The Gonzo Wolf

First off, let me set the mood. I’ve got this spinning on vinyl next to me, and it’s really tickling all the right spots.

So, I’m camped out on the couch having an existential crisis, when I remember I pay a hundred or so bucks a year for this domain. Writing is my therapy. Writing publicly is my albatross.

To the experts in the room, I don’t know if that’s an albatross or not. I was making a “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” reference. I didn’t grow up near the ocean, therefore labeling me oceanically incompetent.

I’m not sure why I still insist on doing so. Writing, I mean. I don’t personally know anyone who’s remotely interested in anything I have to say anymore, total strangers who stumble upon them don’t care enough to bicker or high-five about it, and I’m continuously monitored by a family of millionaire MAGA sycophants looking for the thermal exhaust port flaw in my metaphorical Death Star. At any given time, someone I truly care about is a triggers-pull away from entitlements wrath, and anything I say can and will be used against them in a court of law. Because of that, I feel as though I should operate through some type of filter, which negates the purpose of my writing at all.

Half of what I’m known for is someone I no longer care to be. Also, accountability in this country has flown far out the fucking window over the past decade, and I could very well be arrested nowadays for saying such. Is it legal to do so? Not according to our tattered constitution. I fear my time in limbo while the authorities figure that part out. Jail sucks donkey balls. I worked in one for over a decade, which would make it worse, especially if I were arrested in my home county. I’ve “wrinkled a few sheets” since my exodus, and rightfully so, but that won’t make the rib-kicks hurt any less.

In secret, a couple of my recent projects yielded results. I could say which, but that would alert the dogs to my scent. Life was so much more fun when you had a certain layer of anonymity; notes beneath windshield wipers and such. Now, you’d be outed by the Tik-Tok Mafia in minutes. The early days of social media wasn’t the ‘wild west’ some describe. No, those folks who would say such were called targets. For the social justice warrior in all of us, it was as though the prison doors all failed simultaneously, and we screamed “freedom” for any and all. Oh, what a joyous time it was. Yes, the government intervened by minimally policing it all, but flipped it right back around to use to their advantage. They put a price on it so high, we mediocre town-criers couldn’t afford to fight back. It’s damned-near impossible to be Raul Duke in 2026, but we’ll keep trying. I promise.

I was just interrupted by a scam caller who identified themselves as a security caller. I didn’t even care enough to do funny voices. At least it gave me a pause to flip the record.

My goddess, I love the return of vinyl. There’s nothing more therapeutic than flipping through a bin of used records. I’m not passionate about much else right now, other than taking out big brother’s metaphorical knees once he and/or she least expects it. I’m in the middle of script rewrites for “Warning Signs” right now, but I refuse to force it. We film in August, but I’m not worried about running over any deadlines. I’ve got this, I’m just looking for the right moments; the right conditions.

This isn’t an official poster; that’s not my job. Also, I’ve hated the name since day one. It’s his film, I just wrote/writing it. Love that guy; he’s a great friend, but I can’t acknowledge him as such. I can’t be someone’s friend if I owe them something. Obligation negates feelings, my peeps. A friend owes you nothing; ever.

I pause from time to time to focus on Cobain’s interactions between songs. That’s the best part of this album. He was never a famous musician; he was a true artist. He was the kind the fans loved for all the wrong reasons. Just like Thompson. Just like Morrison. Just like me. If that sounds narcissistic to you, then you’re not an artist, and no one expects you to be. You’re a soc med shame-slut. That’s not an insult, either. Being an artist is a curse bestowed upon us at birth by the universe as a way to proclaim to others, “This guy’s going to be a fuck-up of epic proportions; handle with care; enjoy the things he does with his tongue.”

Yes, they’ll say it exactly like that.

Jesus H. Fucktards-A-Roonie-Roo, what’s it take for a cup of Earl Grey to get cool enough to drink? This tongue has a future, goddammit. Yes, I’m 52, with miles to go before I sleep. That’s two classic-works references in one post! Section 237, stand up! You win a free dozen donuts from Krispy Kreme!

My early 2000’s Los Angeles Kings references are equally as hot!

This is usually the point in the conversation when someone’d pull out a pistola and evacuate their once-coveted brains all over the outdated rug adorning their living room, but that’s what the powers-that-be expect. I’m the M. Night Shyamalan of irrational thought in a world begging for Fast and Furious part 37. You see, the filter we writers boast only catches feelings, leaving nothing behind but empty expose’s and fiction. Not to bash fiction authors, but I was never meant to be one. I even promised myself I wouldn’t be one. Then, I did so to please someone else. The proof is in the pudding, if pudding were Amazon. It’s not bad. I may not write anymore of it (even though I have two nearly completed novels in the chamber), but my heart’s not in it at the moment.

Day-to-day life became fiction in itself with no accountability of elected officials or courts. If we could just get a few more scientists to roll over on hard facts, we could get that shit overturned as well! Fuck the moon; it’s made of cheese because I said it is! Gimme the crown! Fairy wings and turkey legs all around.

A great woman once told me that I should use my powers for the good of mankind, then she took off her pants for everyone. I wasn’t aware that sloppy sex came with a free book, or that it was even a club to be honest, otherwise I would’ve signed up for a position other than scribe. I can hear the soles of my shoes smacking the sticky with each step. Ack!

There was an extended time in life when others introduced me as the funny one – heterosexuality automatically implied – and I took the easy way to the top. I became the drunk one instead. There’s only so much sustainability regarding that identity and, eventually, the damned jokes just get tired. The thing that sucks the most about that identifier is your audience never has the courtesy to tell you they’re tired of your schtick. Nope; they’ll just let you keep on digging that grave knowing good and well none of them own a fucking ladder deep enough for you to climb out. I guess, at some point, you have to take accountability for your own actions, and I have; tenfold. I own multiple shovels and ladders now. My craft offers a variety of graves.

My spawn claims I’ve lost my whimsy. I say I was never whimsical to begin with. Being whimsical implies normalcy exists within the same individual. I had no normal. My normal was whimsy, and it just wasn’t enough whimsy for the masses, or at least the masses who preferred that particular brand of whimsy. No, my whimsy was honest; childlike. They killed it, as they tend to do.

Every day closer to the milestone brings another number to the combination. When it strikes, I’m fearful the spirit once donated to the thankless audience will return in dissimilar fashion. An abysmal reminder of an ISBe who no longer shimmers. I want not of other whimsies. It’s the dry cleaning cliche applied within fate’s existence.

Yes, I’ll ride this bitch until the wheels fall off, and I may even risk warping the rims for the sake of a better view, but I’m going to climb, stand, and piss on the hood for old time’s sake. I did that once. Caught a chick cheating on me. Walked into the dude’s house, raised hell, and then pissed my name on the hood of her car. It had snowed. In Texas. You’ve can’t pass up opportunities like that!

Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon. To be fair, she’d been cheating on that guy with me, I was just the last person in the three-way to get the memo. That still warrants a pissing. Who am I? Why am I here? What are we going to do today, Zuul? Crazy is no longer a subjective term in the eyes of the law. We’ll do what we must to survive.

I miss being silly for the sake of why-the-fuck-not. Not for a purpose such as likability, or a fan base, or burn-points to save face. When the time comes, will I remember how? This won’t get a video. Maybe.