#42 “Literary Agents & Bail Bondsmen”

Dear Don1001,

One of the side effects of doing huge amounts of coffee and Khat is binge writing. But occasionally you need to come up for air and Cannabis, so I’ve decided to take a break from writing to blaze a big fatty and to compose you a note about what I’m writing. I’ve decided after five decades on the Planet to pen my memoirs, or at least I think they are my memories and if they’re not mine, they’re somebody’s and they’re weird enough that they need to be penned. So after decades of hard drug use, cheap hotels, air flights from Hell in Third World countries, suspect food and a large quantity of weirdness, it’s time to record some of these escapades while I can still remember them. And what better way to rationalize a life that can only be characterized as theater of the bizarre combined with moments of sex, violence and illusions of grandeur than a memoir? Although my decades of Bohemian/Political Gangster lifestyle has enabled me to accrue a lot of stories, the huge amounts of alcohol and drugs that came with that territory, has taken a toll on my “hard drive”. I have all of these vague memories of things that I may or may not have participated in to some degree, like of hanging out with some junkie classmates for a couple of weeks in the Summer of “76” as they were in the middle of a phase, they described as “Crash and Burn”. These morons owned a “63” Ford pickup that they would crash into a small town pharmacy, grab all of the drugs they could in five minutes and then haul ass to the next small town and do the same thing until they had a large laundry bag full of drugs. Thirty some years later it’s hard to say exactly to what degree I participated. I know I didn’t go with them during the robberies because even at the ripe old age of 20, I knew these guys were fucking crazy. Although my “home-boys” from the “Hills of Southern Indiana” were junkies, they knew nothing about drugs, that’s where I came in, I could tell them which drugs would get them high and which ones would clear up their acne. Of course I kept the best drugs for my services but they never knew that because they were getting higher than they ever had in the life, so everybody was happy. But because of that incident alone, some would say I was an accessory to several felonies that are too tedious to list; I would say I was an “in-bedded Journalist” a priori. I wasn’t participating in crime; I was observing these antisocial behaviors so that I could write about them at a future date when I could be more objective about the facts and not face serious jail time. For some individuals, journalism is a vainglorious attempt at relevant observations about current events, for me, its vague recollections of three-day weekends in Hell, pen in hand. All serious writers should have a good literary agent and a great bail bondsman. Well the Manatuska Thunderfuck (Alaska’s finest Cannabis, I wonder if Sarah ever tried it?) has taken off the edge enough that maybe I can eat something and get some sleep.

                       Plagiarizing myself, Brother Gregory

You can see videos of these sage observations here: http://www.youtube.com/my_videos?feature=mhum
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