InstaPunk Returns

He was 40. .Born the same year as Lincoln. That’s the death mask of Edgar Allan Poe, America’s greatest writer, bar none. I had a sacred obligation to write the truth of this and I haven’t done it yet. Mark Twain isn’t even in the running. I need to write about Paddy Chayefsky, because he did what I couldn’t do, coexist with the dirty guys of publishing and Hollywood.  I need to write about Dame Helen Mirren. Why? She’s the most brilliant phony I’ve ever seen on film. I had a writer’s obligation to finish what I started with Shuteye Town 1999 , including a book length publication of all the concealed books inside Moon Books at the Shuteye Mall. Haven’t done that either. I need to build a bridge to make the first complete — vastly huge — Internet novel ever written. I’m this close and still just sitting here on my ass, not doing it. Not blowing smoke. The bridge that must be built is between Johnny’s Last Chance Garage and Quantum19 . When that is done, a lifetime of work is complete.

  Music of my Life (and vice versa) I took one of the Internet app tests that promises to tell you the one exact adjective that describes you perfectly. No I didn’t. I figured it out all by myself. And it’s none of the adjectives either my friends or detractors would have identified, because it is so simple, so reductive to essence. It’s not brilliant, brave, arrogant, messianic, creative, insightful, prescient, misanthropic, deluded, ferocious, cynical, virtuous, moral, narcissistic, cruel, idealistic, evil, patriotic, white, American, Scottish, Satanic, or Christian.   It’s ‘insistent.’ That’s it. Not a philosophical thing. A rhythm thing. It’s a state of being that pushes. Constantly. Pushes itself, others, against tides and currents, against obstacles, against stillness, against everything that tries to stop or fall, against entropy. It just insists itself forward and through to some other state of being.  An abstraction? No. Deeper than that. A force opposed to stasis and deviatio