Silence Approaches

The Gonzo Journals

April 27th, 2023

I’m being punished, aren’t I? Everything going on in my life right now can all be traced back to one moment. I’d forgotten about it until this morning. Regardless, I literally laughed out loud when I remembered.

The year was 1990, and I was a pizza slinging, mullet wearing, hair metal screaming high school kid with an uncertain future. Wow, it’s funny how the brain works. I just “smelled” burned pizza when I typed that out. That is how the brain works, right? I mean, I don’t think I have permanent brain damage from living a life rougher than most, but it’s possible. I’m glad I didn’t write about taking a shit. Aw, crap. That just happened too. Pizza, pizza, pizza. There we go.

I was working with this older lady who was obsessed with Richard Marx…

Wait. We interrupt this Gonzo Journal to bring you some saddening news. I just received a notification that Jerry Springer died! This makes me super sad. The dude was a god who helped the finer among us realize trailer parks could potentially be a breeding ground for low brow entertainment. Rest in peace, sir. You’ve earned it.

Anyway, some of you may not even know who Richard Marx is. Here is one of his music videos to clue you in. Great voice, even greater hair, and married to MTV VJ Daisy Fuentes! You know, I think people were just more beautiful in the 80’s/90’s. Now they all look as though they crawled out of a dumpster like Robert Pattinson. Hell of an actor, but appearance wise, he’s no Richard Marx. Greasy bastard.

Back to the story, this gullible coworker of mine was in love with this guy and I don’t blame her. One day, I came to work and told her his touring plane had crashed somewhere remote and there was no sign of survivors. Why did I do this? Because I was a dick. Not just any dick. An extremist dick. Strike fast, strike hard, no mercy sir!

She cried for an hour, clocked out, and went home.

Now, think about this long and hard (hehe).

This was 1990. There is no internet. There is no instantaneous news fix from anywhere in the world. Her only choice was to believe me until she actually saw it on the news or called MTV. That’s exactly what she did. She called MTV and someone told her I was a dick. I think by then, she already knew.

I felt horrible about this for years. I know how I cried when I heard Steve Irwin died and when Kevin Smith had his heart attack. Jerry Springer? I mean, I’m saddened, but I’m not Steve Irwin saddened. Everyone has that one celebrity which they love that would make them inconsolable. I don’t think I ate for a week after Elvis died. My mother didn’t leave the couch. I’m joking, of course, but not really. She was heartbroken, and I remember it well.

Soon, my story of being “cancelled” will fade into obscurity. The community has been great, but there is only so long they’ll speak out before getting bored, finding a new cause, or forgetting this ever happened. Six Flags Over Texas has been silent, meaning they hope to outlive my moxy. My moxy is infamous, but I have a feeling they’re going to win this one. They have the money, the power, and the resources. When one person in their company gets tired, another one steps in. We are but humble writers, after all. We have our limits.

My website and social media traffic has slowed down to a crawl, but the book sales are still up quite a bit. I never wanted that, though. I just wanted to drive the train. Hell, some people have taken my incident and turned it into their own cry for attention by either slightly altering the subject or arguing the point completely. Meh, it’s what we do in modern society.

We, as a species of technologically advanced “look at me” primates, would rather invent our own multiple narcissistic causes than group together and rally toward a unified, worthy purpose. Don’t believe me?

Wait until this time next week and ask someone in the literary community what happened to C. Derick Miller. They won’t know. They won’t know until it happens to someone else, and then it will start all over again.

We must stop this from happening to another artist. This isn’t about me. It was never about me. This is about drawing a line in the fucking sand and standing proud on your own side. This is about boundaries.

Choose. Also, let’s bring back the Richard Marx mullet. I can totally get behind that cause!

Peace.