a counterculture air freshener, and we felt very hep as we wound our merry (Merry Prankster?) way to Nevada . . .

We cut through Colorado, and so we decided to see if we could get to Owl Farm.

Couldn't, of course, because we had deadlines to meet with no time to play in Woody Creek. But it was worth it, feeling adventurous . . .

So it was my turn to drive. As we were cutting through Utah, I swerved towards Salt Lake City, the safe haven to the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-Day Saints—Mormons—and the location of the Olympics in the early years of the 21^st century. That city had history that mattered to me.

Alas, the city has become far too populated, like Aspen and the state of Cancun . . . I had to get the fuck out of there.

So we finally reached a desolate stretch of road, and Barbie finally let loose with a Miller lite and a Grateful Dead song. “Cosmic Charlie,” if I remember correctly. She was beautiful, with her hair flapping in the wind and the glow, caused

by too much heat and alcohol, shining . . .

I'm getting melodramatic. But I have to admit that it was all I could do at times not to pull the car to the side of the road and shag her absolutely senseless.

When we got to the Mint Hotel, I was grateful that I hadn't gone rummaging in the “Doctor's Bag.” I would have had a most horrible bummer. Yeah . . . typing this all down on my laptop at a Vegas bar feels so . . . weird . . . I ought to be surrounded by lizards, or something.

“Gavin,” I tell myself, “you're a fucking loser.”

And I am.

. . . As I was saying, the Doctor's Bag is a little thing of magic . . . full of all the equipment a Gonzo Magician needs.

I am a doctor of Gonzo Medicine. Not a legitimate branch of medicine, necessarily, but, nonetheless, something that my Estonian lawyer introduced to me as a surprisingly satisfying career.

After checking in, we took our bags upstairs and came down to the bar. Barbie came with me to get drunk. She was all business when we left, but now she's here for the party that never stops, regardless of how many times someone vomits or gets stabbed in the gut. I'm here to do the job. Well . . . the party would be nice, too . . .

So . . . here we are. Better phone the office and ask how things are going, eh?

Oh . . . Shit. The company has no petty cash. I'd forgotten that I took it all. Not good, not good, not-good-in-the-very-least! Should I leave Barbie to fend for herself? I have got to get running. Fast. But I just can't seem to . . . but . . .

Aw, fuck, it: RUN!

No story, no petty cash . . . egad, I'm fucked if this continues. Better run to Mexico . . . I know a good bar where “Happy Hour” is, in fact, three hours long down in Merida . . . get a job selling gum to tourists . . . do they buy more from Gringos? Maybe. I can feel myself slipping into an insanity rant as I go. No paragraphing, sometimes no punctuation or, God forbid, no spacing, so you get a huge, crazy run on sentence that goes on for Jesus god maybe even days but let's hope to God that I don't go down that road. Yeh. That would be bad. Best let it subside...

“Feelin' better?” asked Dr. Salazar Gonzaga. I nodded dumbly. I was lying. After the crash I passed out on my typewriter, twitching.

“Holy Jesus God Almighty, man!” I snapped to full alertness when a wad of cash—complete with Mayan silver money clip . . . my Mayan silver money clip!—clacked against my throbbing skull. I pulled off my Ben Franklins to see Barbie standing over me. Good God: She'd gone hunnert-persint bohemian!

“That's for leaving me in the middle of a beatnik festival on the outskirts of Austin!” she huffed. I didn't comprehend for a moment what she meant. Then it hit me: indeed, I had left her there because she was twisted at the time . . . I couldn't abide by that. She would have been a liability . . .

But it was time to make a decision:

“You're hired. As manager. While I'm gone. I'm gonna go to Mexico and lay low for a few weeks . . . feel like I'm gonna get fucked . . . in a bad way, mind. Not like the way I ought to be by you.” I winked lustfully. “Don't let the guys do something stupid . . .” by this time I'd started grabbing random things and stuffing them into my satchel: zippos, smokes, a hunting knife, cash . . .

I hurriedly stuffed the bills in the money clip into my breast pocket, right next to my Marlboros. Menthol. Grabbed the tape machine . . . medications . . .

I stared at my cell phone for a moment. I hardly ever used it. More staring. Then I handed it to Barbara.

“You take this. I never have a use for it . . .”

She looked at me, dumbfounded, while I changed the cigarette in the holder . . . I am quite a poseur.

“How long will you be in Mexico?” she asked for verification.

“. . .'Bout a month. Depends on how long the cash lasts.” I said solemnly. “Luckily, though, the border between Texas and Mexico is guarded by either really liberal—or just really lazy—people. When Kesey came back from his escape after that marijuana charge, he came riding a swaybacked horse and plucking a guitar . . . all they did was take the horse.”

“Right . . . but you're going in.” She countered.

“What's the difference?” I counter-countered, trying to lift my typewriter. It is a very heavy sonuvabitch , though. “Hell, maybe it's easier!”

After I finally had the machine balanced on my hip, I was ready to leave.

“Keep the warriors safe from the white man.” I mumbled. She giggled, getting the joke.

“Will do, Chief Crazy Dog.”

The drive to Mexico was uneventful . . . some heads hitched a ride, which made me—oh, and especially the customs officer—a little bitchy . . . but we had fun when we got over the border. Blasting psychedelic rock and sharing hash cakes . . . then one of the fuckers laced my soda with Owsley . . . that was scary. The bats were bad enough when you were drunk . . . but when a head's filled your head with acid . . . then, well . . . you're fucked. Yet again, in a bad way.

I was smart or lucky enough, or maybe just stupid and unfortunate enough to get Montezuma's Revenge early on in my life, and gained immunity . . .

I'm in the trunk of my car, under the roof of it, with a waterproof blanket tied to it, to make a sort of tent . . . tapping my machine and spinning the secondmost fucked-up story journalism will ever shake hands with . . . still getting through that acid . . . I feel like at any given moment a fucking mental breakdown is going to happen. I'm terrified.

Dad always said that I had to stop babbling about the same old shit . . . that there was a whole big, bright, beautiful world out there to babble about, on the other side of the door (6 million beautiful faces . . . I saw it all before?). The concept of a big world, regardless of how bright and beautiful it supposedly is, scares the piss out of me.

He also said that I was a bad influence on my friends and vice-versa . . . maybe he's right. That one blonde turned out pretty badly when I was done with her.

That, or the acid's shifting gears on me . . . no longer a danger to others, but certainly a danger to myself.

God . . . what fuck-up I've become, always going on tangents and hip-trips, hiring jail editors so I could dodge bullets, responsibility, demands and drug charges, and also that same reality I was so eager to expose . . . I'm a liar, a sham, a cheater, a scammer, a hypocrite. A lowlife, a scum. I deserve to be shot.

I must be getting old in my mind . . . you know how there's the biological age, the chronological age, and then the spiritual/emotional/mental age? Biologically speaking, I am about 35; chronologically speaking, I am 25 years old; spiritually speaking, I'm just about burnt-out and feeling like Thompson did at 67. To him, it probably felt more like he was a couple-thousand years old. Right now, I feel like I'd be better off dead. And to be honest, I probably am.

End of the line. Took the A train and got left to die at the station. What a shame, sweet Mary, hopin' that the train was gonna be on time, sittin' downtown in that railway station, one-hundred tokes over the line, Sweet Jesus, man, can this really . . . be the end? Run for your life! Jumping off cliffs. It's all right. In fact, it's a gas! If looks could kill . . . there will always be football. And peacocks. But there will also always be Nixon. And downers. And bummers. And bagels and puppies and then—no! No “and then”!—duty-free liquor. God knows I can't hold onto mine. Yeh. Wonder what's wrong with me: SODIUM. No. FRANCIUM? You can make a bomb out of me, theoretically speaking. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, technically speaking, nobody's a virgin. Not even the first pressing of olive oil . . . Holy shit, a drug rant! Yeah, “ha-ha.” Holy Jesus God almighty, I said I didn't want to go down this road, because it would be bad, and it is bad, sir! AIR RAID, AIR RAID! Hey, settle down chief. THERE IS GRAPHITE ON MY FACE! NO, LORD, DON'T BURN ME! I DIDN'T DO NOTHING, NEVER MIND THE DOUBLE-NEGATIVE! I have never read . . . I do not like that third goose . . . Sometimes a Cuckoo's Nest. Get the fuck away from me, Patrick. You, who turned your hair blue so you could say “what?!” Well, WHAT?! . . . the fuck is wrong with you?! I never want to see your face in Mt. Nebo again! I could do with some grapefruit—have you ever heard of a Kiwi spoon? No, Shavonnimon, I can't say I have—too bad for you, Jimmy. Turn the page. Or get me some coffee. Black; just like my metal and my soul and my wom—Whoops. Can't: water here is poison. Yeh. What a shame, down to the dregs from the—pretty much what—lip smacking—happened—foam. I'm out of my namelys. BACK TO AMERICA!!

And it was so. Mahalo. Thank you. Fuck you. I have no opinions. They are dangerous. Downright deadly.

When the world has become overrun with too many political masterminds, leaving you all behind . . . liars . . . bitch, whore, mother, resolve my regrets . . . Zen . . . bad karma and . . . bad craziness . . . in heaven . . . Satan? God is a liberal . . . God wants you to vote . . . Green Party. Hahahahaha . . . the manic adventure continues: Ralph Nader, maybe not now, but sometime later.

I really need to stop drinking so much.

Back in the beautiful, cushioned, corrupted and hypocritical U.S.–of–A. Printing's about to be done for this month's edition of Broken Arrow. Too bad we had to settle for the goddamn local vanity press. It never occurred to me to find a decent local printer before I came out here on a fucking whim. But you know what the Rolling Stones said: You can't . . . always get . . . what you want.

Then again, Keith Richards also snorted his father's ashes, so . . . I'm not really sure what to believe.

I handed my notes to the editor—who I demanded that the vanity press hire just for the sake of authenticity—and went back to the office to wait. See, these guys are pretty good for vanities, very industrious, they have it ready by lunch if you give them the things around breakfast, by dinner if you get it in 'round-about lunch . . . everything else was turned in before I got back, you see . . . the guy was nice about it and took my notes anyway.

Passed the time trying to solve a Rubik's cube—Good God, how I hate those dreadful things, but it's good therapy for the carpal-tunnel—and smoking, having a Bacardi or so, eating popcorn and so on. Felt good for the first time in nearly ten years.

I wrassled and killed a rabid dog, too. And without getting bitten . . . that was the best part of it. I felt strong. I do feel a bit sore about having to kill that dog, but to my understanding, rabies is incurable, and a dog with rabies is most undeniably a danger. A dog is considered an “attractive nuisance”, I think . . . or is that pools?

Whatever. It was the best thing to do. I can be a hero, too. But the instances are few and far between. A damn shame.

Felt cool, decided I'd go by the school to visit my nephew, who walks home. Changed my mind, drove around a bit. Listened to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band a bit, too. Good morning, good morning . . .

It's funny. Not “ha-ha” funny, but more 1950's “oh, that's strange” kinda funny. Now that I'm happy and have some time on my hands, I'm still yielding to my addictions and doing stupid stuff. I should burn something, I'm a bit of a pyromaniac, in addition to being an adorably paranoid misogynist . . . but, no. I think I'll go to sleep under my desk. That whole Mexico stint was . . . tiring.

Good night . . .

“Hey. Hey. Hey, dude, wake up.”

“Huh? Say what?” I ask dumbly, cigarette filter hanging out of my mouth. I must have forgotten—or simply not bothered—to put it into a holder. I forgot to snuff it, too; damn, what a waste.

Dr. Gonzaga is standing at my desk with a copy of the magazine in his hand.

“It's . . . very good.” he says; he's a native-born, two-time immigrant, so he has a little trouble with English, but I hired him anyway, because, despite his less-than-average grasp of English grammar—and, quite frankly, I don't blame him, it's a jungle out there—he is an excellent writer.

He drops the magazine on my desk and sits in the chair in front of my desk.

I look it over to see if we made mistakes, find none, and nod to Salazar.

“It is very good, Sal. Your article on illegal immigration is quite nice . . . but, just how would you know all this about it?” I wink at him.

“I have a passport and green card.” He defends himself. There is an awkward pause, then we laugh understandingly.

“You have a nice day, Sal.”

He nods, grins, even, gets up and leaves me be.

This whole magazine is a huge mistake.

I pick up the intercom:

“This is WBBR, it's time for Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, they'll be playing 'Getting Better'. Later, there will be some tunes from Magical Mystery Tour and the infamous 'White Rabbit'.

“Also, this afternoon, there will be a print party in the lounge to honor the second anniversary of the passing of the man who may as well have been our Jesus, Hunter S. Thompson. Congrats, fools, you got your articles printed for the unofficial Ash Wednesday for us Gonzo types.

“B.Y.O.B.: Bring Your Own Brownies.

“But, while the band warms up, here's Hunter's favorite song, 'Mr. Tambourine Man'. Please rest in peace and play some football, where-ever-the-hell-you-are, man.

“Just please don't be a Nowhere man. I don't make my nowhere plans for anybody but myself.”

I put down the intercom and I feel like crying . . . I also feel like getting drunk, because I know the fuckers will be expecting some sort of speech, and I cannot make speeches unless I am very drunk.

So, as I'm stepping up to the podium—you understand—I was very wasted—you understand—and—you understand—I tend to jabber like Neal Cassady—you understand—hence the incessant “you understands—you understand—which I throw in often—you understand—very often.

Now,—you understand—the speech pattern is very hypnotic—you understand—and rather comforting—you understand—but, sadly, very difficult to understand. Do you understand?

Good. So, as I'm stepping up to the podium, jabbering like Speed Limit—Neal Cassady, you understand—I begin by reading a copy of Hunter's suicide note—you understand—and trying not to say “you understand” as every other fucking word. I had to swig a Pepsi or so to cut the effects of all that rotting hops and gluten . . . and so I was fine. After a bit of a struggle, I finish:

“Relax; this won't hurt.”

Slightly hesitant applause inches towards me like the fog in some 1950's horror film. Wait, wait just a goddamn minute!—I can actually see the ghosts of clapping hands spilling onto the floor and moving around the feet of the audience . . . I blink, shake my head. I look at the Pepsi can. On it is written this:

Good luck with your speech;

thought you might be sick of

chocolate.

—Barbie

Jesus God Almighty. She's just like those fuckers I helped over the border . . . for all I know, they were avoiding a dope bust, just like Kesey!

Those goddamn murderous potheads, I should've known!

I sigh with irritation, still lucid enough to see through the DMT. I will be paying for this later.

“Kudos to Barbie doll for, ah, electrifying my soda. Will you be making the electric kool-aid for the Christmas party?”

All eyes are on Barbie, almost literally saying, “Why?!” She grins from ear to ear, like a victim of a sick and twisted murderer who slashes his victim's faces. Like something out of The Black Dahlia. It's a barely tolerable concept for a lucid person . . . but when someone has put Zoloft and wretched mindbenders into your soda . . . well then . . .

“So he could enjoy himself, is all.” she says. I look at the tape machine and realize it's been running this whole damn time. Louie Armstrong and I had similar hobbies. I wouldn't be able to write in present tense without it.

The ordeal only lasted about 30 seconds, and then we were all pretty much twisted out of our scarred and corrupted minds. Salazar slapped together some MDT—“Most Disgusting Trip”—awards to give to the craziest guys and girls. Barbie has proven her salt at winning one of those, to be sure, but she was being very . . . prudish. Maybe the novelty of the scene has worn off. Maybe she was just tired. God knows . . .

Lucy, whose works focus mostly on the best drinks of late, was off enjoying herself in the corner with a bottle of Budweiser. I shrugged; she was worth a shot.

But she slapped me. Women, for some reason, like to play the victim. Men are the real victims at least half the time, these days . . .

“Last night . . . two white-collar fiends broke into the office . . . stole all my socks . . . drank all my booze . . . did all my drugs . . . stole my dinner . . . it's a bummer that a respectable doctor or journalism must go to work heavily armed . . .”

Jesus, Man, I really do feel like Bill Murray! I came to work with an air rifle and a hunting knife. But in all honesty, I didn't have any real reason for doing it besides plain old impulsiveness.. Bad craziness, isn't it?

. . . Still alive, though, still kicking. Yessir.

Unfortunately.

Barbie was sitting at the chair in front of my desk, sleeping. She was hung over . . . poor kid. I tried to keep my typing quiet so this girl could get her sleep. I was tired, but I'd had so much coffee and grapefruit that I'd probably be awake for three whole days. You gotta remember to have a drink or two . . . not as enthusiastic about dying in your sleep this week. Last week was suicidal, but today, I'm feeling okay.

Or am I?

I needed to complain!

“Hey Barbie, wake up . . . UP! UP! God, dammit! UP!!”

She freaked and fell out of the chair. I impulsively laughed, and, understandably, that pissed her off.

“Why did you wake me up?” she snarled.

“. . . I was bored,” I said, telling it like it was and grinning, but it hurt, “and depressive . . .”

“Yeah, well,” Barbie retorted, still snarling, “fuck you. I'm hung over and if all you can do is harass me, then I'll sleep at my own fucking desk.”

“No,” I reached for the knife in my coat, “You'll get the fuck out of here before I go Jack the Ripper on your ass,” forgive me, I was still drunk, “You haven't made a single contribution to this rag.”

“Yeah, I did.” she argued.

“Oh?”

“Supporting character.”

“Ah, I see,” Knife goes back in pocket, “you were here for me to punch at the most convenient time?”

“Possibly.”

“Then you will stick around until that most convenient time, and then you can decide if you want to leave.”

“Fair enough, I guess.”

She left me to fester in the smell of newsprint and sweat.

I glanced over at my Richard Nixon dartboard and hummed thoughtfully. Then lodged a single dart into his oversized nose.

“You have been impeached, Mr. President!” I shouted happily. I felt like a hyperactive little anarchist . . . I was a hyperactive little anarchist, wasn't I? Yes, because Democracy, while it looks great on paper, had screwed me over one too many times . . . I would almost settle for Communism, these days.

Almost.

I feel very . . . manic. I want to convert my office into an opium den. I'm reading the magazine, back from the press. Thinking of adopting a twisted hippie child.

Better yet, a monkey!

Strange memories on this day, February 20^th . . . Has it really been only 2 years? Seems like a lifetime since the doctor condoned blasting away that brilliant mind of his . . . a damn shame, but I condone what you condone, because you're a role model. I want to be deviant, just like you.

Just like everyone else.

Show you what it means inside my head and next . . .

I hop up and put on a pith helmet. It does nothing helpful for my deprived—and depraved—countenance: Haven't shaved my face or combed my thinning hair in roughly three days—too scared of opening my skin in Mexico, too scared of infection—nor have I cleaned my nails . . . wearing the most bizarre getup. White wrestling shoes, faded jeans, cotton button-up shirt, seersucker vest—it used to be a fancy jacket, complete with epaulets, that I found in the trash, but the sleeves pretty much melted off—and my ever-present brown suede jacket . . . all of my wonderful workers look up. Charlie Monroe is the first to speak:

“What are you planning, sir?” he prods in his most ridiculous mockery of a British Accent.

“We . . . are going to Owl Farm.”

We're bouncing around in Austin, offering people a ride to Owl Farm. Most of the cats turned down the offer, but we don't care, because we were so damn into it.

Barbie has slits on her shins. I do remember her saying to me on our token three-day freakout that she suffers from depression and refuses to take medication for it. 'Course, I can only see those slits because she has her skirt hitched up and she's smearing Neosporin on them. I'd asked her if she was feeling down. She scratched at a burn on her hand—she's an avid cook—and said, no, not anymore. I guess the seratonin rush caused by the pain improved her mood. There are better ways to deal with sadness, but alright.

I stand corrected: I noticed that my arms were rather ripped up.

“Did you do this?”

“No, you did that. You were still on DMT and thrashing on the floor, moaning that your savior is gone and there's no reason to live any longer. I only noticed because I wasn't wasted yet.”

“ . . . Oh.” I was shocked. They didn't even hurt.

“Frankly, I thought that you would shoot yourself, or 'chase the dragon' until you died from exhaustion.”

“Dragons are hard to catch.” is all I could say in reply. Not a very witty comeback.

Within five minutes we're all full of the little blue flats of Alice . . . full of alcohol and alkaloids and Alice-DeeeeeEther and cactus pills . . . fishes swimming by . . . Hey, Sal, watch your driving! I am watching my driving. But that stingray hit a pedestrian! Bullshit; he hit a catfish.

Jesus, Man . . . it was a sick, sick ride into Aspen. All that corruption. I suggested picking up some of that beer that has Gonzo Art on the labels . . . what was it called?

Flying Dog.

Lucy didn't like the idea. She makes excellent moonshine and it was certainly an insult to her talent.

Fuck talent. I wanted authenticity.

Standing in front of the mouth of the driveway to the infamous Owl Farm was probably one of the more bizarre experiences of my life. I had to carry Barbie because her slashed-up legs made walking painful for her. I didn't mind. I felt lucky, actually . . . yes, I did, punk!

We all stood there, wondering if it was a good idea to continue. I'd sent a letter to Anita, telling her we'd be there. I didn't see her, but it was a hidden driveway, by most intents and purposes.

It was snowing.

We took a few steps. We decided that, since we'd made it that far, we might as well go all the way.

And so we did. Lucy lightened up and suggested heading down to Woody Creek tavern afterwards. I nodded and said “Yeah, let's get drunk,” and knocked on the door.

I have a confession: that never actually happened. We did go to Woody Creek and have several drinks in the tavern, looking at all the Gonzo memorabilia and bitching about it going up for sale. We kept saying, Please, God, I know I've asked a lot of you, but don't let them sell this tavern; Aspen was messed up by the humans enough already, don't let it spread out to here.

Among the other things we actually did included sending a letter to Hunter's widow, Anita, requesting to meet her for a general chat, getting to know her, maybe an interview about Hunter—so long as she was willing. She never did come down to the tavern to meet us, though.

So we gave the Hell's Angels a shot. They were worried: Gonzo Freaks, after all, know every trick in the book and are aware of how and how not to piss off an Angel.

We went in and out of bars, terrifying the die-hard delusional locals, getting drunk with power and festering yeast, living the high life of a one-percenter.

Then they offered to take us to a local beach. I was terrified, frankly, because I'd never been on a motorcycle in all my twenty-five years. On top of that, which is bad enough, I knew for a fact that Angels are very deft, but borderline careless when it comes to biking. I respect that reckless bravery, but only because I have none, and therefore no familiarity to breed any of that proverbial contempt from.

They took this to mean that I needed to be taught to be brave. I was given a choice: buy the ticket and take the ride, or get chain-whipped with no one to save me. I may be a masochist, but I am also a fan of picking the lesser of two evils; there is no such thing as a catch-22 when you got that kind of philosophy. Well, usually . . .

And, Goddamnit, I'm glad. The ride was great, and with the bus safely tucked away at the Oakland president's house, I was not worried about my fine for fendered friend getting stolen.

But my troubles were on the brink of multiplying at a rate that would put the world's horniest rabbits to shame.

Aren't I clever?

Falling face-first into the sand of the beach, I yelped. A sort of dying-rabbit sound, if you've ever heard it. It's unearthly. Twitching. Angels and their inner demons. Dee. Emm. Tee. El. Ess. Dee. Tee. Eych. Cee. And now I know my . . . Ay. Bee. Cees. Next time, won't you—

The ocean is on fire, help! Put it out! The Sand . . . and . . . the, uh, guru . . . the strawberry fields forever? Let me take you on, 'cause I'm . . . wait, that's not it. Well, thanks Paul, but that Day Glo donkey looks really pissed off. But if the ocean is water, and it is on fire . . .

How would you expect me to make sense over the telephone?

I have ways.

Two days ago was “Drug Abusers Pride Day”, and Kurt, even though you're dead, you're right: the marchers did not march well. I would know, I was one of them. Now if only I could write!

I am not a fish. I am certainly a crook. I . . . am not a part of God's well-oiled machine.

Christian Nation . . .

Jumping up and running for the bikes. But this town is a bad place for a fuck-up like me. Grew up a screw-up. Ha ha ha. The roads are at some seriously deadly angles. Steep, curvier than a fresh young whore. Almost busted a blood vessel shrieking on the ride down. Eyes wide shut: clenched, but the sand still gets in. I can see everything. I can see my innards, myself . . . in my innards. Writhing inside myself inside myself inside myself! Down to the level of molecular—no, wait, atomic . . . no, not quite . . . I can dig down to the last quark and I'm still there!—size. It's better than . . .

“Yeaaaargh!”

Clawing, digging for something in the sand. Over the top, over the edge. Off . . . the deep end. Sucked into the vacuum of space.

Big Vulcan deal.

Then I feel something. I don't know what. I'm still trying to make sense of it . . .

Barb.

“Did you have the last of the hash?”

“Maybe . . .” she purrs. I tried to keep the blood from rushing out of my head, but to no avail. This girl, who I have been digging for a month or more, is finally reciprocating, and, Lord, it feels good. I'm fighting tooth and nail to keep my composure . . . but I give up. I am now a horny rampaging animal and doing the Freudian thing to do . . . I am scary, she says, then she adds, do it again! So I do it again. What can I say? The point of no return had gone and passed. And it feels absolutely wonderful. I'm satisfied and empty, and she's filled to the brim.

I'm the one who's so in love with you.

'Cause I'm stupid, sadistic, and suicidal . . .

My dwellings once again smelled of sweat, but a more pleasant breed of it. A sort of . . . glow. The acid gave it a sort of phosphorescent luster, and it sounded like a theremin. I'm kinda synesthetic to begin with. I have to intensify it if I want to remember a damn thing.

Pretending to drive carefully. Really driving like Speed Limit, swerving and making commentary on the surroundings at top speed. Then I ate a flat and decided to shut it. Scream when you see the bats, I told myself.

I saw some, but they were normal little Mexican Free-tailed bats.

What a bummer.

Didn't feel like fighting anymore. Barbara looks so tired lately. It would be cruel to make her work, but even after sleeping in my arms for three hours after she gets her full eight a night, she's still exhausted. I might know what happened, and I feel like a total ass for it.

“Please tell me it's wrong . . . it has to be . . .”

I turned the little plastic thing over again. Though a bit faded, that little pink plus-sign was still there. I sighed.

“You know, I have a few more, if you want to double-check.” I suggested, very gently. I could hear her kicking the sink behind the door.

“No! Um, maybe later. Right now I need a smoke . . .” she opened the door to look at me.

“You can't do that and you know it.”

“Wrong,” she countered, “I shouldn't do that. I can, but I shouldn't. Just 'cause that idiot stick says 'positive' doesn't mean I can't have a goddamn cigarette!” She lit one as she spoke, paused to regain some sanity, and then took a drag. An idea occurred to me.

“What if, for once in my life, I was willing to take the fall for my fuck-ups?” I asked her. She gave me an odd look and inhaled the smoke slowly, with less gusto.

“You're bullshitting me, Gavin. You've had suicidal people as your jail editors, ever since you were in the business, so that you didn't have to pay for any of your seditious behavior.” She snuffed the cigarette on her hand, wincing with pleasure.

“Alright,” I sighed, “fair enough . . . but! . . this is something that I can argue over without encountering any more legal issues. Well . . . I think you know what I'm trying to say.”

“You know, for a Gonzo gent, you're rather enthusiastic about being tied down to one woman.” she scoffed. I fidgeted with the swatch of chain mail in my hand . . . so aptly referred to as . . . a fidget. She sighed and sat on the table next to me. So I put a hand on her shoulder.

“I think . . . I think I can understand how you're feeling.” I said, timidly. She got up and walked to my office, I followed. Then she shut the door quietly before releasing all Hell on the situation.

“No. You don't understand. You're not doomed to serve barbaric purposes like I am,” she said, “You don't have to bleed for nothing. You don't . . . you don't . . . uh . . .”

“Are you quite through, love?” I asked.

She glared, then said, “Yes. Yes I am,” and accepted the fidget from me to help ease her frustration. There was a long pause, then:

“Please keep the baby.”

She blinked at me, stunned. Or dizzy . . . I really couldn't tell at the time. I still don't know.

“I really don't want to.” she told me.

“Yes, actually, you do. Your . . . amazing sex drive is evidence of that. If you didn't want a baby, you wouldn't have wanted sex.”

“You Darwinian bastard!” she snarled, lobbing the fridget at my head. In retrospect, I can safely say that it left a mark.

“Would it help it I . . .” I was afraid to say anything after the hormonal rampage . . . “moved in with you and helped you, like any good father would do?” I could see that she was liking this idea, even though she wanted to stay angry. “Or you could move in with me. I live upstairs, and pretty much nobody lives nearby, so there's nobody to hear us when we make lo-”

“Is that all you think about?!” she jumped for my throat.

“I think about your smarts, then your baby, then sex. Sex is good. But there are better things in life . . . like Gonzo.” I intercepted her attempt on my life by grabbing her wrists and, like some woman in a 70's movie during a rape scene, she melted into a hug. At least she didn't have to prove that she fought within an inch of her life . . . although . . . the standards are a little too low . . . knee us in the nuts and say we assaulted them; fucking lovely.

It was awkward. I had become accustomed to sleeping with this woman, had been separated from her for almost a week, and had a lot of . . . tension.

“I know what you're thinking . . .” she whispered.

I woke up with the sun in my eyes and a glowing girl in my arms. Barbara looked so happy and peaceful, sleeping . . .

But, dude! I was hungry! And not just regular old hungry, big, double-time hungry! So I got up, very slowly, and gave Barb a pillow, then tried to find my jeans. Usually, I just throw them on the floor, but . . . I was in such a sexed-up frenzy last night I never kept track of where I put them . . .

I found them under the bed—goodness knows how they ended up there—and slipped them on, edging towards the kitchen. As always, careful to let the mother of my child get her beauty sleep. Not that she needed it; she looked fantastic already.

Let's have a vice-free breakfast, I tell myself, let Barbara be the temptress. Usually, I had breakfast with a handful of stimulants—Adderal, coffee, lots of sugar—but I am not risking pissing off my lover by eating things in front of her that I can't share. Not today.

However, bacon seems like a really good idea. As soon as she heard the hissing turkey strips in the pan, Alice, my cat, came trotting over, flaunting her gorgeous dappled fur and you-can't-deny-me-what-I-want eyes, which are almost the same color as the chrysalis of a Monarch Butterfly. Either she wants to help me make breakfast, or she wants to help me eat it.

“Alice, go eat your cereal. It's a big part of my diet, too.”

She just stared at me with her big dumb-blonde eyes. For a split second I almost expected them to turn into butterflies. I'm insane.

Then she left. I got back to my cooking and tried not to scald myself with bacon grease. Last time that happened, it got into an open puncture wound. It happened when I was working at some goth rag—we all have our lousy starts in the press, don't we?—and started arguing with the editor. This proved to be a very bad idea, because she wore a spiked bracelet and tried to punch me. When I held up my forearm to protect my face, she thought I was going to punch her instead and she did the same. The spikes, even though they're supposed to be dull—and I have been to Hot Topic and the other Goth couture shops, so I have seen them—burrowed into my arm . . . muscle and blood vessels gnashed and nerves screamed “kill her, kill her!”. I almost did. I really almost did. She filed charges for battery, but I was let off because it was deemed to be provoked. Thank you, Justice. You may be blind, but you're sure as fuck not stupid.

Not always, at least.

The only thing that happened in my life that was more agonizing than that was when I accidentally maced myself. That hurt. And I've made damn sure that it doesn't happen again.

I decided to back away from the bacon and see what else could be done. I had gotten so absorbed in this that I didn't notice Barbara had gotten up until she reached past me for the orange juice.

“Good day, Sunshine,” she sing-songed to me, “where do you keep the glasses?”

“If you want a decent serving, you'll use a mug. The only glasses I have are shotglasses.” I told her. I pulled an oversized, hand-built mug from the top of the fridge and handed it to her. I've had that mug since I was a teenaged Wolfe in far-from-chic clothing . . . ceramics was a favorite of mine.

“What's this?” she asked while she poured her drink. I smiled and explained its story, and mentioned that I once drank eight cups of coffee, black, from it. That seemed to make her think of something:

“Do you have any coffee?” she asked me.

“I don't.” I watched the smile fade, “It's for your own good. Caffeine is gonna be really bad for you two.” I handed her an apple. “This will wake you up and keep you feeling full. Better than coffee.”

She looked skeptical, then took a bite out of it while I piled the bacon onto a plate. Alice came trotting up again and jumped in Barb's lap.

“Awww, what a gorgeous cat!” She said, scratching behind her ears. Alice purred, being the suckup she is. She has always loved attention, and she knows how to get it.

“Whenever an ad says 'free kittens', I jump on it, what can I say?”

“Did you have any cats before?”

“Um,” I bit my lower lip, 'cause it's a sort of painful subject, “Yeah. Nosferatu, who was a nasty cat. Then we got O'Malley, Alacran and Paris; all siblings. Nosferatu and O'Malley disappeared the same day, then Paris had kittens and Alacran scuttled off. Short while before that, we got Jones. He disappeared right after one of Paris's kittens disappeared . . . then her brother disappeared, and we had only Banderas and Butternut left. Butternut got sick and he disappeared, which is a thing animals do when they think they're going to die. Except for that one cat who came home with a bullet in his chest . . . But ya know? They like to die in peace.”

“Who doesn't?” Barbara wondered.

“War Hawks, that's who.” I grunted.

“At least they died honorably, then.”

“Depends on what you'd call 'honorable'.”

“True.”

I started going through my pockets.

“Did you have any pets?” I asked her.

“If you can consider a few cows, a pony and a barn cat pets.”

“I can.” I pulled a cigarette out of the pack and held it in place with my teeth.

“Well, there was Daisy and Maisy . . . they were sisters. And we had a bull. We named him Abdul, after Ken Kesey's bull. And then there was Goldilocks, who was the most adorable little barn cat, and my pony, Jesse.”

“You were one lucky little girl, weren't you?” I chuckled through the smoke.

“I guess so. Every girl wants a pony.” She sighed, then she looked more serious, “Then there was Hurricane Katrina. Spooked us all away . . . I was able to get Goldilocks to come along, but . . . we couldn't get Maisy and Daisy and Abdul and Jesse to come. They were just so damn stubborn! I mean, I couldn't ride Jesse anymore because she was so small and I was a grown woman, but Ah'm still goin'ta miss her . . .”

“. . . Wh . . . Where did you grow up?” I asked, baffled. This was the first time I'd heard her accent so clearly since I met her.

“Ah was raised in Mississippi.”

“Ahhh, you're one of those Southern gals . . . do forgive me, hun, but are the things they say about you Southerners true? Such as y'all?” I did have friends in my younger years from the South and we'd have long conversations about how most other Yankees speak so quickly . . . except these people never referred to us as “Yankees,” I did.

“Yes, they are. However, y'all doesn't have its own declension, as y'all may have been told. People think it's funny, because they're under the impression that y'all is used because we can't think of the right word; fact of the matter is, y'all just works better than it or you. Does that . . . make sense?”

“Yes. Yes it does.” I said, throwing the filter of my smoked-down cigarette out the window.

Several weeks of antsiness means a vacation to my hometown for the Philadelphia Folk Fest. It used to be held on a farm, but they moved it to a location that was almost literally in my backyard. Lots of hippies go there to soak up the sun and the music. Nickel Creek, Moxy Früvous and Arlo have all been there. It's a great thing, it is.

But the only thing messing with my driving is these constant spasms. I don't have a history of spastic episodes, so this is damn new to me . . . and I don't like it.

Barb says they're a lot like a female orgasm . . . that made me scoff.

The only orgasm I've ever known makes me tired as hell. I sent Charlie—the expert on all things bizarre and esoteric—to go look it up.

Turns out Barb was right; on top of that, though, is that they happen to a lot of guys . . . most specifically expecting fathers. It's a most unpleasant form of sharing in the pain.

And yet, I'm oddly drawn to the concept . . .

“Hell, Gav,” he said. “If this is going on with you, your testosterone levels could be droppi— let me take the wheel, you look like you're gonna be sick!”

And indeed, I felt like I was gonna fucking puke. Maybe it's all those beers I had. Charlie and Sal had taken me out for drinks in the early hours of the morning.

Either way, I took to leaning out the window with a beer and a cigarette in my right hand and screaming at folkies: “Alright, you dirty Lennon-loving yeller-livered bastids! Who's fucking ready to rock?”

Mostly, it solicited cheers from the sufficiently twisted ones and “fuck you!”s from the sober ones . . . but, somehow, I knew one of the fools would be twisted and trying to anally rape me in a matter of minutes.

“Then it matters who's president,.”

Famous words from the late-and-great Doctor . . . Damn you for blasting that brain, Dr. Gonzo! Look what you've made me!:

In short, a paranoid psychotic who thought he could write. In even shorter, a total fucking nutcase.

To which he adds:

Oh the wind; door to that bird fuck

the fish because Goddamn! I am

double-mega-big-brown-bear-time

HONGRY! Not just normal . . .

Paranormal! I'm a charlatan of

journalism, man!

So much for the Kesey approach . . . I've had that guy on my mind a lot, lately . . . he's always been an influence, true enough . . . it's a damn shame he died, back in 2001. That was a dark, dark time . . . Same year as 9-11.

I haven't cut my hair since, to show how badly I want the war to end. As John and Yoko put it: stay in bed; grow your hair / bed peace; hair peace . . . and just let it grow 'til peace comes.

Dammit John. Not only did you push us all over the edge, you and your damn spiritual ideas are driving me crazy! I find myself wondering where I've left my scissors and unable to wait until I can slice all this goddamn hair off!

Thank God for Mark Chapman.

We are getting close. That means it's time for scaring the shit out of locals. It's so . . . Gonzo. This will be my Kentucky Derby; this will be my Akron, Ohio: my home town is the greatest in the land. The people all there; they treat you all square and give you a place to stand . . .

Now we know how many holes . . .

No, Godammit, Gavin, we said we wouldn't go down that road!

Oh, God, I'm so sorry.

Poor Barb is hungry. For that matter, so are the rest of us. I keep trying to console her with the fact that we're almost at my old house. It helps, but not a whole lot. I understand the feeling of truly insatiable hunger . . . and talk does not make it go away.

I never remembered this door being so damn rough . . .

Knock-knock. Who's there? Why, none but your son-of-a-bitch-of-a-son, Gavin! Oh, Gavin. Her voice is full of sadness.

She opens the door anyway.

“Hey, mom.”

There's no real excitement about it. Just following the goddamn social mores . . . oh, temporum . . .

Now I know exactly what started all this insanity to begin with . . .

. . . While Mom and Barb were in the kitchen, my Dad and I were dragging out the old photo albums. Pages of meaningless moments in my childhood. Nothing truly good came of it. Just a waste of film and the further deterioration of the environment from all the waste dumped into the rivers. Usually the Schuylkill, apparently, seeing as it's the most polluted river in Pennsylvania. The sand is like porridge and the only brutes gritty enough to handle it are crawdads and dragonflies.

We were never necessarily the normal type of family, thank God, but you could see the deprived normality festering in my parents' eyes . . . which would rationalize my mother's decision to adorn a plate with Ritz crackers. I didn't want to indulge her conformity, but I was hungry. So was Barb, but she's eating for two, so she always is. It drives me crazy, all the runs I have to make in the middle of the night. True, I'm already awake, but then I'm stuck jabbering into a tape machine while I'm away from the typewriter. The girl on the graveyard shift at the local 7-11 knows me by name at this point and hast started sneaking me free energy drinks. She's actually asking to work for the magazine. Her name is Kiera. And she's got a nice rack.

First time she asked I started digging into my coat pockets for my micro-cassette recorder and a few blank tapes and sliding it to her with my money.

“Weave me a workday,” I said. “And I'll see what I can do.” As I was walking away, I could hear her chanting soothingly into the little robot in her hand: “The Man who has just handed me the portal to the American Dream limps out of my sight. He claims that his knee was injured when a fellow reserve soldier jammed him in the leg with the butt of a rifle after tiring of his—that is, Mr. Gavin Louis's—disrespect for authority . . . well, of course he disrespects authority, who doesn't? But for all we know, it may be something else . . . maybe he did it to himself as a form of art . . .”

So I did. That girl frightens me sometimes.

“Gavin!”

I was snapped from my ignorant bliss by my mother and promptly pulled my trucker cap over my eyes, sliding under the coffee table with some embarrassment . . . if only to avoid the stares!

“Are you leaving your ratty old apartment or not? Now that you're looking forward to kids, you're gonna need a little more space . . .” Mother knew—and has known for many years—that I am rather spacey. Almost to the point where she called me “Hunter” or “Timmy” . . . and yet, oddly, never “Owsley” . . . I've always acted like an acid freak.

“Uhhh . . .” I pulled off my cap and picked at my scalp—the habit which has led to my thinning hair—as I came up with a reply. “No. We have plenty of room for now . . . all we gotta do is merge our offices.”

“Offices?”

“My office and Barb's studio, more precisely, but who gives a fuck?”

“Gavin!” My mother has this irritating habit of getting annoyed when I swear. She's one to fucking talk. Jesus, I may have a sailor tattoo and I may cuss like a sailor, but I'm far too tipsy for the sea, Momma.

It's dad I can't stand, though.

We didn't stay long. Someone would have gotten knifed if we did. Though, knowing my parents, it probably would've been for the best if our genes were yanked out of the pool . . . though it seems it's far too late for that to be any good now.

It's hard to deal with my parents anymore, seeing as now that I was out of the way they were free to be normal . . .

It's hard to get over the fact that in a matter of months, I will become one of . . . them. I try so hard to overlook this fact, because it scares me to death.

It's hard to think happy thoughts when you're me.

“Which one moves,” I asked. “My desk or your easel?”

“Oh Jesus, definitely the easle. Your desk calls for a fucking crane.” Barbara called to the skies above. “Besides,” she added. “I'd like to illustrate for you one of these days.

I was hardly even listening to her at this point. I was having a bizarre out-of-body experience, sitting slightly to the left of myself . . . I wanted to get myself far enough out of myself to shake hands with myself . . . doesn't make sense, does it?

“Barb, check this out!” I cried madly.

“What?”

“Can you see me sitting next to myself?

“I wish I could.” She sighed, turning back to her little parenting book. I always thought those things were bullshit. But if she was going to invest the time and energy, she might as well do it her way.

But I knew that, with a couple more tries, I could completely escape myself and roam while my husk lay comatose at the poker table.

“A few more . . .” I mumbled.

“A few more what?”

“. . . Just a few chemicals . . . ahaha . . .” I inexplicably started shrieking with laughter and rolled under the poker table. I don't even remember having fallen out of my chair. Was I ever even in my chair?

Hm. I'd rather not think about it.

After that bout of bad craziness, it was back to business as usual.

Usual for us, mind.

“It's more slow here than a turtle in a pool of marshmallows on the sidewalk.” I groaned.

“You know, Gavin,” said Lucy. “Part of Gonzo is starting the event, and then reporting it.”

“You provide the pictures and I will furnish a burning Alamo.”

“Are you trying to get us all killed?” Lucy sighed, hardly amused.

“No! No . . .” I rolled over onto my back on the desk, knocking over several knick-knacks. “Just arrested. 'Civil Disobedience' was a fine example of work written in prison.”

“Jail.”

She sighed in exasperation and went into the other room.

Charlie walked in.

“Go for it if you really want to,” he said.

“So you're with me?”

“Fuck no. I'm a Tejano right down to the bone. You can't make me do it. I'm just saying . . . you're more than welcome.”

“We could always cross the border . . .” I suggested.

“Do you not remember what happened last time you did that?”

I remember vividly. Such horrible things that I sometimes cannot sleep at night just thinking about it.

I hate this lifestyle so much sometimes. I ruin everything I touch. I can't help but look at my pregnant girlfriend and want to shoot myself, hoping to God that I haven't ruined her life and my kid's life, too. Because I know very damn well that I myself am completely fucked. I hate that other people have so much faith in me, because I have absolutely none in myself. I don't have any in other people, either. There is . . .

I think I'm depressed. There's no such thing as hope in this little world of mine. It's a life of instigation and vindication and waiting . . .

Fuck! Why can I never seem to type anything without getting referential? I'm so . . . unoriginal. I make myself fucking sick sometimes, even if I do have myself a life dressed up in evening wear.

And another thing! What is with all the goddamn cursing I do? Why can't I make anything the least bit clean?

I'm staring at my scissors. Hair is everywhere. I sliced all my hair off. Fuck the war. It's never going to end, and by the time it does, I'll look like Cousin It anyway. It's just not worth it. Those scissors are very sharp . . .

No, Gavin, I tell myself. Save it for later. Use a razor like everyone else.

. . . I have to stay alive though. I have obligations.

But that's all the more reason for me to off myself. And sooner, rather than later.

We were smart to move only the easle, 'cause that thing is light . . . if I had tried to move my typewriter—which was mechanical—we'd be hesitant to move my papers, which were all over the place.

Barb and I became an author/artist team. When I finished a page, I'd hand it to her and she would try to do it justice. If she failed, we'd laugh it off and tack it on the wall.

But she was illustrating my day-to-day account. Not a formal article. She was curious to know what happened inside her baby-daddy's head. I couldn't understand why she gave two fucks at first, until I read some of her literature (particularly The Blank Slate by Steven Pinker) and realized that she was trying to predict this unborn bastard's behavior.

“Ya know, in August, we could go back to my hometown and cover the Philadelphia Folk Festival . . .” I said one day in late, late June.

Barb looked up from her drawing.

“When is it? Who sings there?” She asked. I shrugged.

“Ya never know until you get here. But usually they're great, and they have CDs for sale.”

She nodded to acknowledge me.

“Who have you seen there?”

“Oh, God,” I said. “Moxy Früvous, the Nields . . . Christ, even Arlo!”

She was enthusiastic now. She'd listened to my CDs but she'd never known I'd seen these folks live.

“So that's why you have all those albums . . .”

“Yup.”

“We simply must go, then!”

“Well, then,” I leaned away from my typewriter and cracked my knuckles. She cringed at the sound. “You're going to have to get a decent pair of walking shoes. None of your mocassins; they'll wear through.”

She glared at me.

“There is a lot of walking to do.”

“Hmmph.”

“It's a folk festival! Paradise for crunchy granola types, not the rich and the famous . . .”

“Whatever,” she sighed, getting back to her drawing.

July Third, 2007. Tomorrow will be the day marking 231 years of hypocrisy, broken promises, theft and murder.

For this reason, we have decided to nail effigies of George Washington and King—Goddamn! History never bothers with his name afterwards because he wasn't American!—to a dead tree in the front yard and set them both ablaze. Then we put out signs saying “Charles Manson for President in 2008!!”

God, are we gonna get Hell for that one. But I have a deep mistrust of Hillary Clinton and I believe that Barack Obama, while an excellent thinker and speaker, will be far too liberal to get the job done. Not to mention, he's a cocky little bastard.

But this is not the outlet for my campaign opinions. This is my outlet for telling it like it is.

As I was saying: fuck the delusional. Let the bastards linger until the end of time and see what kind of Utopia they have when they have to slaughter anyone with a spine. God . . .

a race of invertebrate, Fascist-Nazis . . . lovely.

But Mussolini and Hitler had an iota of respectability. Sure, they were both sick, sick fucks, but at least they were consistent. Consistency is good.

Ever since Dubya took—and I do mean as in stole—power in Y2K and 2004, it's all been going downhill for us.

But I actually feel sorry for him. He can't move an inch without somebody getting mad at him. That is a fate that should land people in jail if they wish it on their worst enemy.

Heh, I can imagine that: Mr. Gore, please step into the paddy-waggon . . .

The rest of the guys are probably feeling the same way. They all look beaten down.

In Kenny's case it's not too terribly far from the truth: he protested a day early by screaming at a cop abusing his power. The bastard turned on him and I had to jump in and break it up by waving a water gun in his face. They let us both go with a warning, knowing my reputation . . . and knowing I would never, ever shoot a cop in the face. I hate this country so much at times, but I have some fucking respect for the cops. Some of them are my best friends.

But I'm glad they let me off. If I had landed in jail it would be problematic. I want to be free for the Folk Fest in August, and November . . . I have an evolutionary obligation, then. That's when the baby's due . . .

To brighten people's moods, I played music backwards at double speed. It's amazing how the songs get so warped, really.

But that got old. So the others got drunk while Barb and I prepared the fireworks and a Confederate flag.

She kept pausing and staring into space.

“Distracted?”

“And how.”

We had a manic idea to go to Washington D.C. and 'beautify' it by completely wrecking its foundations. The worst part was acting on it because we didn't bother with planning. After several hours of high-speed, idiotic driving, we were only about as far as Kentucky.

“I want to sleep!” I suddenly screamed, slamming my fists on the steering wheel; I accidentally blared the horn and spooked some square-ish looking types in a sedan.

“Then you should do it, man. DO IT.” Kiera said calmly, pushing Charlie away. I swear, he gets drunk and he's the horniest man alive. I feel like I've said it before. “I'll drive.”

Gotta love Kiera, if only platonically.

But she still has a nice rack.

We stopped in Tennessee to eat some food. We'd all pretty much been starving ourselves because of our bizarre cycles.

So we were nestled safely in a truck stop eating burgers and sipping Coca-Cola. The waitress, when I had gone to get our food, told me that in this time zone, it was 11:59 PM, almost on the dot.

“I guess we're fucked in terms of this whole . . . expedition,” Kenny said sullenly. We had all been trying to keep things positive, but mob psychology took effect and we all became cynical.

Thank you, Kenny.

“I won't even bother with Nashville,” I said. “I'm not much of a country fan.”

“And yet you moved out West?”

“For the culture, you motherfucker!”

“Well . . . can we bide our time until August?”

“Our money won't last that long,” I said. “We're better off rushing to Oregon to bother the children in Hollister shirts.”

“Those twisted little sons of bitches,” Barbara said sadly.

“Well . . . we could always celebrate for now,” I adjusted myself in the driver's seat and buckled in, as did Barbara in the passenger seat. “In the meantime, let's burn some flags and shoot some rockets!”

I slammed down on the gas pedal and screeched out of the lot. I heard the sound of breaking glass and Salazar grunting.

“Y'all okay back there, big guy?”

“I'm quite fine. This cheap wine sterilized the cut on contact . . .” He wasn't even being sarcastic. Something's wrong with that guy. He seems to have an infinite amount of pain tolerance. That's a disorder, right?

“Hm. Good.”

We rushed down the street as the normal types honked in protest. I leaned out the window, drunk on my own insanity, and screamed:

“Motherfucking geese! With yer iPods and country music halls and racist schools! Think twice before you mess with the Freak Power Party, we are the shit!”

“Dear Jesus, Gav,” Barbara sighed. “Watch yerself. If you fuck with too many people here they'll shoot you dead. The only defense they need is he needed killin' . . . y'understand? And I need you, remember?”

“Indeed. Blame my Yankee incompetence.” I yawned. “Regardless, I'm convinced that the conservatives are liberal and the liberals are conservative. It's not unlike the complete switch between republican and democratic values.”

“I'm green party, myself.”

“Sweet Jesus God Almighty, woman! Nader? Nobody takes him seriously!”

“If more people took him seriously, more people would take him seriously.”

“What the fuck are you muttering about?”

“It does make sense!”

“It makes just about as much sense as my insights: none.”

A pause.

“Well, then, why do you bother?”

I grinned at her with my piss-yellow teeth.

“That's what they always ask.”

“And how do you always answer?”

“'I don't know.'”

After nearly getting arrested coming back, we set off the rest of our fireworks in a cornfield with the kindly implied permission of its owner. After the ashes settled, Charlie came dragging over a huge bundle of 6-foot stalks of marijuana. I swear, these black-market idiots think they can plant this stuff in a cornfield and think that smart consumers or the police won't find out. Simply cutting out the middle-man . . .

Well, we got there first, so we decided it was only fair to take the whole sonuvabitch and a few ears of corn. We left no evidence; those fools at Court TV ought to know better, teaching us to commit the perfect crimes . . . for shame!

The stuff's been drying for a while . . . I guess it's useable. Boy, will we have fun tonight.

But as soon as we'd gotten used to being back, we had to haul ass back to my hometown for the Folk Festival. We went way too early last time because I'm a fucking idiot.

It's a very odd experience. I'd never gone there to camp, before, as I'd always lived a mere two houses down the hill from it.

“Holy shit! This is spectacular,” Barbara laughed, looking everywhere and waving to people.

“Calm down,” I said. “You're freaking out the freaks!”

“Sorry . . .” she slid back onto her nest of pillows, many of which were handmade by my Estonian Attorney, who was now occupied with trying to get a chain of counterculture pharmacies called “The Doc Gonzo Drugstore” off of the ground. Currently, I was the only active customer for the lonely prototypical storefront in my back yard.

“Who will be performing here, do you think?”

“Hard to say. For now, let's just get settled and mingle at a fire.”

True to my word, we met with some seriously die-hard hippies. In fact, a former teacher of mine was among them.

“My girlfriend wants to know who's performing here,” I asked as I rejected the blunt passed to me. I'd had enough for a long time.

“We don't know either. All we know is that they'll be good. They always get the good ones,” Said my ex-teacher, named Saul.

“Well, then,” I laughed. “Let's hope they get another man like Hendrix, hm? God forbid a group like The Who . . . oh, the pyschosis they'd bring on!”

I got unpleasant stares.

“We're not here to see a man make love to his guitar.”

“It's worth seeing, though, isn't it?” I had seen stock footage of the Monterey Pop Festival on television. I had never laughed so hard in my life. I fucking hate Jimi Hendrix. But I fucking love the video.

“It would be neat if they got the Ritual Space Travel Agency here,” I said. Barbara leaned against my shoulder and I put an arm around her. “Getting hot around here, isn't it?”

“Hell, yes.”

“I frankly wouldn't be able to tell. I've been in Texas for nearly a year. Sure, it gets cold, but . . .”

“Texas? What's a guy like you doing in Texas?”

“Living the American Dream, Saul. Living the American Dream. You see me here with my legacy secured,” briefly resting a hand on Barbara's 7-months-pregnant stomach, “doing whatever the fuck I want and getting paid for it? I am the American Dream.”

“I wouldn't go that far.”

“Well I would. You've always known me as the extremist, haven't you?”

“When I knew you, I knew you as the Goth Kid,” Saul mumbled with an undertone of a snarl.

I glared at him.

“The only crazier shit they could bring here is Mindless Self Indulgence.”

“Who the Hell . . . ?”

“Punk rock-techno-hip hop-et cetera-type band. Really eclectic, really crazy shit. I saw them live one year. Singer tried to light his Goddamn dick on fire, I've heard. Darwin would have clawed his own eyes out if he'd seen that.”

“Probably.” Saul was genuinely creeped out now.

“Freud would've had a field day, though.”

“Hm.”

“Well, I guess it's time that I left so you could recuperate from the shock therapy, eh?”

“If you can call it that.”

“Oh, shut up,” I sighed.

“Excuse me?!”

“I'm not at your mercy anymore, I can do what I please in your presence.”

After the argument with Saul, which almost turned into a fistfight if it wasn't for Salazar and Charlie showing up, we all went to lie on the lawn and listen to the bands play. There was one band called the Lovell Sisters, and I have to admit, they were pretty good. Very energetic performers. Not to mention, though Barbara will smack me for this, fine-looking. They were interrupted in their in-between song banter by Charlie suddenly screaming, “YOU'RE HOT!”

I smacked him, and Barbara accidentally scooped a bunch of ashes and cigarette filters from my ashtray into my lap, startled in the middle of tracing little Zen designs into them. She was stunned, not sure of what to do about it.

“It's fine, darling,” I assured her, full of sincerity. But she refused to believe me and was desperate to somehow fix it.

“Please, Gav, just let me—.”

“It's fine.”

“But—.”

“It's fine.”

She clenched her teeth, trying not to react. Hopefully, I thought, things would go better at Projekt [sic] Revolution . . .

Indeed. Today we intend to spend several hours out in the sun by the water in New Jersey.

By that, I mean, of course, that we will be going to the Tweeter Center in Camden to go see Mindless Self Indulgence live at Projekt Revolution.

What, did you think I was going to be at the fucking beach?

We sat under the skate ramp to try to avoid the heat (we later found out that it was the hottest day of the year). Eventually an entire 20-gallon trashbin's worth of ice was dumped on the ground, and there was a crowd going over to lie down in it. Barbara, desperate to cool off, put some of it down her dress.

In all honesty, it's pretty amazing what people will do when the weather reaches certain extremes. The Donner party was one example, this is another.

Saosin (an okay band) was just getting off the stage, and we, along with a slew of black-and-neon freaks, slammed up against the barricade. There was a long wait as the sound checks were done, but eventually, the drummer, Kitty, stepped on. I shrieked her name, overwhelmed with excitement to be seeing her again. She looked my way, no, no, made eye contact with me, and gave me a warm smile. Then the guitarist, and the bassist . . . and the singer came in on a goddamn bike to the tune of pomp and circumstance. At the time, I thought this was all brilliance.

Now I realize it was just a load of bull. I can't even bring myself to report much more than the fact that Jimmy (the singer) had joked with Barbara that he was pregnant, too. She got a big kick out of it, as did Charlie . . . and Charlie, as I had feared, tried to sodomize Jimmy. But Jimmy was a good sport about it. Something tells me he's used to that sort of thing at shows . . .

Charlie's got some strange fetishes.

We have just gotten back. Barb's sleeping under my desk and I'm twiddling my thumbs, waiting for our September Issue to print.

“Gav?”

“Yes?”

“I'm hungry.”

“Well, then, I'll go see what I can do. What would you like?”

“Bagles!” she laughed.

“. . . Okay. Bagles it is, then.”

I got back with the food and I felt amazingly tired. Did I get my t-shot from Charlie?

No. No I didn't. I need that stuff to keep the couvade on the sidelines. I am not too eager to have the ball unexpectedly get kicked in . . . I am not in the mood to play this game today.

“You okay?”

“Didn't get my t-shot today.”

“Go do it.”

“I don't want needles today.”

“Fair enough.”

Tomorrow we are considering leaving for Oregon to “celebrate” the day that LSD was banned in California. Usually, it would make sense to go to California, but all the counter-types have since migrated to Oregon.

And now we are considering staying put. It's not worth it.

“Gavin . . .”

I squinted my eyes shut and curled up a little more. Why the Hell was she waking me up at 2:00 AM?

“Gavin.” There was more urgency in her voice. Not serious, just . . . urgent.

If I ignored her again, I thought, something bad will happen.

So I rolled over and touched her arm.

“Yes, what is it? Food, massage?”

“How about sex?”

I pondered.

“Lovely. I'd be honored. But,” I added. “I do have one question.”

“What?”

“How?”

“Hmmm . . . Well, you're a smart man. You can figure it out.”

And indeed I could.

So I did.

We both eased a lot of tension.

I'm not exactly saying I enjoyed it, but it was satisfying.

But an hour later, she seemed to have trouble finding a comfortable position.

“Y'all right?”

“Yes,” she said. “I just can't seem to get comfy.” So she rolled over to face me, deciding that, if she couldn't sleep, she might as well chat.

For me, it was a little awkward. She snuggled up and finally got comfortable. She sighed happily.

With the knowledge that my legacy was secured and the mistress of it all was happy and healthy, I had the best sleep I'd ever gotten in my entire life.

And, boy, were we both gonna need it.

“Gavin?”

Paternal instinct made me respond at once.

“Yes, M'lady?” I asked in a poorly executed cockney accent.

“Are you scared?”

“Of what?”

“I . . . dunno. I guess everything.”

“Always.”

“Pain?” She pressed.

“Yes.”

“Death?”

“Never.”

“Just wondering.”

“No problem.”

“And, uh, Gavin?”

“Hmm?” By this time I really wanted to sleep.

“Get your watch.”

I squinted and pulled it off of my nightstand, then buckled it on.

“Now what?”

“Go to sleep.”

After a good night's sleep, I put together a good breakfast. Bagles and all.

But Barb couldn't bring herself to eat.

“I feel sick,” she explained, trying to nibble her bagle. She was hungry, though.

“What do you think could be causing it?” I wondered aloud. She shrugged and started making herself eat. While she was getting her daily bread I went into my office and dug for my medical encyclopedia, right next to my copy of You and The Law from Reader's Digest. Ah, the beauty of library book sales.

But that's getting off topic. I don't claim to be a doctor or a lawyer, I just know a thing or two about law and medicine. And, oh, how they go hand in hand. I once had a very interesting conversation about it with another redhead I used to know. She was a nasty little bitch . . . or so I thought. We eventually made up and opened up to one another. Bonded over being small and Irish. And revolutionaries. She did stand-up. I did music. And we lived on opposite sides of the country. But it worked.

I wonder how she's doing, now . . . is she still dating her dealer? Probably not. I suppose she's gotten her degree by now. I remember her telling me that she was going to have a book published in the near future. I must remind myself to buy it.

What I was thinking at the time, however, was this: Is the entry under “P” or “L”?

So then I found myself standing outside the hospital trying to chain smoke my way into a state of serenity. But I couldn't. That would have taken forever.

I heard a scuffling behind me, so I turned around.

It was Marley.

“How is she?” I asked timidly.

“Well,” Marley said. “I'm not exactly in charge of the whole thing, but she's medicated and fairly calm,” she folded her hands and stretched her palms groundward, looking quite a bit like Sarah Jessica Parker in doing so.

“Good.” I burned my fingertip at that moment and winced. “That's . . . that's good.”

“She would prefer that you were there, with her,” she hinted. I nodded slowly.

“I'm trying to avoid the awkwardness.”

She nodded and looked at her shoes as I snuffed my cigarette and pocketed it.

“What room is she in?”

“Are you okay, Gavin?”

I nodded and crossed my arms over my spastic gut. These were nothing like my dream so long ago . . . these were more forceful. Almost painful. I think I might have been having it worse even than her.

But nobody was letting anybody give up. Even though she was exhausted and sweating bullets, she somehow had this underlying motivation which I don't think I will ever know.

I must admit, I was a little bit jealous of her. And though it was a messy night for us all, it was worth it. Our son is, in one word, miraculous.

Ugh. That sounded horrible.

It's been hard, not having time to write as much as I should. It is, however, rather convenient that I'm always awake when Francisco needs something . . .

Yes. We named him Francisco. So sue me.

I'm happy to be doing this, don't get me wrong. I just have so much in my head that I want to write. I'm actually considering a novel . . . which will be interesting . . .

But only if Francisco will pipe down!

He looks so much like me.

But, knowing that costs are going to go up, maybe we should move somewhere cheaper. Like Portland.

Maybe we can arrange something; Francisco was a little earlier than we thought and Halloween is just around the corner . . .

I crawled into bed with Barb, still holding Francisco because I was afraid to wake him up by putting him in his crib. Looking at him, it was a bit hard to realize that he was a real human being.

Did I take my meds today? I wondered.

No, didn't need 'em.

I looked outside at the rain, through the window in the kitchen which was clearly visible from the bed, then down at Alice, who was chewing on my foot through the sheet. I don't mind when she bites. She rarely does unless she's really jazzed up, like late at night. Like then.

It's the claws I can't stand.

We want to get a motherfucking move on! Oregon, the final, fine old frontier. So much for the left and right . . . and the left rights. You had no one to tell you that you were doing it all wrong. Nice headlights. What are they, tungsten? Why, yes indeed, they are, how did you guess? Oh, I have ways.

Right in the middle of the parking lot . . . fucking in the middle of the parking lot . . . gangbangs in the middle of the parking lot . . . faggots in the middle of the parking lot . . . na na na na na . . . parking lot . . .

I have no intention of feeling Austinite Winter.

ESPN is better when you've had a few too many . . .

A few too many times I have seen this flick; I can predict every CRASH-BOOM-BANG-POW-PING-ZANG-ZIP! Hard to believe that this man is two inches shorter than Ringo Starr, and yet he looks 6-foot. 6-foot . . . that makes 14 hands. A motherfucking Draft horse. Guinness horse . . . book of . . . hall . . . fame. Destiny. I am tenacious. Mr. D . . . wasn't he a teacher of mine? Ah, yes, we both listened to Mindless Self Indulgence. And Voltaire.

There was a time when people would gather around a table and spill out their toxified brains on the subject of Voltaire. But not the one who bitched about the Industrial Revolution. Rather, the one who might have had a role in starting it . . .

Summertime, the livin's easy . . . one of these days, you'll . . . What?

There goes the sun. It's a long winter coming, but I feel good.

Enough.

“Gavin?”

Sweet Jesus. Gavin this, Gavin that. I want a fucking break, I'm not actually Jesus!

“Yes?” At my typewriter at 3:00 AM, about to make a run to pick up tapes from Kiera, because it is said that girls from 7-11 stay up all night.

24 hours a day, 7 whole days a week.

Thanks.

As a reward for donating so much to my cause, she gets her recordings transcribed in their purest form into the magazine, and she edits them on her own time. She works for free. Sweet child. Not mine, though. That would be weird, 'cause we've been having sex.

“You're not picking up tapes from Kiera, are you?”

“Um, yes, actually. I have to.”

“Why?”

“It's my job.” By this time I had put on my biker boots and was pulling on my denim vest.

“You're not going to a bar afterwards, are you?” she pressed further. I froze.

“Why not?”

“Because I want you awake tomorrow.”

“I don't.”

I was a little worried, though. Kiera's real plans seemed highly faulty: running to Kentucky in an impromptu scream down some psychic mountainside. I only wanted to go along for the “tourism.” That “on the bus” sensation, actually. I'd never had that feeling . . . partly because I felt like everything was bullshit. What was the point? Who could you trust?

Or, as politicians would put it: lies were told, mistakes were made and we will not have an all-volunteer army.

Blue-suit man say what?!

As I rode to the corner store on my motorbike, I thought deeply . . . I am prone to doing that. Unlike other men, I can't stop thinking. Maybe I should have been a girl.

I, like so many others, had added another chunk of unsuitable DNA to the gene pool. The world is overpopulated because humans have bred when they were not fit for the job, out of force or out of kindness. Jack the Ripper was a sick fuck, but maybe he had a bit of the right idea . . . the hippies recommend shooting does instead of bucks, after all.

And yet for some reason, it's illegal to shoot an antlerless deer.

But, they are hippies . . .

They don't fully realize, though, that without women, we are completely and totally fucked.

No, that was not an opportunity for a feminist to stand up and be a bitch. I gave you 6 inches, so suck 'em. Don't go a mile.

What happened next, based mostly on what witnesses told me four hours later, was a lot like this:

I was riding along and had swerved to avoid a car, lost control of the bike, and skidded on my bare limbs into a concrete wall. It didn't hurt at the time . . . disbelief seems to shut off the nervous system . . . and they loaded me with morphine when I got to the E.R. . . .

But even though it didn't hurt, I was seriously injured. My left arm had broken and a few of my ribs had cracked. I wouldn't be typing much of anything for a while.

Hot damn.

I'm feeling about ready to sign myself out. They don't want me to go, but if I stay in here any longer I'm going to get wrapped into some experiment in the psych ward on the 3^rd floor, or something. Then I will be drugged up like a zombie and go to work with a feeling of deep remorse and depression. Doesn't that sound lovely?

Oh, wait. I do that already. Never mind.

I feel fine. I'm really much better, now. My skin all healed over and my bones don't ache anymore, so they have to let me go.

Right?

The hair on my head will never grow back correctly.

It feels good to be home. Kiera—bless her heart!—has bought us a few more electric typewriters. I love the sound of the click-clacks yakking away in the rooms next door. It's a beautiful thing, it is.

The things that matter the most to me are my reputation and my testicles. I need them both dearly if I am to survive. Who cares, how much they care, and what they think, define my opportunities in this world. As do the balls.

I'm honestly a little more partial to the balls, now that I think about it . . .

In the grasp of painful boredom, I started playing a folk anthology from Ralph Records called Potatoes (Sunday: potatoes. Monday: potatoes . . . and Saturday, for a change: potatoes.) It belonged to my dad, who likes Mark Mothersbaugh (his song “Hometown” is on the album; side 2, song 1,) it had a song by the Residents . . . that caught my eye. I knew that these guys were strange folks, never showing their faces or revealing their identity . . . it's an odd way to get famous that most folks wouldn't enjoy very much.

But, Jesus! These guys were weirder than I could imagine.

Though the song about the inbred cannibal named Sawney Bean was definitely the most disturbing banana of the bunch. The song about how to make the perfect scrambled eggs was nice; the directions were surprisingly helpful, even on microwaved eggs.

This “novel,” rather, this diary, this letter, this suicide note, is certainly interesting. Soon, it'll be big enough to send to New York and have it pressed to a bunch of little sheets of paper bound in a bunch of cardboard and fabric. Or leather. And every single book bound from the little sheets of paper with all of my little words that I borrowed from the English language and never gave back will look exactly the same, and cost the same, but make me a different amount of money each month depending on how many people buy it. How about that, eh?

I'm really, very bored, now. My attorney is in Hawaii, enjoying the sun and the fish and the coconuts, and the impunity she will be able to enjoy after she spends a week in that special city . . . and I am stuck here, at work, sickened by the smell and the noise of the goddamn click-clacks! I just can't type anymore, the sound is too terrible.

(Later, coming back I realized the irony . . . not unlike something out of Monty Python.)

Philosophy time! Cue theme music and Barbara in a stunning, skin-tight dress with 6-inch heels.

I think she will slap me for that. Best tuck this page away.

Anyway. Let's talk about humans.

The impression that we all have about the knowledge that we're all going to die is absolute bullshit. Cats and rabbits scream in distress and struggle tooth and nail to save themselves. I'm pretty damn sure that their defiance is an indication that this animal knows for a fact that it could very well die.

It's just that humans brood over it and inflict it on others with an ulterior motive. And they inflict it on themselves.

We all have an ulterior motive. That's what I think. It's human nature.

But that would be justifying it. Wouldn't it?

I think we only keep the impression that animals have no feelings or souls with us to reduce our guilt in life. I certainly do; I've had vegetarians say, “animals are my friends, and I don't eat my friends,” to which I've always replied, “Neither do I, but I'm not friends with cows.”

Hm. I could do with some KFC, now.

Am I trippin'? Slipping . . . the good life . . . slippin' away . . . down the slope! Slippery pistol slayings: he absorbs the news through his broken mirrored glasses. No one can see the insanity through them. Not even Buffalo Bill. What'd you kill?

Makes me want a new face, it does. Where did I put my mind? In the garbage. Where else?

Nobody puts baby in the corner. Put it in the middle of the floor!

Give him a taste! And I forget, just why—Oh, right, it makes me smile. Whatever.

Give us a kiss!

Kurt, your friend with his tendency towards beer and shotgun suicides—look on the bright side!—boys unstuck in time, man. I can see it now: shot down at the end of my freely forced speech . . .

Bastardize it and call it genius.

Does life really look okay? It's worth another pair of shades to blind me. (Should I grow another shell?) Protect me from the harsh realities. This will be my Polo Lounge.

I am the man. But . . . Jimmy? Is decaf. I'm sick of the cream.

. . . What do I love? Throw your hands in the—fuck it. You just want the rocket. You're off your rocker.

Charlie keeps staring at me. I wish he had better things to do.

“What are you thinking about?” He asked. He was my lover once. He knows my every weakness. Such as my inability to stop thinking which I mentioned earlier.

“I'm thinking about what a faggot you are. Fuck off and let me get some sleep,” I pulled my cowboy hat over my eyes and sighed. I'm depressed, but I'm scared of the help. You can't terrify them, but they can terrify you. It's not fair, man.

“So what if I'm gay?”

“Nothing. I use foul language on everybody: bitch, fucker, faggot . . . goes on for days. And you know our favorites are complete fags. Remember Jimmy?”

“I'd fuck Little Jimmy,” Charlie said dreamily.

Shit, I thought, I've made him horny. I didn't even want to look to find out.

“But anyway . . .” he continued, with a played-up lisp. I stopped him.

“I have a fever, Charlie. I need ibuprofen and that's all. Get me the caps and we'll keep talking.”

He promptly got up to rush for some painkillers for me. He's a good man.

He came back with about 5 tablets.

“Good man,” I said gratefully as I swallowed the pills. He seemed to blush. Faggot.

“Were you wise beyond your years?”

“Unfortunately,” I sighed, gulping down the cool water in my glass.

“Tell me more,” He said.

I pulled a smoke out of my pocket.

“Light.”

He pulled out a paper match.

“I'm insulted,” I said indignantly.

“When did you pull the wool from your eyes?”

“Teenage years. When else? I went into my goth phase . . . and . . . even when you stop wearing the black, you never go back. The philosophy stuck with me to an extent,” I inhaled deeply. “And then, I read Gonzo. I said, 'fuck yes, that's exactly what I'm talkin' about!' . . . oh, it was a beautiful feeling . . . that is, until the hopelessness set in.”

“Hopelessness? Why do you feel hopeless?”

“Because words are words are words are words are words. I could be the most insightful man on the planet, but words do nothing. Nothing important, at least.”

Charlie looked very worried.

“You have too little faith in people, Gavin,” he said. “Why?”

“I have too little faith in anything, especially myself, how can I have any in other people?”

There was a long pause.

“You don't have to love yourself before you love other people. Maybe the same goes for faith. Why don't you come to church with me?” He said before leaving. I presumed that meant I would think about it.

And I did think about it. I decided to let him choose for me. I have no trouble letting people decide if I trust them. I wish I could be just as sure of myself . . .

So we went. I was surprised to find him to be a good-ol' Christian. A Christian who listens to Marylin Manson . . . riddle me that, Batman.

But it was a nice sermon. The Father is a new part of the Broken Arrow “rainbow tribe” . . . he gives us religious advice, which, in most circumstances, ends up being excellent legal advice.

All that bothers me is his constant pressure to have me marry Barb and to have Francisco baptized . . .

“Listen, Father,” I had said to him.

“Please, call me 'Mack,'” He interrupted.

“Wait . . . your name actually is . . . Father Mackenzie?”

“Just like in 'Eleanor Rigby.'”

“Weird. But, Mack . . . I don't want to get married.”

I cracked my knuckles loudly and rudely. He didn't flinch.

“You seem to love Barbara very much, why wouldn't you want to marry her?”

“I simply don't want to. Sex and babies are a nice way to spend your time, but they're nothing to get hitched about.”

He left it at that. Mack was a man of wise innocence . . . a jaded man who—unlike most—rolled with the punches with amazing grace (how sweet the sound!). I, however, was a very impatient, young, and extremely stupid man of bitter mind and brittle body. A jaded boy who, instead of rolling with the punches, fell back, got up, and punched back. Our only connection was that our whole life was based on hypocrisy.

Back to business:

“You're a lot like Charlie. Did you know what?” He asked me. I picked at my bleeding cuticles and nodded.

“'cept he's a faggot with a drug addiction.”

“We're all a little like that.”

Well, that's a lovely thought. It does wonders for the hopelessness, as you can imagine.

Why do I always have to be such a bitter little motherfucker?

I've been watching the news a lot lately. It seems a Commie conspiracy has been dug up . . . why do we even care? Things are only as important as we make them.

Money, for one. If we didn't give a fuck about money, we wouldn't have it. We're all out to make it big and spend it all in a big huge gang-bang before we die.

Hell, if I wasn't making money, I wouldn't be doing this.

I think I'll go to sleep.

Maybe for the rest of my life.

I am so lame.

I was once told that deer are smarter than rabbits. I said, “I dunno. I don't see very many rabbits getting their heads mounted on my neighbor's wall. On the other hand, I don't see deer's-hoof keychains...”

What I meant was that you simply. Can't. Win. You're racist if you say black and white are different. You're racist if you say they're the same. You're sexist if women aren't equal, you're sexist if they are.

I never gave a fuck, either way. But it sucks to be a straight, white man.

Either way:

You.

Can't.

Win.

Granted, I've always been ill-at-ease. Especially with women. But am I wrong in saying that they fed us the forbidden fruit and opened Pandora's box?

Damn your curiosity! That was a rhetorical question!

Post-modernist gibberish. Insert Politician's name here and it's insightful. Insert pop-culture reference there and it's funny. This and that. Paris Hilton: DUI? Gore's son was speeding. That's an inconvenient truth, ain't it? What now, corn-based fuel? What, so your son can drive just as fast and hurt the same amount of people, but hurt the environment less, but hurt less fish?!

Losers. The lot of us.

I can remember the elections. Farenheit 9/11. The enjoyment I got from The Daily Show and The Colbert Report. And yet, oddly, never The Sarah Silverman Program.

What a bitch. Not Sarah, no . . . but my life.

Radio's a sound salvation . . .

Television isn't.

A dog saved from his icy grave . . . all over the news. But no one gave a fuck!

Anna Nicole . . . she was dead and all I could say was “good riddance.” Now I remind people that Paris Hilton is still human.

We made a bad entrance to the 21^st century. We stumbled like crazy. Like Seton.

Seton! Seton!

The queen, my lord, is dead.

Hm. I can't get this stain off my shirt.

Don't believe everything that you read.

But what I need is some butcher paper. Just put that in the typewriter and never look back . . .

There's always legal pads . . .

Still, I stop to think. It's 3:00 and we ask ourselves:

“Where are we, now?”

And, for the life of me, I cannot tell you. All apologies.

What can I say? Everyone's gay.

Except me, for some reason.

Especially me, for some reason.

Or maybe just happy . . .

I miss the 90's. Goodbye, 1989 . . . I'm still preoccupied.

Jesus. This is terrible shit. I'm leaving!

All the boomers are aging, dead, dying or retired. Just like the good things. They are either aing, dead, dying . . .

Or retired.

George Jung gets out, soon.

Life is dreadful.

Life is dreadful.

Repetition is worse.

We got a bus. I know, spur of the moment. But we're leaving. I can't take this place and its Rolling Stone liberal atmosphere, saying shit like “LSD brought us closer together.”

Bullshit!

Oh, but you love it!

Post hanc, reliquis est nugae.

Post hanc, reliquis est nugae.

After this, the rest is all bullshit.

But not really. I like to think I'm an extremely honest person. Perhaps too honest, at times.

Oregon is cold. All we've got is coffee and rolls. But I like it. It's comforting to be roughing it for a living for once, because I know I really am alive, and not just having my life handed to me. I was sick of that.

“Welcome to the life of the starving artist.”

I secretly miss having my life handed to me on a plate.

Fuckers borrowing my cash . . .

Fuck that.

Dear World.

I know it's a touchy

subject that you'd probably rather forget, but

I feel that it is extraordinarily important.

We all know he shot himself because he

knew his limits. Good man. He knew he wouldn't

be able to tolerate another round.

So he went out with a bang.

POW.

Explain that.

—Gavin

Ugh. I can't stand any of the shit I write. No more post modernism, dammit! Why can't I sell anything without rapping out insanity rants and randomly dropping pop figures into the mix? It's dreadful! I'm tired of running my finger on the trigger for the mere exposure effect. Mediocrity is a warm gun, I suppose.

Though I gotta hand it to Pinker: he really shed light on a lot of shit in my life. Made me forget my petty issues. Made me see myself for what I really was and duly hate myself.

I'm quitting while I'm still ahead. And I'm quitting while I'm still a head.

And God knew, I gave it good.

I'm such a faggot. I never really did enjoy fucking girls all that much. Screwing is such a bore.

At least I don't have to get screwed over with the bore that I know as screwing anymore.

POW.

Dear God, will I have a hard time explaining this.

I'm not dead. I'm just bleeding and damn near deaf. But I am very much alive, and I'm not liking it.

Words can hardly even do justice to trying to describe how amazingly frustrating it is to find out you've survived yet another suicide attempt. And I can't even wrap my brain around this one. I had a damn gun.

Or is it a slow death? I never really thought it out.

All I want is . . . a quick death. The kind where you don't have the option to change your mind and have a panic attack and freak out about how there's no going back. No. A quick death is the way to go. No last-minute bullshit.

Though maybe this will prove to be beneficial. I'll go get myself a beer and come back. Everyone's out. Barbara's with her parents in Mississippi, and she won't be back for a few weeks. And I told her that I would probably do this. She looked worried and sad about the idea, but she said, “Well . . . it's your life. And I love you enough to let you go.”

It's tough to watch people combat with their feelings like that, but it's useful for me. And lord knows, I'm an opportunistic little bastard.

There I go again. Another insignificant Hedonist who went and convinced everyone that he was more important than he really was. If and when I die, I always thought to myself, I will be seen as a martyr. I will get the press coverage that distinguishes the heroes from the plebeians. I'll be the one with my face in all the independent New Journalism magazines.

Yes, indeed.

Watch me bleed.

Rest in peace.

But I can't help but wonder if there is anything I will be missing out on at this point. I won't be able to see my son grow up, for one. And he probably won't remember me as a hero like everyone else. He'll take after me. He'll despise my name. He'll see right through me. He'll hate me.

He'll be a good, good boy.

I've fucked up. I'm fucked up.

Everyone's a little fucked up, maybe. But that means . . . that the mantra of “everybody's different” is bullshit. It's an ironic statement in and of itself. If everyone is different, that means everyone has the same trait, of difference, therefore making them all sound . . .

. . . exactly the same.

We all want to swindle kids out of their money.

I'm still doing this because I believe in it.

I'm so fucking lame.

But in all seriousness: All these people who are so “different” and “bright” and “unique” are really just fucked up people that knew how to play with and act like normal people just right. They could push the buttons and flip the switches in just the right way to get us wound up and make some money.

I prefer to think that I was one of them. But I'm not. I refuse to bullshit anyone anymore. I don't even believe in myself now. Which I guess was a revelation that came way too late, seeing as I only have a few more hours left to live. I'm going to die and people will have to rely on their memories of me to form their emotions when they get the news. That redhead in Tahoe will say, “he was fun for the kids. So it's a loss.” The psychotic lesbian from Nevada and the jailbait in Connecticut will say, good riddance.

The boys in California will be a little shocked, perhaps. But maybe a little relieved that I'm gone. Garret will be heartbroken. The ladies will be crushed. Especially Dani. I was always a source of entertainment for them. Fun, if a little crazy.

The socialite in Arizona will miss me terribly.

I'm going to pretend that I don't care what people will think. Despite the fact that on the inside, I am screaming.

This isn't the death of an American Hero. This is the death of a salesman. Nothing will come out of all of this except a corpse and a waste of time and money.

I'm throwing a wrench in the machine again. Except . . . this time I'm not enjoying myself.

But this is something I should've done a long time ago. Too many people were too decent to kill me . . . which ironically, would've been the right thing to do. I've hurt so many people on my way here, that this is the least I can do to help them return the favor.

I came out of nowhere.

I got nowhere my whole life.

I'm going back to nowhere. Because I'm such a nowhere man. I've said it many times before.

But I'm also a coward. I'm so passive-aggressive, I can't confront things on my own. This is why I did this. This is why I can't read the keys on the keyboard. They're covered in blood. Thank god I can touch-type.

This is where the neck snaps.

This is where the synapse in the back of my head . . .

Stops firing and inspiring.

And I'm dead . . .

It hurts like hell. This dance . . . decay . . . ugh.

Please light a candle for me when I burn up.

I can't believe I finally did it, though. And I covered all my bases. The closest hospital is too far away to be any good to me, now. By all intents and purposes, I am already long gone. But it will be a matter of minutes, maybe even hours, until I can safely be pronounced dead.

Your time has come . . . kiss it all goodbye.

I remember watching Donnie Darko and pondering Grandma Death's words of wisdom, that “every living creature dies alone.”

I know animals will go into hiding when they're dying. But . . . my cat came home with a gunshot wound, probably knowing he would die. I think he wanted to keep this from happening. He was smart.

Not now!

Not me!

Pissed off and unprepared . . .

What's my excuse this time?

But I am starting to panic. I want someone to stand with me and tell me they love me while I'm going out. As pathetic as that sounds, I wanna die in a state of more . . . emotional bliss than physical. I don't care if I'm a little buzzed from the beer in my hand. I don't care if I'm watching porn as I'm bleeding to death. I can't even look at it clearly. I don't even care. I'm dying. What do I care about getting off? I've already seen a pint of blood leaking out of me, lord knows how I'll even manage to get it up.

I guess I really just don't give a shit.

God, I am so mad at myself right now. And the wound is killing me . . . I'm so tired, so dizzy, so sick . . .

I give up. I can hardly hit the keys now. Once I pass out, it's the end. It's all over. I'll just lie there on the floor and bleed until there's nothing left of me but skin and bones and a little bit of gore.

I can't help but wonder what it'll be like . . .

This has to be the longest suicide note in the history of man.

So I guess this is goodbye.