Chasing The Extraordinary

Chasing The Extraordinary

After a brief unexpected virtual vacation, I have returned.  (It’s a long story, involves tights, guns, and people with names like ‘Komodoman’.  We’ll just leave it at that.)

And…I can’t think of a single thing to say.

That’s not true at all.  Starting out with lies. Oh, that doesn’t bode well.  I have a thousand things I’d like to get into here.  The problem is that they aren’t the fuel for the fire I want to create.  I don’t want to just light the burners on my convenient, gas-powered counter-top writing stove, I’m looking for a Burning Man-style pyre to light the skies and scare the gods.  

At the very least, a nice little bonfire, perfect for roasting hot dogs, marshmallows, and the occasional witch.

My search for intellectual and creative kindling just isn’t working.  I’m thinking it’s because I’m well rested and generally relaxed.  I think one of the reasons I identify so well with the late and recently blasted into the atmosphere Dr. Thompson is that we have something in common: we do our best work when we’re at the limits of our endurance.  Chemicals and alcohol fueled his plunges into the depths; mine tend to be driven by extended periods of sleeplessness and stress.  If I feel happy, healthy, and awake…chances are I would be able to make a grocery list boring and pedestrian, if I could work up the stuff to actually write one out without puzzling for 25 minutes for an appropriate and interesting synonym for ‘eggs’.

It’d be very easy to just pull a Jack Webb and stick to the facts, ma’am.  It’s oh-so-very easy to just say the basics.  Cindy Sheehan is a total whack job who is destroying her life and that of her family because the death of her son drove her mad.  Illegal immigration is killing the country like a slow poison, and something must be done to stop it or we’ll need to do a remodel job on the Alamo and find the new Davy Crockett really damn soon.  John McCain is a power-mad nutjob who shouldn’t be allowed out of his house unmonitored, nevertheless allowed to join up with Hillary to try and teach junk science to the unwashed masses.  A blonde girl is still missing on an island, a black girl is no longer missing in the east, and Sin City is one of the best things I’ve ever seen on film.

The list goes on.  It’s all so…pedestrian.  Not the issues, the things I have to say about them.

My original intent tonight was to try and shape something out of a recent experience I had at a local children’s pizza establishment.  For the sake of the story, we’ll call it Chuckie Cheese, since that’s what it’s called.  The bizarre nature of the place and it’s denizens on your average Sunday afternoon in the California desert seemed like a ripe opportunity for social satire and commentary on the state of the culture as it is reflected in the hyper little heathens populating it’s broken, dysfunctional playground.  Unfortunately, the experience was marked with a nice shot of pain alongside the mesmerizing elixir of absurdity filling the place, so I found all attempts to make light of the situation completely useless.  Losing things you love tends to put the kibosh on your ability to highlight the social inadequacies of modern Californian society using lighthearted quips and satire.

Another plan was to take the detailed, travel-oriented trip report of my recent Vegas wedding and try to work it into something different.  As I wrote it in the first place, it morphed into something other than your average ‘stayed here, ate here, it was a good bargain but avoid the veal’ kind of travel piece.  Try as I might, I just can’t find the inspiration to take it beyond a travelogue and make something entertaining, bizarre, and socially relevant out of it, despite the action-packed tales of feeding bums on Fremont St. and pondering violent outbursts on clerks at high-fashion boutiques on the Strip.

I think I understand why the good Doctor of Journalism approached his gonzo journalism the way he did…well armed and liquored up.  He dove into things, personally.  Hell, Fear & Loathing In Las Vegas only happened because he’d spent weeks tracking down an extremely dangerous assignment involving police brutality and murder in the Latino community of Los Angeles.  In both cases, he threw caution to the wind and just inserted himself into situations where a story was inevitable; it was only a matter of telling it.  And yes, he usually had some liquid or chemical courage to embolden him when walking into situations most of us would never conceive of.

I, on the other hand, am an unfortunately sober newlywed with a full-time job that has nothing to do with writing and everything to do with keeping up with the ever-increasing cost of living here in this wonderful paradise of Aztlan, North Mexico.  (To call it Southern California any longer is just a sick, stupid joke and I’ll have none of it.)

My desire to buy a laptop, rent a car, and drive to Vegas for a week or more, resuming Thompson’s search for the American dream in a post-9/11 world is simply out of my reach.  Were I a single, healthy man, maybe I’d take that kind of chance, committing small crimes and social indiscretions for the sake of the story, pushing my body and mind to the limit to squeeze out something that I could be proud of once I slept it off.  

I’m not that man.  Never will be.  So what do I have?  Right now, I don’t have a whole hell of a lot.  Ideas.  Desires.  Inspirations.  Drives.  Ambitions.  Obsessions.  

I also have a meeting with Komodoman before I finally succumb to inevitable sleep and the impending five days as a wage slave.  I need to meet with him while there’s still time.  If I hurry, I may just catch him before my wife insists I go to bed.

I understand this made little sense.  That may have been the point.  Maybe not.  Figure it out on your own, and if you come to any conclusions, let me know.