Drinks with Jack London at the end of the world

I had this fever dream that I was having friendly drinks with Jack London, and he was telling me how the world is on fire and how we are plum out of fire exits.

He spoke of how the world had driven itself off the shoulder of its Dharma in the middle of the night, with a gas tank that was running on empty and an engine that was shit for.

Jack said it was meant to be . .Β a fait acompliΒ borne out of the wedlock of boomers and hippies and all those lies they built fortunes and fairy tales on.

Big lies, like the stunted pupils of one of those gated community white girls who think they’re bad ass because they shoot up while listening to gangster rap.

Me and Jack are drinking scotch and smoking Camels and making eyes with the ladies hustling C-notes in the billiards room in the same way Eve once tended to that garden.

The Jukebox spill is Elvis Costello, whose nasally quiver is singing about another love gone wrong. But I think he’s talking about the end of innocence.

Jack insists there was no beginning to innocence, that the game’s always been rigged. So it stands to reason we shouldn’t be holding any funerals for its death.

When the barkeep does last call, we double down. And then we talk up zombies and Marilyn Monroe, Tupac and Nixon and Julia Child’s unmistakable laugh.

I run my hands across the caramel veneer of the oak bar and Jack laughs a staccato whilst cursing in stiletto. He says I’m a purist and purists are fools.

To Jack’s way of thinking, Charles Darwin was a glorified safari guide and Isaac Newton was a frustrated astronaut and Paul Sartre was our greatest fucking truth.

We opine on Andy Warhol’s fifteen minutes and the death of baseball doubleheaders and the curious timelessness of pirates and Liz Taylor’s porn star lips, and we both agree that Stalin would’ve shopped at Target.

I tell him the world is equal parts Gatsby and Garibaldi; it’s a beautiful lie dressed in Army boots, intent on planting a flag on the moon and then digging into a stack of pancakes.

Jack London says it’s more like Hemingway and Cobain. He says the world is a brilliant and tortured place, that it’s a great big tease of a loose marble, looking down the barrel of a gun.

He says we have it coming.




44 thoughts on “Drinks with Jack London at the end of the world

  1. Dear Marco,

    I read this once. Then, slowly, a second time. On the third reading, I truly savoured it. You have such a wonderful way with words, Sir. Your writing, in general, has a poetic feel to it, but this. Just. Wow.

    I wish I were a part of that conversation, or sitting on the next barstool eavesdropping – or at the very least a fly on the wall. I learn so much (yes, I Googled a few items πŸ˜‰ )

    Yep… gonna keep on nudging you.

    Lotsa love,

    Liked by 2 people

    • This once came to me last night, most of the rest of it anyway. It’s funny, because every single part of it comes from something. One part a song, another from a book, another part from a conversation . and somehow they weave together
      It’s not skills, it’s love for writing that turns me on the most. The love, the passion and fire. That is where it’s at.
      And to have someone nod their head in agreement when you say the writing IS the whole thing? Priceless.
      You keep on nudging. Hey . . I plan on doing it so all’s fair!

      Love and peace to you Q

      Liked by 1 person

      • I so get it. It does come from all our experiences. How else could we create?
        And, I beg to differ. It IS most certainly skills. The love for writing has given you the drive to keep on getting better.
        It’s like when people say that it’s “just luck”. Nope… luck is a mixture of work and timing and making it happen.
        Peace and all that Jazz to you B.

        Liked by 2 people

        • Q,

          It most certainly is all those things, you’re right. I think people lose sight of what they want out of writing. I’ve met plenty of peeps whose dream it is to ‘brand’ themselves. As writers they had gaps, great big ones, but it didn’t matter. They cared about branding themselves more than the rest of it. Does it mean they won’t score? Not necessarily. But it DOES mean they don’t understand their writing, and sooner or later, that shit will catch up.
          Why I write? I’ve known the why since I was five years old. After that, it comes down to what I apply to that definition.
          And speaking of jazz . . that song!!! Alexa ain’t helping me! lol

          Peace and Billie Holliday

          Liked by 2 people

  2. “Stalin would have shopped at Target.” Impressive turn there (and hey, a new marketing campaign for when Orange Fuhrer takes over the presidency indefinitely, only he’ll shill for KFC).

    Liked by 1 person

    • YES!

      That is a genius marriage of orange madness right there! Talk about a bucket list adventure!

      And thank you, I kinda dig that Stalin line myself. I never saw Stalin shopping in Target, but I once saw Fidel Castro I went on a Warren Zevon kick after that . . .

      Liked by 1 person

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