open container speedWay

I went to an anti war demonstration last week in DC. My local friend and I popped downtown on the war’s 5^th anniversary to check out a couple of the day’s numerous planned anti-war activities.

From suburban Maryland we took the subway downtown to McPherson Sq. - about 4 blocks from the White House. From there we quickly joined a group from Students for a Democratic Society who marched west on K Street.

There may have been 500 protesters. We stretched for a half city block. Behind & in front of us police cars, lights flashing, strethced literally as far as the eye could see. Marching with the group, boxed in front & rear by cops in slow-rolling cruisers and by 5-story buildings on each side, left me unsettled by the realization that they could crush us at will - and seemingly wanted us to know it.

But it was, for the time being, a legal demonstration. So the DC police were there ostensibly to protect our Constitutional right to redress grievances against our duly elected government.

There was all manner of chanting & screaming. Walked alongside a group who looked to be anarchists with bandanas wrapped stick-up style around their faces. I for one get along generally well with anarchists - especially if they’re criminals too.

One of the anarchists pulled a wagon with an amplifier that blasted some manner of derelict music - punk rock I think. It sounded brazen; jangled yet melodically forboding.

The amplifier was covered in a clear plastic bag; we marched in a steady & warm early spring downpour.

We went for two blocks, under heavy police escort, until we reached the corner of 17^th Street. That’s where the anarchists started to get unruly.

I’ve seen this happen before. I lived in San Fransisco during the first Gulf War. They got mad anarchists out there. Shit when Bush 1 started bombing Iraq we swelled angrily through the streets & all the way out to the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Whose fucking bridge??”

We chanted.

“OUR FUCKING BRIDGE!”

Mobbed right up on it & shut the fucker down, we did. Thousands of people planted their butts flat on the highway & refused to move. Stopped traffic in both directions for hours. Except ah, well it actually was the Oakland Bay Bridge. I mean we wanted to shut down the Golden Gate Bridge.

Much more impressive. Better view.

But the Bay Bridge was closer. So we went for that one instead. It’s even bigger & busier than the Golden Gate bridge actually - to shut it down was no small feet.

Whose fucking bridge?

Now. People went to jail when we shut down the Bay Bridge. Not me - at the time I had a bench warrant in California because I blew off my court date for…something else. So I steered clear of the cops while I cheered people on as they got hauled to the paddy wagons.

Our fucking bridge!!

We chanted & screamed.

“Whose fucking intersection?!” A small group of anarchists chanted last week in DC.

No one answered.

The front of our procession up K street had halted. The back of the pack quickly quickly caught up. It was not a large procession - no more than the number of people who can fit comfortably in the middle of a busy Washington DC intersection.

The police were still in front & behind us, cruisers with lights flashing far as the eye could see. Students for a Democratic Society had attained the required permits to hold the protest; K Street was closed of for the march.

But 17^th street was not. The protesters bunched up in the intersection of 17^th & K Streets. City busses & cars with people going home from work waited at a red light on 17^th street. The light turned green. The cars, trucks & buses didn’t go.

There was a wet bunch of wet anarchists in the middle of the road.

“Whose fucking intersection?”

Finally a lone voice answered.

“OUR fucking intersection!”

The light turned red again.

Then green.

The protest did not march forward as scheduled.

Traffic jammed up on 17^th.

My buddy & I were compelled to pose to ourselves a question. Do we want to go to jail? Because if we stayed in the middle of that intersection it seemed we surely would. But first we’d likely be maced, Tazed and/or cold clocked with batons.

What’s the point? To protest I mean. I guess people protest in hopes that if enough people scream loud enough they’ll hear us. But what if they do hear us - but plain don’t give flying a fuck?

That’s why they wanted to shut down the intersection. Because our so-called President is a 2-time loser who plain don’t give a flying fuck. So maybe by disrupting business as usual, the anarchist-types reason, then they’ll be forced to hear our message.

And it’s a good message: We do give a fuck.

Still to get arrested would be such a gigantic pain in the ass and really - who would care? Not George W. Bush. I mean we shut down the Oakland Bay frikkin Bridge & his daddy didn’t care - and the elder Bush is, frightfully, the wiser of the two.

It was futile. The first Gulf War was hugely a hugely popular US military adventure. You know…ever since then I just haven’t been much of a protester.

Me & my buddy split the scene at 17^th & K and walked a few blocks to Lafyette Park. Code Pink had an event planned; they hoped enough people would come & scream so loud, there in front of the White House, that the president would hear.

As we left the intersection a bus-sized paddy wagon made it’s way up K St.

Code Pink mustered maybe 15 people together. They stood on the sidewalk in front of the White House and screamed. No one cared.

It was a sad wee bit of a protest. With stark journalistic objectivity I determined that it accomplished just about - but not quite - jack shit. I don’t know how to stop the war. I only know that screaming loud enough for the President to hear is tactically ineffective if the President doesn’t care.

That’s why last week’s protests against year # 6 of the Iraq war were sparsly attended. Maybe it’s wrong. Maybe everyone should march on Washington anyway. But I understand why people don’t; it was kind of depressing.

Plus the fact that no one can afford the gas money to get to DC.

My friend & I figured it best to take our gloomy moods to a more congenial surrounding. We marched off to find a drinking establishment.

On the way we passed by K St. again, a couple blocks down from 17^th. The street was still bursting with cop cars; the bus-sized paddy wagon loomed omenously up ahead. We wondered what manner of carnage had ensued and decided to go have a look.

Eyewitnesses reported that, when the paddy wagon rolled up, police decended batons- drawn on the intersection. They ordered the group to disperse or face arrest. The protesters locked arms and refused to budge.

The cops slapped their batons into the palms of their hands menacingly. Again ordered the group to disburse. Acted all bad ass like they were going to crack some skulls.

Whose fucking intersection?

By the time we got there mayhem had broke all the way loose. It was like total anarchy! The intersection was still altogether clogged. 17^th street traffic remained at a stand-still. Electrically celebratory house music - like they used to play at raves - now blasted from the amp in the wagon.

The DC police, it seemed, were keen to avoid any embarrasment that might result should footage of them bludgeoning protesters appear on the evening news. Perhaps they preferred that the protests not be shown on the evening news at all.

What those protesters did was illegal. But the cops had Orders - to not interfere. They warned the protesters again. Ordered them to disburse “or else.”

Or else what? The protesters called their bluff.

Then danced in the street.

Danced hundreds-strong in the middle of the intersection of K St. & 17^th.

What can a poor boy do? My friend & I meshed into the crowd & got our boogie on in the middle of the intersection with the protester chicks.

Soon the house music stopped. Everyone groaned, like “shit the party’s over?!” A protester chick got on the microphone. Said she was from the DC chapter of Students for a Democratic Society. Thanked us for coming out in the rain. Then summed up what had just transpired as such:

“This is a Win.”

The house music came back on.

My buddy & I split for the bar. Clearly our work there was done.

I sipped my Jameson on ice & thought on it. A win? Was it really. Well? We did dance unlawfully in the street - 4 blocks from the White House - while the cops watched impotently.

Maybe we didn’t Win Big. There is still cruelty & war on Planet Earth. Still we eeked out a few smiles on that cloudy day. Perhaps that alone strikes a sound blow on behalf of Peace?

In any event we for damn sure didn’t get beat.

I went to a Quaker high school. That’s where I learned to slack craftily & make high-quality excuses for not doing much. It’s also where I learned about silence.

For 10 minutes each morning the whole school — all 30 or so of us — circled up & sat in silence together. Those brief minutes seemed then like an eternity. For me at 17 to sit there and do nothing…actually that was pretty normal. But to say nothing?

It wasn’t until a little later in life that I learned to truly enjoy not saying much while I stare at the wall.

Back then I was way more chatty.

We would crack up laughing a lot during Silence. I don’t know, someone would make a fart noise or something. Or even just make a face like they were about to fart — I mean we had it Down.

I’m sitting here right now staring at the wall, not saying much while I make fart faces & crack myself up.

So…I did learn how to do something — besides be a slacker — in high school.

Oh, there are other good ways to stare at the wall slack-jawed & maybe drool. Boy are there! But silence is cheaper — if at times harder to come by.

I think what I really learned is that silence replenishes. The hardest thing for me about being homeless has been my near inability to sit somewhere comfortably silent — or quiet even. The library I suppose…but they keep strange hours.

Not that I don’t sit places — mostly bars & other people’s houses — quietly. I do all the time but it’s rarely comfortable; doesn’t replenish. I also sit places & talk to myself sometimes. That freaks people out too — at least so much as when I’m a little too quiet.

Anyway I’ve had a chance to spend a bit of reflective time recently in the spare room of a friend who put me on a train for a visit. Dude followed a proper Edict, I say: if you have a friend who is visibly starving for their art — feed ‘em for fuck’s sake!!

Anyway. This unexpected trip out of town came just in time. As my last blog post attests I’ve been feeling morbidly sapped.

Hence my silence.

I feel better replenished now.

A thousand thank yous.

In other news: US-backed Iraqi forces are militarily forcing Muqtada al-Sadr to call off the truce in Basra. Way to go you dumb assholes!

Finally, on a possibly sad note: my buddy Jay Herron had a chat with his mortician recently — rarely a good sign. Gets me to thinking, about how the older you get & the more new friends you make…the more friends you’ll likely outlive. Simple mathematics; welcome to Planet Earth.

Sad & true.

Jay to his immense credit seems cheerful about the whole thing. I suppose in certain ways one can’t blame him, no? Totally positudinal.

I invite you to please check his stuff out — quality shit written by a man under the gun. That way y’all can be bummed out with me out if he dies soon, too.

The homeless shelter in Brattleboro — like in most rural areas — is tough to get into. It can take weeks. The procedure is to call in every morning until a bed opens — however long it takes. I’ve tried a couple of times, for lack of anywhere better to go, to get into the place. It’s hard, though, for me to maintain the sustained effort required. Not here in my hometown, where I generally can find some place to stay — stressful & wearisome as finding someplace to stay has become after all these years.

Mind you, there is a real short list of places I can stay. 2 of my friends who generally welcome me into their homes, most anytime I need, are out of town at the moment. That makes the list critically short. In fact — last night at least — the list was non existent.

They’ve opened an emergency overflow shelter for Brattleboro’s homeless this winter. I could have hung around the bars — tired as a dog & with no money — and eventually someone may have put me up. Like I said I end up somewhere most nights. Most, but not all. Last night I was plain not in the mood to spend hours hanging around the bar with no money hoping I would end up somewhere warm. Some nights you’re just not in the fucking mood.

I remembered about the emergency shelter. It opens up during snow & ice storms and when the temperature drops below 20 degrees F. — basically the emergency shelter operates when a persons life is threatened were they to sleep outdoors.

It was mighty cold last night. The emergency shelter was open — from 7PM to 7AM. They have it in a church basement on Main St.

12 people found refuge at the emergency shelter last night. 10 men, one woman — and one undecided. Looked like a chick last night. Yet despite the high heeled boots looked quite like a dude in the cold light of day. Anyway.

The accommodations were comfortable enough; blankets, a pillow, a sleeping pad & a spot on the carpeted floor. My only complaint, shared by most others in my vicinity, was that someone’s feet reeked. Unfortunately those feet were mine. I left the last place I stayed in a hurry and was forced to wear my boots without socks. I was tempted to leave my boots outside the shelter but feared they’d be gone in the morning. I wished I’d taken my chances.

Other than that it wasn’t too bad. They fed us beef stew in the evening. I fell asleep almost immediately. In the morning there was coffee & donuts.

The biggest drawback to the emergency shelter is the 7AM check out time. Actually it was better this morning, being Sunday. On Sunday, while they make you wake up and put your bedroll away before 7, folks are allowed to hang out in there the basement until 9:30 — when church begins.

Good thing. Sunday is a rough day to be homeless — Sunday morning especially. With the library closed, there’s not much to do when you’re broke on Sunday besides just kind of walk around & try to stay warm.

Which I did for some hours. Eventually I occupied a table at a coffee shop. Though I could not buy a coffee, people who work there know me and left me alone. It’s uncomfortable though, being in a place where people buy things, with no money. I didn’t stay long.

Once outside I ran into a friend. Bummed a smoke off him. He then blessedly offered to buy me breakfast. Then we went to his place for a few bong hits. By the time I came back out the Bar was open, and now here I am. 24 hours later, wondering if it’s cold enough for the emergency shelter to open tonight.

Wishing I had some socks.

You have to play the game, have to keep the psychological advantage. That’s the tenacity of gangsters. He knows she may be lying but he has to make her believe she’s fooled him. Lies can be magic. Lies are gifts from gangster heaven. Besides, perhaps she was telling the truth.
>>Galloway

Omar was a stick up boy.

Why not? You got to make a fast buck. And that’s one way to.

I liked Omar quite a lot. Not everyone does. I guess since most people are scared Omar will rob them. But I got jack shit that’s worth robbing.

Last month Omar stuck up Prop Joe.

He stuck a gun in his face. Not because he wanted to shoot Prop Joe. Not necessarily. Omar merely meant to discover whether a healthy fear of buckshot in the face would inspire Proposition Joe. Inspire him to act swiftly on his own behalf — do things he would not but for his wish to not die.

Two weeks later Proposition Joe was coldly executed by a local drug dealer’s kingpin’s hired assassin.

So it go.

The new kingpin enjoyed watching Prop Joe die.

Bad kingpin!

13 years ago, when Omar was young — maybe 8 years old — he & his people famously stuck up a middle-aged, working class man for a fast $17 bucks.

“You know what this is?” He rhetorically asked the guy, who was seated at a bus stop.

Omar stuck a pistol in his face.

“Yeah.” He assured him & jabbed the gun a little closer. “You know.”

Stakes were a bit higher, last month, when Omar stuck up Prop Joe. Prop Joe was in his fifties. He sold drugs for a fast buck. Sold drugs Big Time — kingpin big. If you’ve ever bought drugs in Baltimore chances are they came from Prop Joe.

True ‘dat.

Every drug dealer in Baltimore bought their dope from Prop Joe because Prop Joe got the bomb dope.

Good kingpin.

To make the cops think he didn’t sell drugs Proposition Joe fixed clocks.

Omar stuck up Prop Joe in his clock-fixing shop. He walked in. Prop Joe suddenly fell startlingly depressed. He knew Omar. Shit they were friends practically. So Prop Joe knew Omar wasn’t there to get a clock fixed. He was there on Business.

Omar handed Prop Joe a broken clock.

“What’s wrong with it?” Prop Joe asked fretfully.

“Out-a time.” Omar pronounced.

“Ain’t that a shame.” Prop Joe shook his head.

Omar drew his shotgun from behind a large coat and jammed it up in Prop Joe’s face.

Young Omar felt it was wrong to steal the $17 bucks, those many years ago. They robbed chump change from some poor fool while he waited to take a bus home from work? In quick retrospect Omar thought it wrong.

He lodged a protest. Said they should give the money back. Give it back! His friend, older & nearly twice Omar’s height, scoffed & rebuked him. Omar spoke no more of it. Instead the 8-year-old stick up boy stood tippy-toed & raised his arm & cocked the pistol in his coconspirator’s face & simply insisted.

A man got to have a code.

Omar didn’t aim to kill Prop Joe. But that’s just my opinion. I’m not Omar. How could I know for sure?

How for that matter could Proposition Joe.

He thought. Thought fast. One thing Prop Joe could do real good was think fast. Fast enough — most days. Most days Prop Joe — like all gangsters — was at his natural best when literally in front of a gun.

“Maybe we can settle this with a certain…proposition.” Joe suggested.

Omar’s expression didn’t change. His shotgun barrel brushed against Prop Joe’s cheek. But his finger eased off the trigger. Prop Joe was speaking his language.

Omar listened.

He proposed to tip Omar off to the locale & time when Baltimore would receive its’ entire next heroin & cocaine shipment. A wildly reckless move. Cold-hearted people would be murderously displeased with Prop Joe when their shipment, payed for up front, got stolen — but not until Later.

Prop Joe had a Problem. Now not later. Now is what counts.

Just then the stick up boy let Prop Joe live.

Just then that’s what counted.

Omar stuck up the delivery truck.

Then he made a proposition of his own. Omar proposed to sell the city’s entire coke & heroin shipment — for which Joe had already been paid — to — guess who? — Proposition Joe. Prop Joe agreed; he would pay Omar 40 percent of it’s original value.

I don’t know how many drugs were in the truck. Enough that they’re still getting high on ‘em in Baltimore even as we speak. Suffice to say that at 40 cents on the buck Omar got paid heroically.

He promptly retired from the stick-up boy racket.

Prop Joe turned around & resold the whole truckload of their own product straight back to every drug dealer in Baltimore — at a tidily profitable 50 cents on the dollar.

Fast thinker.

Know what I remember best about Omar? The way everyone in his neighborhood - adult & child alike, anyone who didn’t want to get robbed — would warningly scream his name “OMAR!” and skedaddle fearfully whenever he walked down the street.

Except the ones he wanted to catch. They tried to run. But Omar never chased them; they’d get a gun stuck in their face before they took their first step.

Omar stopped into a Korean grocery the other day for a soft pack of Newports. And something else. I don’t know what; I never will. He was about to tell the cashier — when an 9 year-old boy unexpectedly popped a cap in the back of his skull.

Happened so fast I get the feeling the old stick up boy don’t even know he got bagged up yet. Omar saw the boy walk into the store. But paid him no mind — just another 3^rd grader playing hookey. Boy blew Omars brains out of his eye-balls.

Poor Omar never saw it coming.

I get the feeling the boy knew he wouldn’t.

Is that why he killed him — because he could? Just to say he did? For the sake of upward gangster mobility?

Or for less sophisticated reasons? After brooding on it all week, it suddenly struck me. The boy killed Omar, in part, because he wasn’t scared to. He knew he could. But why did he want to?

Boy didn’t like Omar.

Dang.

So it go.

But dang. Boy cold.

I believe I would surely have killed myself, perhaps long ago, without all those illegal drugs to cheer me up along the way.

Yeah. But my life was saved by rock & roll. 

I realize I’m a little behind the game on this one, since those UFOs in Texas haven’t been on CNN for weeks. But something I saw when they were has intrigued me ever since. 

The experts were all on Larry King, talking about how the Government doesn’t want us to know that Unidentified Flying Objects fly regularly through US airspace with impunity — and reportedly have for decades.

Now. Regular speedWay readers know that I delightedly eat freeze dried alien turdz for breakfast, whenever I get the chance — and am therefore unsurprised to learn that they saw a UFO down in Texas. It was interesting to see them talk about it on Larry King though.

One of the guys on there was talking about how he used to work 60 feet below ground in the control room of a nuclear missile launch silo. He said that one night the above-ground guard at his facility radioed him. The guard, agitated, jabbered about something he saw in the sky. The control-room guy asked the guard to identify what he saw. The guard could not. All he could say was that some kind of object kept flying by.

And suddenly the silo was disarmed.

This was back in the late 60’s. Inside the silo a nuclear-tipped missile was pointed at Moscow. But the launch-guy — the dude on CNN — could not have nuked Russia if he wanted to. A UFO flew by. The silo was disarmed. No deals.

Kind of gets me to thinking. What are those UFOs doing here, flying with impunity through US airspace — and why does the Government want to cover it up?

Here’s a theory:

Sometimes I am utterly amazed that human beings — well equipped as we are to — have not blown ourselves into a giant shit-puddle already. Strikes me as likely that our dumb asses would — if only inadvertently.

Well what if we…can’t? 

What if aliens, aided by superior technology, simply won’t allow us to?

What if, were we to try, those aliens would go ahead & benevolently disarm the launch mechanisms of our ICBM facilities? 

That would have made the whole Cold War into a bit of a very expensive yet politically expedient Farce — and surely answer that “Why the Cover Up?” question.

They say you can’t believe everything you read on open container speedWay. Actually I said that. You can’t believe everything you read here on open container speedWay.

That’s a fact.

George McGovern, the one-time Democratic nominee for the presidency, also said that you can’t believe everything you read on the speedWay. Actually that’s not true; but he would have if he ever happened to read this pile of blog doo.

George McGovern did –really — say that Hunter S. Thompson’s novel Fear & Loathing on the Campaign Trail was the “least factual, but most accurate” thing written about his doomed 1972 candidacy.

Thus the good Doctor achieved the highest journalistic ideal:

Clarity.

In the interest of clarity:

I did not email Clark Hoyt to demand immediate payment for One Stinking Dollar, or I would take my story elsewhere, thanks anyway dude. I thought about it though — big time. Everything I said in the email was true. I do direly need pay. And if another publication wants to buy that story I’ll owe it to myself to sell.

Because I really do need a place to live more than anything on Earth.

At the same time, Clark Hoyt says that, while he can not at this time guarantee Dollar will run in the NY Times Magazine, he assured my phenomenal new agent that it “looks promising.” For that reason I’ve chosen to let One Stinking Dollar run its’ course, deserved or no, on the Public Editor’s desk — a fine place for it to be.

So the email was never sent.

To solve my immediate cash flow catastrophe I’ve opted to pitch a different story to the Valley Advocate. While there’s more to tell — I hope they’ll let me double the word count — here is a brief-as-feasible synapse of the article I want the Advocate to buy instead:

In August, 2007 my friend Sophie and I approached a staff member at the Grove St. Inn. We have both been homeless – living in Sophie’s car mostly — in the Brattleboro area for 3+ years. A bit of bad luck — $100 worth of old parking fines which needed to be paid immediately to keep Sophie’s car out of impound – had recently stranded us in Northampton with no gas money.

Since we’d both long been fed up with our prospects for self-betterment in Brattleboro, we decided to see what Northampton had to offer the homeless. I used my one worldly possession – my laptop – to locate the [local homeless shelter] Grove St. Inn.

We were greeted coldly at first; Sophie & I were turned away before we even got out of the car. We drove off. I got angry. We drove back. I went into the shelter and politely asked the woman who had just turned us away if there was a waiting list we could sign on to. She said yes. And then, as we spoke face to face rather than through the window of an obviously lived-in car, the woman warmed up to me.

She listened while I explained we were not on drugs. That we were both survivors of childhood sexual trauma and our lives were messed up from it. I grew misty-eyed then – no longer angry but profoundly sad.

“We just need some help.” I pleaded.

And she – it seemed miraculously – agreed to take us in.

We would sleep on the homeless shelter’s couches. Wonderful! There is a “Home Sweet Home” sign hung above the Inn’s front door. After 3 years sleeping in a car…what a gigantic relief.

This was on a Friday. The woman did our intake and told us to relax; we were in a safe place now. We did our laundry & showered & stretched our legs out the whole way on our couches. We were in a homeless shelter. It was awesome.

I checked out the Help Wanted section of the local paper, over the weekend, and was thrilled to see a far greater number of job opportunities than exist in Brattleboro. I resolved – aided by a roof to sleep beneath each night & a shower to take in the morning – to go out & find work first thing Monday.

But when Monday rolled around we were informed, to our utter shock & dismay – not to mention the shock & dismay of the Inn’s other guests – that our stay on the couches was only authorized for the weekend. There were no issues of misconduct. Nevertheless those couches at the homeless shelter remained empty once we were inexplicably booted back out in the street.

Dear Mr. Hoyt,

Thank you for considering my One Stinking Dollar piece for publication in the Times Magazine. I’m thrilled. And a bit impressed — I think justifiably — with myself.

I mean the New York Times Magazine?? Very glossy.

It occurs to me that your interest in my work could open doors for me, as a working writer, even if I don’t make the Magazine’s final cut. For example, I very much want to spend time in New Orleans in the near future to put together an article — I’m not sure for whom: any ideas? — on the unique plight of the homeless in that city. I’ve also considered forwarding One Stinking Dollar to the Valley Advocate — our local left-leaning free weekly (western Massachusetts’ somewhat muted answer to the Voice) — for whom the article was originally intended. Let them know, in hopes of piquing their interest, that the piece is on your desk as we speak.

Not that I want to deprive you of the story. The NY Times Magazine has dibs — and if you choose to run it I’ll be tremendously pleased. Still, I have plainly urgent needs of my own to consider. I must pay some rent. I’ve been homeless for 3+ years. I take a hard look at myself every single day and try to figure out how to improve my oft-desperate situation. How will I get a place to live? The only seemingly viable solution I’ve ever been able to concoct is to write my way out of this thing.

So your consideration of One Stinking Dollar for the Magazine is splendidly good news! I feel validated & relieved. Alas, high as it makes me feel, your interest in my stuff does not address my overwhelmingly immediate needs. I must sell a story so I can get a place to call home and make my life human again. It is such an incontestable priority that — if the Advocate wants to buy One Stinking Dollar — I will have no choice.

That said, I obviously don’t want to spurn you & the NY Times Magazine. Should I go the Advocate route, I will happily offer up another submission for the “Lives We Lived” edition. My years spent homeless have been, if nothing else, a colorfully storied affair. So I surely can produce some different material that may fit the Magazine’s needs.

On the other hand, there are plenty of other aspects to the homeless predicament that I could cover for the Advocate as well. Given the choice I’ll mightily prefer to write other stuff for them and leave One Stinking Dollar on your desk — where I happen to think it richly deserves to be.

But in order to do that — there’s no way to mince these words — I need money.

All things considered my by-far best case scenario is for the Magazine to pay something up front to retain rights to One Stinking Dollar. Am I out of line for asking? I’ve no way to know since I’ve never negotiated with a potential publisher before. But it seems to me that if you’re leaning toward printing the thing then buying the rights may be the best case scenario for you guys as well.

Well that’s all for now. I thank you dearly for your time — and for the sublime personal lift this whole scenario has given me.

Best Wishes,
Mike E

Cc: Valley Advocate

We all got one.

We must; it is compulsory.

Question is what’s ours? Yours? Mine?

You can trust someone when we know their code. Even if their code, by our best estimate, is dumb-fart wrong. When we know someone’s code we’ll know how they act. Even when we don’t like it — especially when we don’t like it — we best see it coming. When we know one’s code we can gauge their moves. Even if we’ll never for the life of us know what the fuck they be thinking.

Helps hugely to see It coming.

When I know my own code I don’t always know what I’ll do next — but I always know Why.

Knowing my own code helps incalculably.

My code is who I am at best. Our code is the highest ideal. Truth. Hunter S. Thompson once said: “There’s no such thing as hallucinations; only things more likely seen when you’re tripping.”

Actually I said that — in the epitaph I wrote for the good doctor. Which ran as a Letter to the Editor in my local daily. I said Hunter S. Thompson said that.

Final Wisdom: I claimed he poetically waxed right before he died. There’s no such thing as hallucinations…

Because it gives the quote better fireworks Action — the ooh ah shit that sells — when people think Hunter S. Thompson said it moments before he shot himself in the head.

All good writers are word thieves. But the best writers steal something better than words; something no one else has yet stolen. Something most writers much want, but will never even, think to steal. I for one am a roller coaster thief.

Better still: I’m Mike E motherfuckers!

Got an open container of make believe.

Make believe makes life better. I live to make life better. I make my life better when I believe unshakably in me.

I don’t know what my code is off the top of my head. Got a bitchin’ Motto though:

Better Living Through Make Believe.

1.25.2008

Heyo.

Um…that’s not bad news. You can relax. I’m smiling — a big ol’ shit Drug Eating Grin — about this as we speak.

When Hunter S. Thompson finished his masterwork, Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, he was plumb giddy with what he knew was an extreme accomplishment. “I’m high as a pigeon.” He wrote to a friend. Oh shit yes! High as a frikkin pigeon.

That’s when it’s awesome dudes.

I got jabbed in the gut, just now, by a fast Woo-Hoo flash of that Pigeon High plumb giddy thing; it’s a glorious feeling.

Hey Satan! Paid my dues.
Playin’ in a rockin’ band
Hey MAMA! Look at me:
I’m on my way to the Promised Land!!

My friend: thank you.

Upset? Me? Fuck nope! I was upset, old flame, when you nosed through my personal Journal lo those many years ago. Because you read what I wrote about the time I inadvertently slept with your best friend. And I then had to Deal With It — and I didn’t want to. Of course the only solid defense I could mount on my own behalf, that silly day, was a “Foul!” cry because you read about it while you snooped uninvited through my journal. So yeah. I couldn’t help but feel a bit intruded upon. I had to!

In retrospect it kinda makes me chuckle.

Quite funny.

Don’t ya think?

If you’re worried, as it seems, that I’ll feel similarly intruded upon over this thing — fret not!

That said, I am compelled to respectfully request that you not send any high school era journals you may have ah, borrowed from me, way back when, off to be published unbidden!

K?

Onward:

The fact — a fact I’m well aware of — is that I direly need an agent. I absolutely need help with the wherewithal of the marketing angle. So I could harp a bit on the fact that you didn’t ask me first — if you had I would have said “certainly yes!” — but why bother?

You’ve done a tremendously good turn by me.

If we’d agreed to this beforehand I likely would have fiddled with the piece a bit, tried to make it better before you sent it out. Maybe I could have improved it, maybe not. But whatever improvements I made would be promptly undone by the magazine’s final-cut editor before (if) they ever printed the thing. Yeah — I know that routine. I can’t even get a letter to the editor in Brattleboro’s po dunk daily printed without a botch job run on it by the editor. So it really doesn’t matter does it?

What counts is that you say they’re considering my story for publication. They really are? I am astonished.

For real? So it seems. I mean why else would they write you back, months later, to ask for an end-of-article Blurb about me? This is genuine. Huge. GIGANTIC. The New York Times Magazine?!

Even if they never print the thing, shit — they noticed it. They’re genuinely interested. This is the NYT Sunday Magazine we’re talking about; that is no small feat.

I have to compliment you on your good eye in picking out the one piece, out of everything on that blog, that I want to see printed somewhere like the New York Times Magazine. I’m pretty insecure about most of my stuff. But I wrote One Stinking Dollar to be published and I want 10,000 people to read it. So thanks.

As far as the blurb goes…I dunno. What do you think? You’re now my new agent afterall so I value your opinion. Maybe something like: Mike E spent the money he earned from the sale of this article on some rent. He now works gainfully as a freelance writer; studies Math & Economics on the side; spends much of his discretionary income betting on fast racehorses; and hopes one day to enroll in the Entrepreneurial Studies MBA program at Columbia University. Or some such thing?

Also if you can find me any other work…please! I’d prefer to churn out something fresh. I want an Assignment. So if you see anything around that pays say $100-plus which you think is up my alley — let me know pronto, dig?

Soon as we get some dough to roll in I will gleefully pay you the standard agency fee.

I gotta fly — my friend Superstar Brown just got back from Africa and he’s having a dinner party.

Righto.

Yippeee!

A thousand Thanks.

Your Friend,
Mike E