Domino Monday.

The Gonzo Journals

January 23rd, 2023

Twenty-two years ago today one of the greatest arguments known to mankind ended. My wife (at the time) was asleep after some intense labor, and I got to name my first-born son Anakin. This is something I promised myself I would do while sitting in the front row of Rolling Hills Cinema Four on opening night for Return of the Jedi. Yes, all you Special Edition poons, the first time you ever heard the name Anakin Skywalker was in Return of the Jedi. Before the dark times. Before the special editions, Disney acquisition, etc.

Happy 22nd birthday, son. Somehow you managed to survive a couple of my divorces, the worst of my alcoholism, high school, ignorant girlfriends – both mine and yours – and the military. You’re now a husband and a father yourself. I hope you remember all the fucked-up things I did during your childhood and do the exact opposite. That’s the most any father can request from their son.

Last night, I put the finishing touches on the third draft to my newest short story. It goes a little something like this:

Fire.

I see it as both a curse and a blessing since the day the good lord bestowed it upon us with his infinite wisdom. We use it to heat our lives during periods of winter, cook our meals during times of hunger, and to dispose of bodies during times of mourning. Then again, a blessing to one man is often a curse upon another. God is funny like that, and those jokes come in various shapes, forms, and familiarities.

Don’t worry, it all goes downhill from there. Much like life itself. The beginning of anything is never so convoluted, but the ending is normally a jumbled mess you wish you could burn to the ground and start over. Unfortunately, life isn’t like that. Yes, we can end it all with a big bang or a long, drawn-out sleep, but there’s no proof we get to begin again. Only in religious legends and a dream.

Everyone on this planet has thought about it at one time or another, me included. What lies beyond the boundaries of our own realities and is it any better than what this life has to offer? If it resembles anything like what I discovered during ten years of paranormal investigation, I don’t want any part of it. Just let me blink out, softly play some eighties glam metal in my coffin, and go to sleep for all eternity.

What if we do carry on, though? What if some all-knowing entity reaches into our graves, pulls us to the next world, and throws us into the body of a new person? That would just be my luck. Get to sleeping well, shaken awake, and forced to shit in diapers and learn to walk all over again. Can you imagine reliving middle school, puberty, and your first awkward sexual experience all over again? That would make your god more of a practical joker and less of an almighty savior in my opinion.

Who was I, if anyone, before my birth and why was this person so lucky to get a second chance? I guess those are questions which will never get answered to my satisfaction, so all I can do is make some small requests for the next go around. Dear creator of all things: I hope you’re listening.

1. I want to be well off. I don’t want to be born into a rich family, but I don’t want to grow up dirt poor like I did in this life. We were so broke, my father had to cut holes in the pockets of my blue jeans so I could have something to play with. Yes, that’s a dick joke.
2. If I’m still a writer, I’d like to discover this earlier in life. I knew from a noticeably early age that I was destined to be a writer, but I ignored it for as long as possible. In the eighties, writers were nerds, and nerds didn’t get laid. That’s all that mattered back then. At least that’s what our movies, music, and other media led us to believe.
3. I want to be a chick. I’ve walked around with a swinging meat stick between my legs for almost fifty years now. I want to see what it’s like to be on the other side of things. Actually, if I know me, and I do, I will probably just lay in bed and play with myself all day. What can I say? I’m a huge fan of vaginas, I just wish they came with an owner’s manual. Lots of trial and error over the years but, you’re welcome, ladies! I’d place that book on the back of my toilet and be an expert within a week. Remember that? Remember before smart phones when we were growing up and we would take the Nintendo game manuals to the bathroom with us? We kicked ass at those games…

The bottom line of all this is that my brain refuses to shut off. For the first time in years, I’m pecking out stories like there’s no tomorrow. The only problem with that is I can’t sleep at night. I’m too busy telling myself the plot for the next adventure. Ultimately, this is how I became an alcoholic to begin with. It was the only way to shut my loud brain off at night. Now that I’m sober, I must chew a melatonin gummy to go to sleep. This is the writer’s curse, but better than drinking myself into an early grave.

I would go on to tell you my reasoning for believing Pokémon is nothing but glorified cock fighting, but I’ll save that for another time.

See? Nothing but randomness! All day, all night. Mama, don’t let your babies grow up to be authors, chipmunks, Alvin!!!

Happy Monday!

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