About 4 hours ago, when my brain was experiencing an unbelievably prolific "Seattle Fish Market" period of ideas and epiphanies (of varying degrees with regard to merit, admittedly), I jotted down on a piece of paper that "Notes from a drug psychosis" would make an excellent title for something. Then I got preoccupied with a borderline-obsessive bout of drawing and forgot all about it. Well, through the inexplicable mystery of the universe known as "changing time zones," (which man will probably never fully be able to comprehend) we've somehow travelled backwards from this morning to last night at a remarkable clip, and the stewardesses (I'm a throwback, deal with it) have been passive-aggressively trying to get me to go to sleep by slowly and calculatedly shutting off the lights, in a subtle long-game maneuver that was practically imperceptible until suddenly I could no longer see the pencil in my hand. Well, I endeavored to channel that East Coast American practice of nurturing entitlement ("surely, I shouldn't be made to sit quietly in the dark just because everyone else here didn't take a bunch of speed yesterday!"), but eventually my midwestern guilt won out and I shut the lights off so as not to be that asshole. To the credit of the people around me, they were all commendably Asian until I caved, in that they didn't chide me or cause a scene, but rather just made subtle frowny faces in my periphery. I realize that's a stereotype, and stereotyping is inherently wrong, but it's a very excellent practice, and if they adhere to it enough that it has become a stereotype of their culture, then I say they ought to be praised for it. I wish Philadelphians would try to embrace even a fraction of that discretion and restraint in public. Actually, all of America could take a lesson. But start in Philly.
I'm on a plane, by the way. Going to Japan. Hence the time change, and the predominance of polite Asian-ness that I just referenced. It occurs to me that the setting of this story was probably one of those semi-key points that ought not to be skipped over in the obligatory "Last Time On..." montage that seems to beg inclusion in everything these days.
Yesterday, after having been out of town for a few days, I arrived home to my palatial estate to find that some cuntbag (I admit it's purely speculative that this person was a cuntbag, but I feel confident in my estimation) had burgled me whilst I was away. What a complete dick move. Naturally, with a flight out at 7 AM, I did what any rational, level-headed logician would do...I bought some uppers to take my mind off things. So now it's several hours on, and I've sadly reached (and tossed myself off of) the plateau, and am now entering agonizingly into what is commonly referred to as the "comedown." Being the worldly, moustachioed, full-length hardcover encyclopedia of wisdom that I indisputably am, every part of my brain that has ever fought the good fight for my sanity knows it's time to follow the example set forth by my Asian brethren and try to crash out [That's hood slang for "sleep," for those of you who I just lost]. But the part of my brain (the sick part, objectively speaking, that's responsible for the vast majority of my failures) (but the fun part) doesn't want to do that. "Sleep is for women and weaklings," he chides me, repeating the mantra that I frequently use for ironic comic effect, but without a hint of the necessary tongue-in-cheek delivery. So, with my smalltown upbringing preventing me from turning this light back on, and the cocktail of under-the-sink chemicals residing in my veins preventing me from sleeping, we revisit "Notes from a drug psychosis," and, well...ladies and gentlemen, this is how Pullitzers are won.
I was thinking about what I could write to pass the time, and realized that I don't have much of substance to share. I don't have any overwrought diatribes or campily angry rants on the tip of my brain at the moment, and I'm utterly incapable of (and largely disinterested in) composing a compelling and thoughtful narrative. I just like to play with words. So, it occurred to me: "I wish I could write fake reviews of fake books that I pretended to write...," which was followed immediately by "Why the fuck can't I?"
So, I'm going to try it:
Danny Havoc Emerges as the Definitive Voice of Our Generation
by Someone who isn't Danny Havoc
credit to the Nunatsiaq News Entertainment & Literature Guide
"Wunderkind author Daniel T. Havoc really comes into his own with his latest release, a 12,560 page breeze of a read called "Steeltown Dogfight," which proves he has the skill to be one of the best in the industry, as so many of his literary peers heralded he would, with a little maturity and the right amount of expensive malted scotch. In his newest sure-fire hit, he tells the story of Kurt McToughlug, a French-Russian bareknuckle boxer and drifter, constantly on the move from small post-industrial revolution fallout town to the next. Kurt--like most misunderstood nomads with deep-set eyes--is on an endless journey to find peace and serenity, but seems destined for trouble. He wanders from place to place, righting wrongs with the only law he's ever known: HIS FISTS. During the course of this epic tale of American values lost, McToughlug finds himself the object of affection for any number of small-town floozies with teased hair and too many children at home, but none can compare to the call of the road. While he imagines himself one day settling down, his eyes hint at a history of unspoken pain, and you get the feeling that he'll never really stop his wandering, the elusive call of whatever might be lying just beyond that next golden-blue hill being simply too alluring for him to resist.
The antagonist of the novel is Scuzz Hardnoggin, known in every waterfront saloon and mechanical bull dealership from Muscokie to Sheboygan for his unprovoked violence. Scuzz holds the record for most "death roll" fatalities caused by a human to a crocodile in the colorful history of Peoria, Illinois (once known--and Havoc, to his credit, researched this tirelessly to be historically accurate--as the organized interspecies no-holds-barred deathmatch capital of all of the midwest). As much as our hero longs for the slow, peaceful life, an innate sense of justice instilled in him by his years spent in the Macedonian army simply will not allow Kurt to turn a blind eye, as Hardnoggin comes to town and begins to wreak havoc in that way that fat ginger Cajuns who wear suspenders always did in the 80s.
Without giving away too much of the SHOCKER TWIST ENDING which you WILL NEVER SEE COMING (except now that I've told you there's a twist, you'll likely figure it out somewhere around page 30), I'll just let it suffice to say that an EPIC CONFRONTATION and a BLOODY CLIMAX (which is the title of a very eye-opening film I watched on HBO: After Dark the other night) round out the book's final 2,597 pages, the length of which you scarcely even notice because you're so enthralled with Havoc's unbelievable mastery of language and nuance. It's already being touted by many major publications (Scholastic Reader ring any bells?) as the first great novel of the new millenium, and the remarkably humble and down-to-earth genius who weilded the pen is poised to own an awful lot of yachts and have sex with an awful lot of regrettable, gold-digging whores. The American Dream: perhaps never summed up so succinctly.
If you're still reading this review of the masterwork that is "Steeltown Dogfight," and haven't rushed out by now to buy yourself as many copies as you can get hold of, then you are a JACKASS of GARGANTUAN PROPORTIONS, and you may wish to pick up a handgun while you're out so that you can commit Seppuku immediately after you finish the book, for having procrastinated so shamefully.
UPDATE: Mega-star author and international playboy, Danny Havoc, has graciously taken a 10-day yachting-and-whoremongering hiatus to give his adoring public what they've been clamoring for like starved crocodiles for Bindi Irwin...hitting shelves just in time for tax season: "Steeltown Dogfight II: The Final Resumption." If you have to kill someone to get your copy, there's no shame in that. As if that weren't enough (it was), the rumor mill is abuzz of a live-action megablockbuster adaptation being in the works, with an amalgamation of Sylvester Stallone, Brian Bosworth, Clint Eastwood, and Ryan Reynolds being genetically engineered in a lab to take on the daunting-yet-star-making role of Kurt McToughLug. The fat kid from Sandlot is reportedly the top pick to portray his nemesis, Scuzz Hardnoggin. And Rita Heyworth will be playing the unnamed tramp who probably started all this damn trouble in the first place."
Neat. I think I've found my niche. Now, somebody pay me for this and we'll be golden. Ponyboy.