[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.”
“What?”
“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.”
“Wow.”
]
“Yeah,” I continued, “and, as a matter of fact, I was just writing about you.”
“Me?”
“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.
[
“My girlfriends said I should write a 50 Shades thing–I've done some stuff.”
I looked at her face–the used-to-be-beautiful young woman peering out from behind sagging, age-blotched skin. I could also smell the sour wine stink as she talked–her breath doing its best to second-hand intoxicate me.
“Oh,” I said, “so you've sucked a lot of dick huh? Did you ever tie anybody up?”
“Yeah, I uh . . .”
“You know my last girlfriend was a hooker, too, but she came down with a nasty case of vaginitis, and it sort of shut down business for a while. Hey, how much would it cost for
you to go fuck that traveler who just left here–I'll buy you a latte and a lemon bar.”
“Asshole.”
We can't all be artists, but we can inspire those who are–we can give them fodder as they cannon-strike their way through life, trying to enlighten those who think the pinnacle of success is the destination, when in reality, the destination is the inception of the dream as yet to be fulfilled.
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