"Anything to get on the road," he'd said. Thanks Ned. I needed to know that I wasn't alone in my shameless pursuit of anything that pays.

Anything. Even kissing up to that weasel city editor at the local paper begging for a story. And when he says no, going over his head to the managing editor, whom I like well enough, but who was no help at all this time. I had no story pitch for him, just a plea for anything, as he had been tossing me little stories here and there for some time. But then he expresses interest in the road trip I'm going on, and says he'd like an "As I See It" column from somewhere along the road to enlighten his readers about the wild car they see around town and often mention to him as a possible story. Great, I think. Another nibble, another $50 or $75 check I can count on for later in the trip. But after we talk some more I come to realize that he's asking me for a freebie, for something for the opinion page that he doesn't have to pay for. Shit. Welcome to the world of the freelance writer.

Well, ole Bill was good while he lasted. He even offered me a full-time reporter job a few months back, which I turned down with little hesitation. Full time means full time, folks. It means good-bye freelance writing career, hello daily shave, shirt & tie and a boatload of office politics that I don't need. Anyway, I'm still freelance. And yee-ha for that, for the freedom to pick up and go, to boldly crest the wave of land bound eastward, and for no other reason than because I can. And Bill, and the geek manager at the postal hub, and next week's toilet scrubber, they can too. But they won't. Because they ain't got the imagination for it. And even if they could imagine it, they don't have the balls.

I do.

There are a few other things you, the reader, should know about me before we begin this savage journey into the heart of the American Dream. One, I'm slightly mad, as all good artists, writers, creatives should be. And this isn't just a character trait I pulled out of some slick youth culture mag trend info hat on how to be a cool artist type. No, no. This is the real thing, children. This is Romper Room. This is The Banana Splits on acid. This is the kind of slightly off-center madness the Mad Hatter got from wearing poisoned top hats, hats the brims of which were stretched with lead. Lead poisoning. Except in my case it came from an overdose of thinking. Head poisoning. Somewhere in my teens, I decided it was unhealthy to watch television. I stuck to that conviction for many years. But now I renege. Watch more TV! It keeps you from thinking. And thinking can really screw up your mind.

The other thing I wanted to mention is that I learned how to write from Hunter Thompson. Some may equate this with learning house-cleaning from Oscar the Grouch or reality-based thinking from Snufalufagus, Big Bird's imaginary friend. I call it luck. I couldn't be happier to have learned the art of "write it as you experience it" gonzo journalism from the outset. To me, it is the only way to write, the essence of the art. It is the wringing out of every tome ever written on the human condition into a douche bag, pouring in a cup of French Roast, rinsing out your bowels with it, then running a marathon. Gonzo journalism is the coffee enema of the so-called literary establishment. It is that and, according to Thompson, a lot of controlled substances. Take out most of the drugs and throw in the inherently psychedelic world of the art car, and you've got your first peek into the lion's den, the tip of the tail of the beast into whose back I will dig my claws and hold on for the whole mad summer ride.

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Last update April 1, 2004