Apologies to my readers for missing the obvious joke in my last post regarding Bill Moro’s incredible feat on 9/11: “While terrorists were crashing planes into buildings, Bill Moro was crashing a 14 pound ball into bowling pins,” or some variation of that.
I must do better. We all must do better.
But I’ve finally accepted my fate as the Orson Welles of third-rate literature. In other words, much like the auteur’s inability to complete a film, I too cannot complete a short story. For artists like Welles and myself, this is frustrating. But like Citizen Kane, widely regarded as the greatest film of all time and was largely misunderstood in 1941, I’m sure The Detective James Series: Vol. I will find favor with the critics and be hailed as a pioneering piece of literature rivaled only by Hemingway and Melville. But for the time being, I will degrade myself by appearing drunk in wine commercials and bantering with C-list celebrities on Hollywood Squares.
As a result, I regret to inform readers that PEENER and whatever I named that story about people shitting themselves in an auditorium will not be completed anytime soon. That’s the bad news.
Clearly it’s time to hit the reset button. I’ve decided to jettison whatever content I’ve been consuming to find inspiration and start afresh. I’ve now been spending most of my time listening to Hollywood Crime Scene hosted by Rachel Fisher and Desi Jedeikin. Through this podcast, I’ve been introduced to Jennette McCurdy’s memoir I’m Glad My Mom Died which at face value might not seem to be in my wheelhouse. But that’s where you’re wrong. I was shocked to find the book to be very Bukowski-like in it’s almost semi-biographical, self-deprecating style (no shade to McCurdy. One has to take artistic liberties to tell a story, biographical or otherwise, and with the names changed, you can discover their real life counterparts with a 30 second Google search) with individual stories and incidents broken up into numerous short and easily digestible chapters. Reading this book almost, ALMOST, made me start writing again.
Thankfully, through Hollywood Crime Scene, I’ve decided to branch out my reading material. If a writer is to get any better, they must learn from the masters. That’s why I’m reading something completely different: Flowers in the Attic.
Giggle giggle, brother fucks sister, we all know that, but what I didn’t realize how horrifically tragic…and ultimately trashy….the book is. VC Andrews was trying to do the things that I’ve attempted, and failed, to do here.
Congratulations to Bill Moro for being the second inductee into the Internet Ruined Everything’s Robert Montgomery Knight’s Hall of Fame of Real Ass Dudes (IRARMKHoFRAD). His perseverance during America’s darkest hour resulted in bowling a perfect game. This single act has made Bill Moro an internet legend.
This is a controversial pick, I might add. Moro was against stiff competition from former presidents and musicians that a few of my detractors have deemed more worthy. And I feel that I should address this controversy.
The criteria I laid out for admittance into the Hall were clear: candidates must have demonstrated Real Ass behavior IN ADDITION to establishing a body of work that will “stand the test of time” regardless of any extracurricular or unsavory public activities. For many, this meant that Donald Trump would be a first ballot HoFer given his business history prior to holding public office. But as president of this Hall, I felt that Mr. Trump’s Real Ass behavior has greatly overshadowed whatever business success he may have achieved. It is for this reason that I have named Mr. Trump ineligible for IRARMKHoFRAD.
Mr. Moro may seem like an unlikely candidate for this distinction given his lack of credentials outside of the bowling alley on that fateful day. But I believe there is some precedent here. This last year, voters named Don Coryell into the Pro Football Hall of Fame despite his lack of postseason success in the NFL. Voters overlooked this crucial piece of criteria in favor of Coach Coryell’s vast influence over the league. It was the right call, and it’s the right call to name Mr. Moro as this year’s inductee.
Sometimes being a Real Ass Dude isn’t about throwing chairs across a basketball court or encouraging the public to inject bleach into their veins. Sometimes being a Real Ass Dude means demonstrating tenacity and perseverance; of being the one bright spot in an otherwise cruel world. And on September 11th, 2001, as planes were falling out of the sky and buildings were crumbling, Bill Moro demonstrated a fearless feat in bowling alley in Massachusetts.
Folks, I’m just not convinced that AI is there yet. I mean, it’s close. But it’s still got a long way to go.
I asked ChatGPT a simple question:
“Can you write a story in the style of Werner Herzog where Mel Gibson makes a career change into daytime talk show host and falls in love with Helen Hunt? The conflict of the story arises when Bill Paxton, with the help of voodoo, comes back to life and proclaims his love for Hunt due to the time they spent together while filming Twister?”
And this is what it spat back:
“In the unforgiving abyss of Hollywood’s relentless pursuit of dreams, Mel Gibson, a man scarred by the tumultuous storms of his own making, stumbled into the bizarre domain of daytime talk shows. Here, under the harsh studio lights, he sought solace in the company of Helen Hunt, a fragile oasis in the arid desert of fame.
In this surreal landscape, their scripted dialogues became a mere façade, concealing a silent dance of longing and connection. But as the fragile tendrils of their intimacy began to take root, a specter from the past emerged, defying the laws of mortality.
Bill Paxton, thought to be lost to the annals of time, returned with an eerie vitality, guided by the obscure forces of voodoo. In a haunting proclamation, Paxton declared an undying love for Hunt, fueled by the tempestuous days spent together in the midst of twisters during the filming of Twister.
The studio, once a haven for contrived laughter, transformed into a battleground of ethereal forces and human emotions. Under Herzog’s lens, the tale unfolded as a surreal expedition into the wilderness of desire and spectral resurrections. Gibson found himself ensnared in a cosmic dilemma, torn between the echoes of his own transgressions and the enigmatic forces that dictated the affairs of the heart.
The narrative echoed Herzog’s signature exploration of the human condition, a stark voyage into the fragile tapestry of connections woven against the harsh backdrop of Hollywood’s existential uncertainties. As the characters grappled with the unfathomable, the question lingered: could Gibson navigate the tumultuous currents of love and redemption, or would he remain a captive of the spectral winds that carried the echoes of a tumultuous past?”
I’ve never met a toilet that I haven’t been able to clog. My proudest moment was at a burrito joint in Arkansas. I thought maybe I should write a story about this, but then I thought “fuck that, how would CORMAC MCCARTHY write a story about this.”
So I went to the only place that could make this happen: ChatGPT.
The story that it produced was a doozy. The main character, a man simple described as “a specter of anonymity”, ventures to Chipotle where he undergoes a hero’s journey. The themes highlight the quiet struggles we all face, many times unbeknownst to others. Through a mundane struggle such as clogging a toilet a toilet at Chipotle, McCarthy reveals to us the everyday heroism that the average person goes through each and every day.
It’s the late American author’s finest hour, had he have actually written it.
RIP Cormac McCarthy
A Shart Too Far
By Cormac McCarthy and ChatGPT
Loosely based on a true events
A man, solitary and burdened by the immutable weight of his choices, stood at the entrance of Chipotle. The flickering neon sign above cast a sickly glow upon the asphalt, where discarded wrappers and forsaken dreams lay strewn like casualties of a forgotten war. He entered the establishment, its sterile atmosphere a stark contrast to the desolation that clung to his weary soul.
The patrons, mere shadows behind the murk of indifference, shuffled through the assembly line, constructing burritos with mechanical precision. The man, guided by a primal hunger, joined the line, his gaze fixed on the flickering menu like a lost wanderer seeking solace in a forsaken land.
A dispassionate attendant, clad in the faded insignia of a corporate serf, met his gaze with an empty stare. The man, a specter of anonymity, muttered his order – a concoction of rice, beans, and meats, a meager attempt to nourish a body ravaged by the unforgiving currents of existence.
Burdened tray in hand, the man navigated the labyrinthine tables, where conversations lingered like distant echoes. He chose a seat in the farthest corner, seeking refuge in the margins of society, as if the shadows could shield him from the relentless scrutiny of a world indifferent to his plight.
Consumption became a mechanical ritual, the man mechanically chewing the sustenance that held no flavor, contemplating the residue of his own existence. His gaze shifted to the restroom door, an ominous portal that beckoned him into the abyss of uncertainty.
With a reluctant sigh, he rose, traversing the linoleum expanse toward the unknown. The door creaked open, revealing the cold, unforgiving sanctuary within. Little did he know, behind that indifferent door, a cascade of events awaited, each echoing the harsh inevitability of a life spent grappling with the consequences of flushed dreams.
****
Within the confinements of the restroom, a flickering light above cast feeble illumination on the man’s stoic face. The air hung heavy with the stench of disinfectant, an attempt to mask the pervasive decay inherent in all things. He approached the porcelain throne, a vessel of contemplation and purgation, a cold witness to the ephemerality of human desires.
The man, sleeves rolled with a quiet determination, grappled with the tools at hand – a plastic plunger and a roll of single-ply salvation. The toilet, a stoic sentinel in this dismal theater, bore the scars of previous struggles, evidence of the ceaseless battles waged within these walls.
As he plunged into the abyss, the man confronted not only the physical obstruction but the intangible weight of his own transgressions. The rhythmic thud echoed like a drumbeat in this desolate chamber, a requiem for the sins washed away by the relentless flow of water.
Beyond the door, the indifferent murmur of patrons persisted, a cacophony oblivious to the lone protagonist’s struggle. The man, an existential mariner navigating the treacherous currents of this modern odyssey, fought against the tide of his own creation.
In the solitude of the restroom, time unfolded like a tattered scroll, revealing the universal truth that, in this unforgiving world, even the mundane can metamorphose into an epic quest. The man, sweat-soaked and contemplative, emerged from the battle-scarred battlefield, his countenance a testament to the silent wars fought in the sanctum of sanitation.
As he exited, the restroom’s door swung shut, sealing the chronicles of this unspoken saga within its confines. The man returned to his seat, the shadows of the restroom’s ordeal clinging to him like a spectral shroud. The patrons, indifferent to the clandestine drama that unfolded, continued their ritualistic consumption, unaware of the lone warrior who emerged victorious from the depths of the porcelain abyss.
****
The man, having weathered the storm within the restroom’s cold enclave, returned to the purgatory of Chipotle’s dining expanse. The indifferent rhythm of utensils clinking against trays and the hum of conversation formed a discordant symphony, a background noise to the profound solitude he carried.
The tray, now adorned with remnants of his battle-scarred burrito, lay discarded as a testament to the transient nature of sustenance. The patrons, lost in their own mundane struggles, remained oblivious to the odyssey that had unfolded within the confines of the restroom.
As the man traversed the linoleum plains toward the exit, the neon glow of Chipotle’s sign above seemed to mock him, a silent witness to the ephemeral victories and defeats etched into the fabric of his existence. Each step carried the weight of his journey, a journey that transcended the banality of fast-food rituals.
The door swung open, exposing the man to the harsh realities of the outside world. The cityscape, indifferent to his private saga, sprawled before him like a vast, uncharted frontier. He stepped into the night, the echoes of his odyssey resonating in the empty spaces between urban structures.
In the solitude of the darkened streets, the man walked, his silhouette a solitary figure against the muted glow of city lights. The events of that evening lingered, not as a mere anecdote but as a profound metaphor for the human condition – the relentless struggle against forces both seen and unseen, the quiet battles fought in the shadowy recesses of existence.
As he disappeared into the nocturnal abyss, the man carried the wisdom gained from a Chipotle odyssey, a modern-day pilgrimage through the mundane and the profound. The city swallowed him whole, leaving behind the remnants of a solitary struggle, an unsung epic woven into the fabric of a world indifferent to the quiet heroism of its denizens.
If you haven’t heard yet, I have some groundbreaking news: I’m renouncing my Tennessee Titans fandom and embracing the Los Angeles Chargers. Please respect my privacy during this trying time.
I didn’t make this change on a whim. It took some thorough soul searching on my part because I had enough; I had enough of non-aggressive ownership, bad contracts, and one too many mediocre seasons. So I decided that if I was gonna take that level of abuse, I might as well be a Chargers fan.
It came down between them and the Washington Commanders. My heart was always with the second best NFL team in the Los Angeles market and social media agreed with me.
Why the Chargers you ask? Simple: They have great uniforms, no fans, and they can’t ever seem to get out of their own way. If that doesn’t represent me, then I don’t know what does.
So god bless Justin Herbert and his rocket of an arm and may we forever curse Dean Spanos.
I appears that I garroted a guy dead, Phil thought. He was trying to keep the impending anxiety attack at bay. “This is only a dream…this is only a dream…” he began repeating.
Then an odd thought occurred: if this was only a dream, then I can do whatever I want. “What’s going on out there?” he heard a female voice from outside the garage. This was the perfect opportunity to engage his most deranged fantasies. It would be the perfect cure for my writer’s block, he finally concluded. Phil dropped the makeshift garrote and picked up a baseball bat.
“I’m out here sweetheart!” he shouted back. “I think I injured myself. Can you come out here?”
Phil readied the bat and stood by the door. The knob turned. A petite middle aged woman in a nightgown stepped out. She immediately saw her decapitated husband almost screamed. Phil slammed the door behind her shut and grabbed her mouth. Her trembling in his arms initiated a strange arousal.
“I killed your husband,” he calmly told her. “Scream and I’ll do the same to you. Understood?”
Through streaming tears, the woman nodded. Phil released her and she turned around to face her captor. He kept reminding himself that none of this was real despite what his senses were telling him. Now he gazed upon the shaking creature in front of him wondering what to do next.
“Please go,” the woman muttered. “I’ll tell them I saw no one.”
Phil chuckled. “I don’t think so,” he said. He couldn’t stop himself looking at her helpless body through the form fitting nightgown. “Remove your clothes,” he ordered.
The woman began to quietly weep, then she complied. Moments later, as she stood completely nude in front of him, Phil briefly considered violating her.
But this was all too real for him. He’s had lucid dreams before, and usually they ended the moment the lucidity began. Then thought of raping her began to disgust his sense of morality.
“What’s that thing on your head?” Tina asked right before bed.
Phil was sweating bullets. “Nothing, just a thing to help me sleep better,” he explained. “The therapist gave it to me.”
“Are you okay? You don’t look well.”
“Yeah yeah! I’m fine. I’ve just been working out before bedtime. You know, to help me sleep better.”
Tina wasn’t convinced. “Phil, you can talk to me, ya know? I know you’ve been struggling to write for awhile. I’ve been worried…”
“You don’t have to worry about me! I promise. It’s just a little writer’s block. All writers go through this.”
Tina took by the hand and looked him in the eye. “Okay,” she said. “I guess I can be a worrywart sometimes. Just promise to open yourself up to me.”
Phil nodded. “Okay, I will,” he told her. “But I promise that what I’m going through is nothing that you have to concern yourself with. It’s just a passing phase. I promise.”
Tina held her gaze for a moment. “I believe you,” she said. She kissed him on the forehead, turned off the lights, and soon both were laying together in bed. Phil activated the small device on his temple and made sure the dream emitter was functioning. This better fucking work, he thought.
He was fast asleep; faster to sleep than he had ever been before.
What felt like seconds later, Phil was standing wide awake. He was in an unknown garage.
He looked around to a workbench. In his hand was two wooden handles, seemingly sawn off from a broom, that were connected by a blood soaked steel wire. “What the fuck?” Phil said aloud.
Obscuring his vision from the other side of the garage was a vehicle, a large black 2043 Porsche SUV. Beneath the vehicle, a puddle of blood was forming. Phil cautiously walked to the other side.
“Jesus!” he screamed.
On the ground was a body. Moreover, the body was missing its head. Blood was still pouring out from the neck.
What a godawful year. Of course I say that about every year but this one particularly sucked. My marriage fell apart, I attempted to change my career only to fall right back into it, and I couldn’t write worth a damn.
And to make things worse, Bobby Knight died!
I’ve got nothing nice to say about 2023 and I never will. It wasn’t the worst year of the 103 that I lived, but it’s definitely top 10.
One interesting thing did happen though: I started using Threads, or the bastard creation of Mark Zuckerberg, which is essentially a cheap knockoff of the website formally known as Twitter. A lot of writers use it so it’s been nice connecting with some of them, but I also realized that the writers community as a whole is awful. Writing for me has never been something I’ve taken seriously. It’s supposed to be fun goddamnit. There’s no fucking rules! And if you’re trying to get rich and famous from it, you’re a fool! So if you’re gonna be in the arts, you gotta be in it for the love of the game. Otherwise you’re a business, and art shouldn’t be a commodity that’s bought and sold. You can fuck right off with that shit.
What’s worse is that 2024 doesn’t appear as though it will be much better. It’s an election year, which means that we’ve gotta listen to one bad take after another until at least November. I much rather go through another divorce than hear that shit.
Wade was coughing uncontrollably as a cigarette dangled from his lips. The emitter box was laying in pieces across Phil’s floor. Wade would pick up an individual piece and study it closely. He was meticulous; a little too much so for Phil who was pacing back and forth.
“Tina will be here in an hour. Will you be done by then?” Phil asked.
“Shhhhh,” Wade replied with his index finger up to his mouth. “With what little time I have, I need to focus.”
Phil rolled his eyes. “We don’t have time. This is illegal. Besides, how do you know May?”
“I don’t know May.”
“Then who do I need to go to if this doesn’t work?”
“Uhhh,” Wade thought. “Just go to May.”
Phil sighed. He sat down at the edge of his bed and watched Wade put the emitter back together. When he was finished, Wade hooked the box up to a computer. “What are you doing?” Phil asked.
“I’m downloading an encrypted software to the emitter that will alter its programming.”
“Okay? What will that do?”
“Well,” Wade paused as he pondered his words, “it’s difficult to explain. The software will allow the emitter to provide a more, let’s say, rewarding dream experience. We call the software Psychological Energy Emanation for Nocturnal Energy Rest.”
“That’s quite a mouthful,” Phil said.
“We call it PEENER for short.”
Phil was puzzled. After Wade finished downloading the software, he packed up his computer and handed a small device to Phil. “Before you sleep, put this on your temple,” he instructed. “This will connect you directly to the emitter so that only YOU experience the dreams emanating from it. Believe me, you don’t want your sleeping partner to have any of those dreams if they’re not prepared for it. Plus, if she does experience any of it, that might dilute your own experience. So wear that device.”
Phil held the small gadget in his hand. “So I can for sure contact May if I have any questions, right?”
Wade paused once again. “Sure,” he said. “Sweet dreams!”
“Philly, baby! How’ve you been darling?” May greeted her top client, Phil.
“I told you not to call me that,” he said. “I hate Philadelphia.”
“Please forgive me, sweetheart,” she pleaded as she hugged him. “Can I get you something to drink? Some champagne, perhaps?”
“What’s the point? There’s nothing to celebrate. I can’t get anything onto paper.”
“Nothing?! Phil, please, take a seat. Tell me: is therapy not working?”
Phil sat down in a large mahogany leather chair. “Dream therapy is a joke,” he explained. “I’m sorry to disappoint the publisher, but it’s going to be awhile before I’ll have anything to give them.”
May poured herself a champagne and began to think. “Look,” she said, “I know I’m your agent, but I’m also your friend. So can I give you a suggestion? Have you thought about a memoir? You’re a war hero after all. There’s probably something there that the publisher may be interested in.”
Phil hem and hawed. “I don’t know if I’m ready to go down that road, May,” he said. “I think I’d rather stick with fiction.”
“Okay…alright,” she said, “I have an idea. Now feel free to shoot this down if you want. But please, bear with me. Dream therapy has worked really well with my other clients, but they had to do something a little extra…”
“What do you mean?”
May took a big sip from the champagne. “Well, they kinda had to tinker with the dream emitter a little before they got their desired results.”
“I’m not following.”
“Well…the emitter is, of course, heavily patented so that makes it exceptionally difficult to hack into. A lot of safety measures are put into place so that users won’t experience any, well, unpleasant side effects. But from my understanding, there is a way to break into it to provide, I guess, a more rewarding experience.”
“Okay…”
“Now hear me out,” May interrupted, “I don’t think that there’s anything dangerous to the user about this, it’s just not entirely legal.”
Phil was confused. “May, I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“You mostly have pleasant dreams? Correct?” May asked. “Well how about instead of GOOD dreams…you have, let’s say, more INTENSE dreams.”
Phil chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t know. This sounds crazy.”
“Can you at least try it out?” May pleaded. “Now I know a guy who knows a guy who might know a guy who knows how to ‘tinker’ with the emitter. I can get you set up. What do you say?”
The Internet Ruined Everything 