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Conclusion to a very long letter

January 3, 2018 by campbell Leave a Comment

What follows is excerpted from pages 150 to 152 of a very long letter to an extremely patient friend.

Hey, you know what else? Man, sometimes it’s fun just to write stuff. Here I am getting all up in my own head about the what and the why, when there are also lots of good reasons for writing that don’t require a lot of reflection. Forget reflection! Forget self-knowledge! ALL POWER TO THE PEOPLE AND BAN THE BOMB! Simple as that.

“Oh, I know, let’s all spend a bunch of time pretending we’re serious people.” Nay. A thousand times, nay! Ghostride the whip and fuck the status quo always and forever! All whips should always be ghostrode all the time. I defy you to find a counterexample. An example of a whip that should be corporeally ridden.

But here’s the thing: Ghosts — not real. Such is the paradox of our being. We must ride our whips corporeally. Also, I don’t even know what a whip is.

One time, there was this whip up in Canada, and everyone thought a ghost was riding it. But then some scientists came in and found the truth. “You guys, no ghost is riding this whip; the whip is old and squeaky and these high Canadian winds merely create the appearance of a ghost rider.” All minds were blown and Canada was finally able to join the United Nations.

For you see, the United Nations’ articles of organization contained a very specific and powerful clause prohibiting the admission of ghost nations. Ghost nations, unlike ghost people, are real, and the League of Nations had been undone by its inclusion of Genghis Khan’s empire. So there was a natural concern that if Canada was harboring a ghostridden whip, the ghost rider could have been e.g. an ancient Greek city-state, a druid confederacy, or even an unrecognized ghost micronation located on an offshore drilling platform or defense structure claimed by insane gold-hoarding libertarians.

“Welcome to the United Nations,” Boutros Boutros-Ghali told Canada.

Canada was like, “Our whips are pure and our membership is legit.”

Now here’s another thing. A lot of of people these days are talking like they know what whips are, but really they don’t. My basis for this assertion is that life is better when the very nature of the whip remains ambiguous. Is the whip our darkest fear? Or our wildest desire? Well good luck finding out. What if you were the whip? How would you feel about ghostriding then? Because this is the other thing. You can never know. And not knowing explains so much. “What’s a whip?” Nobody knows. Billions of people — this is how we get along, united, friendly.

Now here’s a thought experiment. What would happen if the whip was a thing we all agreed upon? If ghosts were real and we could ride it. Well, for one thing, you would know how this thought experiment concludes. Because right now: impossible to say.

Set all this aside. Take a moment to look inside your own mind. Clear your mind of ghosts, whips, and the clouding influence of ambition and resourcefulness. These things are the enemy. The truth is real, and it is set before you. Oh shit, wait, there’s a ghost nation. Clear that too. Ghost nations aren’t even an actual thing, I gotta confess, I made those up. Boom. Focus. The letter is over.

The letter is over. And yet life goes on. The world turns and daily new ghosts are imagined to be riding even newer whips. Welcome to the secret cabal. To the inner circle. The secret, my friend, is this: Mankind is both ghost and whip. This is our burden. This is our burden forever. Carry it well.

Sincerely,

Mike

Cowboy poet’s schedule

July 25, 2016 by campbell Leave a Comment

Newspaper clipping that says "Cowboy Poets Schedule"

5:15 am: Wake up with the sun.

5:16 am: Begin drinking.

5:20 am: Brew cowboy coffee, extra strong. Joke to hired man that “I’ve got a case of the zactlies.” Even though you’ve told this joke every morning since he started working here, he’ll still ask, “What’s that?” Reply: “It’s when you wake up, and your mouth tastes ‘zactly like your ass.”

5:25 am: Bowel movement.

Text: "At some point every day, I have to put on some music that I love."

5:30 am: Eggs.

5:45 am: Some kind of cowhand work.

11:00 am: Corn whiskey, neat.

11:06 am: Throw empty bottle at Cookie’s head; cuss him out for falling asleep before making lunch.

11:07 am: Write first poem of the day, “Cookie is a good-for-nothing layabout.” His sloth is emblematic of America’s long-term decline from greatness, for which this poem is the obvious antidote.

Newspaper clipping that says "Cowboy Poets Schedule Continued..."

11:45 am: Take call from lawyer re: next week’s custody hearing.

11:52 am: Send embittered text messages to estranged wife using busted-ass, circa-2006 Nokia T9 phone.

12:35 pm: Finish texting.

12:36 pm: Write second poem of the day, “Cookie, I deserve better.”

12:53 pm: Truck.

1:05 pm: Eat the lunch that Cookie finally finished preparing. Constantly refer to it as “dinner,” not as an insult to Cookie’s tardiness, but rather because “dinner” is a regionalism that means “lunch.”

1:30 pm: Third poem of day, “Cookie, you done good.”

1:45 pm: Lament lost way of life, drink to excess.

2:35 pm: Drunk drive to post office.

3:15 pm: Black out in McDonald’s parking lot.

5:00 pm: Don’t know.

7:00 pm: Don’t know.

10:00 pm: Don’t know.

Bonus cowboy poem!

“Windmills”

I remember Dad’s windmills.
And Grand-dad’s windmills.
They looked like windmills should.
Standing proud, like oil wells
with oscillating fan hats.
Not like today.
The windmills are too damn tall!
Global warming is a myth!
What ever happened to our way of life?

Man covered in pigeons observing that he lost his hat and is covered in birds.

In retrospect

July 18, 2016 by campbell Leave a Comment

1981-featured-image

1981 was a mixed bag for me. It was good, because the space shuttle flew, and I had worked really hard on it. But it was bad, because Toyota rejected my design for a new and improved Celica.

“It flies,” I explained. “Just like the space shuttle.”

The executives sat there looking confused, so I tried to help them understand. In addition to its airworthiness, my design looked “angrier” than past model years. Plus, the car could talk to you and be your friend.

“After all, Celica is the Japanese word for human-car brotherhood,” I lied, forgetting that Japanese was my audience’s first language.

I was kindly thanked for my hard work. Shortly thereafter I received in the mail the last check Toyota would ever send me.

The design never saw production. “We have decided to go in a different direction,” said the voice on my answering machine. But the money was enough to finance an extremely lateral career transition. The events of 1981 inspired my first two films.

Neither Gung-Ho, starring Michael Keaton, nor Space Camp, starring someone else, is regarded as a classic. But they performed reasonably well at the box office. It keep me on my feet. Nothing of value was gained, and nothing of value was lost.

1981-featured

Ten great conversation starters for making friends with writers

July 11, 2016 by campbell Leave a Comment

Close-up cropped photo of a typewriter

  1. “I like to run Lotus 1-2-3 on my IBM Selectric.”
  2. “How come write? For why?”
  3. “I bet you never need to use an eraser.”
  4. “Hello, my name is PJ O’Rourke.”
  5. “Try this new alphabet I invented.”
  6. “How much White-Out can you drink?”
  7. “Please stop writing forever.”
  8. “We should start a text messaging club.”
  9. “It’s like Uber, but for writing.”
  10. “Do you ever just write, like, a bunch of vowels?”

The Incredible True Story of Darth Vader and Jabba the Hutt

July 5, 2016 by campbell Leave a Comment

the-incredible-true-story-of-darth-vader-and-jabba-the-hutt

It was another beautiful day on the desert world of Tatooine. But today, the twin suns rose in the sky above an extra special scene. Today was the day of the Annual Imperial Classics Cruise-In.

All across the galaxy, car enthusiasts gathered to show off their rides, trade tech tips, talk shop, and make new friends. On the capital world of Coruscant, rich and powerful galactic rulers showed off their Bentleys and Cadillacs. On the Outer Rim swamp world of Dagobah, Yoda’s neighbors waxed their monster trucks. On Mon Cala, the oceanic homeworld of Admiral Ackbar, squid people drove their amphibious buggies in and out of the briny sea.

The greatest of all gatherings across the entire galaxy took place on the planet Tatooine. Its desert climate was ideal for the prevention of rust and the preservation of automotive history. Thousands of gleaming classic cars filled the desert as far as the eye could see.

jabba-ford-rules

But there was an obvious dividing line that split the gathering in twain. On one half of the gathering were classic Fords. On the other half were classic Chevrolets. And between the two was animosity. Even the Empire and the Rebellion got along better than Tatooine’s Ford and Chevy owners.

In the very middle of the Tatooine Imperial Classic Cruise-In, a red Ford Mustang was parked across the dividing line from a blue Chevrolet El Camino. As a grotesque slug-like creature polished the Mustang’s valve covers, a helmeted man in a black cape arranged a brochure rack of promotional literature next to the El Camino. “The power of this 350 cubic inch V-8 is nothing compared to the power of the Force,” declared the brochure. “Call 1-800-SITH-LORD to learn more.” The slug creature was Jabba the Hutt. The helmet-and-cape-wearing man was Darth Vader.

“Ford sucks!” said Darth Vader. “Instead of calling it the Mustang, they should call it the Slow-stang.”

Jabba scoffed. “Whatever, helmet-head. That’s a weak burn from the owner of a weak ride.”

“Yeah?” said Darth Vader. “Let’s drag. I’ll make bantha fodder out of you!”

“No way,” said Jabba. “Drag racing is illegal and dangerous. What’s really cool is safety.”

darth-chevy-for-life

Just then a golden humanoid droid pushing a cart walked up to Darth and Jabba. “Greetings, sirs! I am a protocol droid fluent in over six million forms of burrito preparation! May I interest you in a spicy rancor meat burrito?”

“Pass,” said Jabba, who was on a health kick. “I only eat blue-milk-and-kale smoothies.”

“I’ll take two,” said Darth Vader.

The droid prepared two burritos with his filthy, unwashed hands. “Here you go, sir!”

Darth Vader paid for the burritos and thanked the droid. He opened the mouth hatch on his helmet and consumed both burritos in less than a minute. “Gone in sixty seconds! Heh heh.”

Jabba was disgusted. “Man, you gotta work pretty hard to gross me out—”

He was interrupted by a sudden and intense gurgling sound.

Darth Vader doubled over and clutched his stomach. “Oh, God, no!!!” Fumbling for his keys, he staggered over to his car, buckled up, and gunned the engine. “The Force is strong with this one!” he exclaimed. Then he peeled out and sped over to the nearby line of portable rental toilets. Darth Vader parked illegally and locked himself inside a blue plastic stall.

c3purritos

Jabba had an idea. He slithered over to Darth Vader’s El Camino, looked over his shoulder for any storm troopers or security droids, and stole the car.

“Time for a quick joyride,” he said to himself. Vroooooom, soon he was blasting across the desert at a hundred miles per hour.

“Huh,” said Jabba. “This car is actually kind of cool.”

Back at the line of rental toilets, a door swung open. Darth Vader walked out, zipping up his suit. He wrongly assumed that his illegally parked El Camino had been towed, and he shuffled back to the car show. There he saw Jabba’s unattended Mustang.

“Do not underestimate the power of the Dark Side!” said Darth Vader as he used the Force to unlock the Mustang’s doors and start the engine. Vrooooom, soon he too was blasting across the desert in the stolen car of his sworn enemy. “Huh, this thing really gets moving,” he said to himself.

Then he saw Jabba chilling in the desert next to his El Camino.

the-incredible-true-story-of-darth-vader-and-jabba-the-hutt-02

Darth Vader drove the stolen Mustang to his stolen El Camino. He got out of the car and addressed Jabba.

“You know, dude, at first I didn’t like you because you’re a Ford guy and I don’t like Fords. But now I think your car is cool and you are too.”

“Thanks bro,” said Jabba. “Same to you. This car is intense. I see why you like it.”

Darth Vader paused, uncertain. But he decided to take a chance and share his feelings. “There’s more to it, Jabba. El Camino is Spanish for ‘the path.’ So this car symbolizes my path to the Dark Side, which is personally very important to me.”

“Bro, that is heavy,” said Jabba. “I got to confide: My car is symbolic to me, too. Although I am a legless slug-man who lives in the desert, I dream of galloping across the prairie. The Mustang symbolizes my wildest dreams.”

“Whoa,” said Darth Vader. “Wow. You know, you and I, perhaps we are not so different … perhaps I can call you friend.”

“Yes. Friend,” said Jabba, and he embraced Darth Vader.

And it was true. They were now friends.

THE END.

Bonus story: R2D2 and the Chop Shop

R2D2 scooted back to his parking spot with C3PO.

“Oh no!” said C3PO. “Someone has stolen our Prius!!!”

R2D2 was angry. “Let me handle this, 3PO. I know who did this.”

R2D2 scooted into the desert at top speed and knocked on the door of a sand crawler. A Jawa answered, and a partially disassembled Prius was visible behind him. “Beep boop,” said R2, which meant, “You Jawas have boosted our ride for the last time!”

R2 stuck out a mechanical prong and electrocuted the Jawa.

“Eeeeee!” said the Jawa.

Fifteen other Jawas rushed R2. He lit his rockets and flew into the air, spinning around and kicking all the Jawas in their heads. They were out cold. R2 landed and pushed the Jawas out the door. Then he drove the sand crawler back to C3PO.

“R2D2, you’re my hero,” said C3PO.

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