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November 22, 2002 Part II of a Texas-sized Rant written behind the wheel November 21st [Author's note: As is so often the case, the actual event around which all this gibberish flows is almost entirely ignored. Why does this happen again and again in my narrative prose? Because the GonZo endeavor to write about something as it happens is so very, very hard to achieve. I'm too busy having fun. So what you get is the Before, the After, random snapshots of the Middle, and a whole lot of heavy water from the apparently bottomless well of my mind. Enjoy.] 
Okay, so I'm not done talking about Dave, here. Now here's a guy who's a career student in pre-law and sometimes lobbyist for various political causes which means he basically has to have the gift of gab and be a good bullshitter. And he's good at it. And I don't mean that in a derogatory sense. But my X didn't care for him. Couldn't take him. Felt threatened by him, I guess. Didn't trust him. And okay. He's an aspiring lawyer, and what was it Thompson said in F&L? You can turn your back on a person, but never turn your back on a drug. So I got scheister-in-training lifting me up and out of the blues. What's that phrase? Out of the mouth of babes? Well, kudos to Dave for almost single-handedly undoing all the bad gris-gris done me t'other morning. But I believe I have been guilty in today's entry of that very greatest of writerly sins, that is telling and not showing. So let's see if I can take you on a little show and not-tell from here on out. Brackettville 35 miles. American flag flies in a cactus patch and all the Texas mid-afternoon world is flat, flat, flat. Road kill rolling by.. flat. Sagebrush. Not a tree taller than a telephone pole far as the eye can see. Pale afternoon light, unremarkable at best. High bridge over black water river snaking through so much white, white stones or sand or something down there. Racoon dead on the roadside and the sight hearts my hurt.. hurts my heart? Maybe both. Now a little hillock off to the south. Big Bend ahead and down Mexico way and Del rio dead ahead where we'll knick Mexico like a fender knicking a nagging cur and Mexico it is said is barking like an angry dog these days, or so says Mike who reads and reads and for some damn reason is an avid JiggleFan, good man Mike. And yes in case you hadn't already guessed I'm guilty officer. Write me up for another WWD, Writing While Driving. It can't be helped. The demon has me. The bad blood is running and Tank girl ahead of me with that sand and you-name-it encrusted car with the frikken bigass PVC-pipe mock Howitzer bobbing out over her head, out the top of the Wagoneer like.. well, like what its supposed to look like: a big ass gun. She's running us at 70-plus and young Stinky, Blinkie, Packie, Chomp, Teeth, Ankle Biter whatever my new ferret's name's gonna be is sleeping in the back seat in his cage, restfully I hope with his cage door open for free access to the whole of captain's cabin here in the new Duke frigate black bad-ass American boat on wheels and we're steamin'. Then uh-oh. What's this? A driver in the eastbound lane flashing his hi-beams at us. Hmm. I wunner... Double uh-oh. A second driver flashes us. This can't be good. Once, maybe it coulda been a howdoyoudo honk salute to a coupla crazy Texan artists. But twice most certainly means something else. A warning. Cop ahead. And worse: sneaky cop. Cop in waiting. Like those nasty venomous spiders that dig holes in the desert floor and wait inside for unlucky passerby. So sure enough over the next hill there the little piggy is. But he's busy. Snared one he did. One who didn't heed the warning of the flashing headlights. And suddenly I am reminded of the four hashish muffins in the little ziplock baggy in the glovebox. Tee-hee-hee. Hmm. What to do about those. For as sure as theres one cop, there will be others. And then there's the ubiquitous Border Patrol stops down here by the edge of the free world (sarcasm = any offense to the nation of Mexico is purely subjective as my intended target is us, not them). Anyway, I'm not keen on carrying any illegal substances in any car let alone these cars of ours that shout out "Come fuck with me officer!" So I set about the task of figuring out where we're gonna hide "the dope." I think about T's horror story getting busted on the way to BM this year. A night in Jail. So what to do? My brain scans the cars interior for good hiding places, and the scene unfolding inside my head resembles the scenes in Fight Club where the camera takes you on a zing-zang mouse-view-like tour of the apartment filling with gas about to ignite and blow all of Tyler Durden's IKEA shit all to hell.  Then my fuzzy little friend comes up front and saunters across my lap on his route to where i know not and likely neither does he.. and Bammmmm! [Author's note: typing in the dark at this point in the story, the Caps Lock button got hit and I'll be damned if I'm gonna go back through and retype it all!] I'VE GOT IT. rEACHING BEHIND MY SEAT AND DEEP INTO A PLASTIC BIN FULLA CLOTHES AND STUFF, i PULL OUT A LARGE mASON JAR FILLED TO THE TOP WITH FERRET FOOD, LITTLE BROWN KIBBLE THINGS LIKE DRY CAT FOOD. i GRAB MY WHITE AND BLACK PLASTIC MARDI GRAS DRINK CUP FROM lAFITTES bLACKSMITHSHOP, POUR MOST OF THE CONTENTS OF THE MASON JAR INTO THE CUP, THEN PROCEED TO WRAP EACH OF THE LITTLE CUPCAKES INDIVIDUALLY. uSING MY LEFTOVER sUBWAY PLASTIC BAGGY i WRAP EACH ONE AND BURRY IT IN A LAYER OF FERRET KIBBLE. i HAD CONSIDERED JUST DROPPING THEM IN WITH THE FOOD SO AS TO AVOID ANY PLASTIC FROM SHOWING SHOULD SOMEONE HAVE A GOOD GANDER AT THE BOTTLE. i DECIDED AGAINST THAT IDEA NOT SO BECAUSE OF WHAT THE FERRET FOOD TASTE WOULD DO TO THE MUFFINS, YUCK, BUT FOR sTINKY'S BENEFIT. iT'S HARD ENOUGH BEING HUMAN AND GETTING HORRIDLY RIPPED ON STRONG ACID TO THE POINT WHERE YOU 'RE NOT SO SURE YOU'LL EVER MAKE IT OUT. bAD ENOUGH THAT. bUT i HATE TO THINK OF WHAT IT'S LIKE BEING A PET, A SMALL ANIMAL UTTERLY DEPENDANT ON you FOR PROTECTION AND CARE AND GOOD JUDGEMENT. wHAT MUST IT BE LIKE TO BE LIKE THAT AND GET HIGH? iMEAN REALLY HIGH? i'M SURE SOME OF THE HASH OIL WOULD HAVE SEEPED INTO THE FOOD. nOT A GOOD IDEA. wELL, THE BOTTLE OF FOOD MANAGES TO HIDE THREE OF THE MUFFINS. sO, THERE'S NO QUESTION ABOUT WHAT TO DO WITH THE FOURTH. sACRIFICES MUST BE MADE. i POP IT IN MY MOUTH AND SAY A SILENT ADIOS TO SOBER STRAIGHT AND NARROW BRAIN ACTIVITY , PROBABLY FOR THE NEXT FOUR HOURS OR SO. MAYBE LESS.  ALTHOUGH IT HAS NOT AND LIKELY WILL NOT BE AN ISSUE ON THIS TRIP, THE DRUGS ARE STOWED. MORE THAN ANYTHING, THE STOWING HELPS PUT MY MIND AT EASE. wHICH IS A GOOD THING CONSIDERING THAT IN ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES i'M GONNA BE RIPPED OUT OF MY MIND DRIVING THROUGH dEL RIO tEXAS AT SUNSET, DRIVING RIGHT INTO THE BLINDING SUN WITH A WINDSHEILD FULLA BUG SMEAR AND A HEAD FULLA THE DEVIL'S CUPCAKE. yES, i GUESS THE ASSURANCE WORKED. DRIVING THROUGH THE CITY i FIND MYSELF SHAVING WITH MY ELECTRIC SHAVER, dRIVING WHILE sHAVING. aNOTHER MAJOR OFFENSE, I'm SURE. i'M APPARENTLY QUITE AT EASE WITH MYSELF. i'M STILL AT IT WHEN A COP PULLS UP BESIDE ME AT A LIGHT. i MUST BE OUTA MY MIND, i THINK, BUT HAVING THOUGHT THAT AND GOTTEN PAST IT, i NOW MOVE ON TO THE SUBJECT AT HAND AGAIN, WHICH WAS...? wHAT WAS THE SUBJECT OF TODAY'S RANT? -lORD fREAKAZOID THE dUKE OF nADA
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