True Story: The Writers
[Editor's Note: Jack Grisham is an author, hypnotherapist, T.S.O.L. front man and all-around troublemaker. This column, True Story, may or may not be factual, with characters who may or may not be real.]
By: Jack Grisham
For every Kerouac, there are a thousand foul-smelling travelers clogging our coffee bars with unkempt hair and notebooks that reek of patchouli and medicinal weed--and as for Bukowski, there was one, "the Big Bukowski." His imitators are nothing more than foul-mouthed obnoxious Hanks wallowing in cheap booze. I've seen them, talking their shit, bragging of their prowess with prose--bitch, please, the only thing these wannabe writers are prolific at is urinating--15-minute-long streams of 20-proof slop cascading from beer-shrunken cocks and being voraciously gobbled up by water-saving urinals. Now, I'm not saying you shouldn't follow your dreams--I support your futility--I'm just saying that you need to stop trying to re-create someone else's reality because unlike stars in the sky--each of which shines so heavenly--the majority of us are just human . . .
"Hey, what'cha doing man?" I smelled the foul stench before I looked into the glazed eyes of a traveler. "You're a writer now, huh?"
"No," I replied. "I'm a hack."
"I mean, this isn't my dream. I lived my dream, and now I just document the remnants of what I used to be--sadly, the majority of which has been lost in a maze of scar tissue and a cavalcade of lies that I concocted to hide the pain."
"Yeah," I continued, "and, as a matter of fact, I was just writing about you."
"Yeah, right here." I moved my hand away from the paper so he could get a glimpse of the piece. "It says that you dirty travelers clog the coffee bars and bug the fuck out of me. Have a nice day."
I dismissed him to go beg in the street.
"I'm writing a book." The lady who just piped in was sitting two wooden chairs over and had been listening in as I berated the hippie.