Amused in Ferntucky

 

And behind me
the glorious trailer park. 

I said I’d keep this up—doing good so far. It’s a challenge. Sometimes it seems like spinning wheels, but it isn’t, no more than a guitarist spending six hours a day running sweeps is spinning wheels. When he hits the stage, the shred will be awesome.

What did I say I wanted to do last time? I was talking about extending my poetic range. Writing about other things besides addiction and the street. Nature is what crosses my mind first when I think about doing this. I could spend a little time in the desert with the plants and the sand and get the feel for the way the planet’s magnetism moves the weather and how they both curl into each other to make storms...maybe sit in the middle of a dust devil. They’re not as bad as they look, though they do suck. I’ve been downtown here in Fernley—nothing doing. The only thing worth writing about is the homeless camp behind the Flying J, and that would just be me writing other people’s street stories. Which would probably be good. But it would also put me in a spot where I know where the candy store is around here. I don’t want to know that. And there is one, a notorious one. Fernley's nickname is "Ferntucky" thanks to the labs out here. If I can get back out to Pyramid Lake, holy shit. I could get pics of every Breaking Bad looking thing you ever wanted to see. Who doesn't like pictures of run down trailers in the desert? I'd like to get pics of that and the lake both, so maybe...maybe.

I know a bit about the homeless around here—I’ve done a little walking around and talking. No one is allowed to sleep on the street in this town. That will get you popped. There are only a couple of corners they can hustle, being the edge of the Wal-Mart parking lot and the edge of the Raley’s parking lot—that blows my mind because WaFd is right across from where the hobos sit. Next to Wal-Mart it’s usually leathery guys flying signs (no window washing allowed out here, save for asking people in the Wal-Mart parking lot) and next to Raley’s it is often immigrant families. But not always. In Wal-Mart, it’s not uncommon to hear the deal going down in the aisle—swarthy men with street backs and tattoos coordinating with the plug—their ladies tasked with pilfering whatever they can stuff because ladies are looked at less hard by the store cops than men—that’s the facts like it or not—and there’s a dude who sells snow globes and glass flowers like custom made bowling balls in the heat of the Nevada desert in June…you might be able to guess I just got back from running a few errands and I was thinking about what was going on out there. I should’ve gotten more pictures.

I ought to tell y'all about Hazen, the one-street town 8 miles up the road. I suppose I could ride out there one day and look around. I might get shot by some country ass dude, though. If you saw it, you might ask are there still towns like this in America? and I wouldn't blame you.

Now, that's America 🇺🇸 

I thought about many things out there in downtown Fernley today. I thought about taking a job cleaning rooms at the Super 8 once I get the novel into circulation. Or some kind of job type job...if I can find someone to hire me with the track record I have. It is possible--it's all just drug stuff, nothing horrible. That's why I thought about the Super 8. There's also a greasy spoon downtown that would make a pretty decent place to work. The novel will be in circulation soon. I’m satisfied with what I’ve written, almost completely—I’ll be reading it one more time to get the pith so I can add it to my query—I have almost all the “stuff that happens” logged. After that, I’ll make an outline, proof the whole thing, and then write my elevator pitch—that’s what John Bruni called it. I of course imagined an elevator throwing a baseball, but…zo es het ay wot. Once that’s done, I have 3 places in mind to send to. We’ll see what happens. And I’ll tell you when I send it out.

I’m still not as strong as I need to be, but close, and by the time I get the book out there I’ll just say fuck it and push myself to make it work. The wind is what makes it so difficult. The wind on Highway 50 is a motherfucker and so is riding a bike down the side of the road with it smashing into you. I may get an electric one, we’ll see. At any rate I believe my hip will hold up to whatever I give it to do within reason. I’m sure my days of spin kicking are over, but I can still be on my feet all day and rock and roll for a goddamn company and collect a few peanuts. No square job I get is going to be high paying. It's just that way for now.

The MIDI will be up before long. I have to try one thing with the DAW I have (Cakewalk) and if it doesn’t work, I’ll get a sound module and man…it’ll be on. Oh. And I sent something to The Paris Review today because why not aim high? Why does a shmuck like me think he can get into a ‘zine like that? Maybe I got a reception, something polemic. We’ll see what happens. It’d be awesome to get published by a magazine that published Jim Carroll and other legends. The odds? Eh, fuck the odds. Like I said, maybe polemic, and we all know—no lust of result.

See you soon.