Old Hunter S Thompson meets young Chander Allen here in the living room of my dingy apartment. Its a pitched frenzy here in this bottom of the ninth Friday. I am watching this documentary, and trying to contain my soul from lashing out at all these crazy emotions that clog my brain.
I am doing okay so far. But it’s hard to be enlightened when watching all these madman make parades in front of me. I have to go out tonight to catch more examples of this madness. I am leaving my debit card behind. I am leaving that crazy part of me behind. I am trying to find that kind of American identity that one can only find in New Orleans. We are a half-European city on the brink of succession. It is time to nearly get out and get away from this crazy city. I desire the beach more than any another entity right now. The temptation to take the old black Volvo 850 and run like hell for Grand Isle is insurmountable. There are redfish there, catchable redfish, though perhaps not in this season. Fuck it, i shall catch a few anyway. The time to call Sugary is now. She’ll show me some good calm and good crazy in equal amounts. Perhaps we shall make way for Penescola. I’d like that. I’d like to swim, yet not drown.
That’s enough for now.
