You never know what's going to stick. This is the writing life. Sweat in front of a screen, blink out dry eyes over a page. Scrawl down words day after day after day after day. For no one to read. Not for lack of trying--try all you want and find yourself wanting. Then try again the next day. The security of the "big" job prevents this occupational flapping, but, as well as ensuring some form of stability, the big job can ensnare one in mediocrity. Push for something beyond the Pale and risk finding one's bold and stupid ass deeper than a well and wider than a church door.
I tried pinstripes and shoulder pads after the Army but the headless Hessians at the table didn't suit me. I got interviews. I made good impressions. Developed networks. Attended workshops and conferences. I walked a civilian's line. Turns out, it wasn't much of a line. More jagged. More mines. Two years later, I remained unemployed and remained broke. My job success came with part-time work, fun work with great peripheral benefits. Outdoor outfitting, shooting instruction, range safety officer. No pay, but lots of gear. I also got to start a couple of non-profits. These pursuits got me out of the house, away from all the ladies in my life, of which there are many.
I attended bartending school. I got a job tending bar at a big-time eatery. Lost that job due to China Fauci's plague. Despite my small successes, I was driving myself forward for someone else's vision. Shittier visions than mine. Their boulders on my back, another shit boulder stacked on my back with every shitter cleaned. The Army made me a Soldier-Medic. I had to let Providence make me into something else. Something aligned with a vision of my life that wasn't broken. So, screw it says I: I'm going to write unrequited words that not a person, but my own Ma, will read.
I, ol’Straw Man, the Brain-Dead Bard, poet laureate of the vulgare and profane, shall saddle up and drag my dehydrated body through the bland beige desert of solitude and often of despair, finding no respite but the wild company of mirage after mirage of self-destruction, deception, loathing and diluted narcissism. On the other side I shall find a totally bullshit, but charming, memoir tribute, more fiction and fancy than fact, with readers welcoming me to frantic fanfare--or I'm a limp dead carcass, flesh eaten by the waterless wind and bleached bones sun sucked of all remaining meat, friend only to hallowed herds of skeletal steers, dust drowned and decayed.
I shan't give it all away in the introduction because I hate when previews show all the good parts of a movie--but suffice to say, there's more. When truth is mixed with fabrication--or fabrication mixed with truth--there's always more. Because I'm unmoored, no longer tethered by the little "t", I can get between the lines and at the big "T" like a boss. Love, loss, shame, sabotage, death and more--c'mere an let ol'Straw Man tell y'uh a story. Don't forget to join the squad as a free or paid subscriber so you don't miss articles like this, as well as stories on guns, gear, travel, food and more—for American warriors, by American warriors. Pro amore Patriae, because the tyrants hate us, but we still love taking scalps. See you on the front line. +RLD+