The Gonzo Wolf

First thing’s first: I’ve gotta get you guys in the right mood.

I was a much bigger fan of my life when I felt I could express myself freely, rather than hide my thoughts behind a facade for horror fans and family.

Those poor horror fans. Subjected to political rants and social discussions disguised as indie horror. I mean, it’s a layer. Some can see through it and some can’t. Crack the window to the mind’s eye, and you’d be damn surprised what floats inside. Go back and watch movies from your childhood with adult eyes. I dare you. Especially “The Toy” with Richard Pryor and Jackie Gleason.

When I first began writing publicly, I was unpublished, and barely dipping my toes into the world of social media. We all were. T’was the dawn of MySpace.

Up until that point, only two people had read anything I’d ever written. One chick said it sucked; one chick said I should keep going. I’m divorced from both of these women now for reasons other than their literary critique.

The second one prefferred I write horror instead of gonzo because it was too much of a public window into our lives.

No bounce; no play. I’m rolling up on the ten year anniversary of bidding that life adieu, and it’s taken every second to move forward. Hell, I’m still squandering in that past; mentally. I just can’t seem to shake it.

I was a person, with a life, and a path, and I Thanos’d that shit without a moments notice to anyone; including me. I feel as though I cursed myself via choice – a good, old-fashioned, decade-long curse like grandma used to make – and the mist is clearing. The ashes of my fiction career smolders still upon the hilltop.

I love my fiction stories. I truly do. I loved my readers, too (past-tense; no one reads my stuff anymore and the stacks of unsold fiction will make for great kindling in the coming human/alien wars). It was mostly my colleagues who drove me insane. It wasn’t their fault, I’ve never played well in large groups – school, military, jobs; I’ve always been the Judd Nelson. What can I say? I wanted to be an Airborne Ranger/Divebomb Danger.

The plan ten years ago was:

• NYC
• Write freelance
• Drink excessively
• Die alone

If this all looks familiar, it’s because I re-reference a lot for perspective and convenience of the rookies. Skip ahead?

Love and Splatterpunk brought me to Dallas, but my destiny was pondered often; iron clad, or so I believed. I owe everything to my wife, and no one else seems to get it. Epic. That’s fine; they don’t have to get it, for it’s not theirs to get.

One’s cherish is another’s stupid.

That lady gets top billing until the curtain falls.

As far as my fiction stories go? Like I said; I loved them. I loved them so much that I got angry when people said bad things about them. They were my children, and I feared for my children’s wellbeing. Well, as we all know, fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering…and I’m sick and tired of suffering. I can see light – and that’s usually when the snuffer prowls the candle rack.

I have a good life.

I have an amazing, beautiful wife with a roof over my head, a full refrigerator, paid bills, and the freedom to create. Only one of my kids communicates with me on a regular basis, meaning I have someone who’ll love me enough to wipe my ass as I rot into oblivion in the coming years. So, I’ve got that going for me.

It means absolutely dick when I’m constantly running inside my own head from my past’s shadows. Therapy has helped, and I even take a daily medication. I swallowed my man-pride and did that thing we’re not supposed to do. I let my guard down, let someone dig around, and accepted what they found.

It’s scary.

One of my biggest problems is that I’m surrounded by other humans who did NONE OF THAT. It’s like Neo in the back of the car in The Matrix talking about how he used to have lunch at a noodle restaurant, then he paused. His eyes are opened now, and everyone on the street was still asleep inside their fantasy.

What can you do? It’s illegal (but would amount to a bit of fun) to just run through the streets of the Bishop Arts District and slap every fucker on the way by, screaming to the heavens for any and all, “Merry X-Mas, Bedford Falls!” while wearing a cloak and alien mask.

This is why I shouldn’t be left up to my own devices. Dallas jails are overcrowded AF.

Ultimately, I’m suffering from media over-consumption. The world is on fire and I’m scared to death I’m going to miss something. No matter how many YouTube channels I block, I still find more. Damn my need to know.

I will guard everything within the limits of my post and quit my post only when properly relieved. My first general order.

It all goes back to loving those I consider to be mine. I totally lose my shit when any of the handful of people I love get hurt, whether that be via mental or physical means. Basically, those I feel are suffering by my side because I chose to bring them into such a junkyard of societal shenanigans.

I feel as though my books qualify as dependents when viewed through that perspective. Also, if you’re going to publicly bash other people’s art, then you better come with validation. Validation, or a strong nose; one of the two. It’s a small world, and getting smaller. Be nice, or fearless.

Last night, I again reached input overload, so much so that the end result spent me. I awoke in a fog that coffee couldn’t fix, did the bare minimum to stay off the tribe-radar, and played. I just played.

I took the Hummingbird outside on the porch swing, and I played. I played loud, and I played long. I sang, I strummed, I experimented…

I just fucking played. I didn’t care who heard me, or saw me on their way to work. I’m not that bad; thankless twat-waffles should toss a goddamn quarter at me every now and then because they’re getting better than social media quality music for free. They had no idea our HOA provided this service, but they do now.

I think even my schizophrenic neighbor and his ten invisible friends all came out on their stoop to emo-gawk at me. I’d love to perform again soon whether that be busking or at an open mic, but there’s people there. They’re everywhere!

We’ve been living inside mankind’s slowest, lamest, pussiest, keyboard-commando of a civil war since 2016. Everyone chose sides already, but we’re all too lazy to draw lines; dogs who charade with teeth bared, running to the end of our chains, and squeaking the wimpiest of barks.

No worries; Hollywood is going to polish that imaginary downed-pilot scenario from last weekend. MAGA will occupy the front rows and jerk off into their signature hats, rivaling the likes of a Lindsey Graham mushroom-stamped autograph.

Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon. Are you listening to the music? None of this works unless you listen to the music!!!

Now, some of you have to start over.

None of the great literary lunatics reached old age. What were they supposed to do next?