Sea Fox said I sounded a little too critical of the ex-pats in my last blog story of the Grand Opening party the other night and he has a point, they are his friends, peers & countrymen mostly and I didn't mean to embarrass him by implying ..... I also don't mean to offend anybody & defend my words as gonzo journalism and not to be taken seriously by anyone. I am solely to blame if there is any backlash. I on the other hand, don't feel that I will be running for any popularity contest anytime soon and don't see the need to be politically correct at this time, so I asked SeaFox if he could bear with me, that I am unusual in many ways and I love the rush from any shock value I can manage to create, real or imagined.
I am currently intrigued by Hunter S. Thompson's "gonzo journalism" style of reporting based on William Faulkner's idea that the best fiction is far more of the truth than any kind of journalism and the best journalists know this he says. H. S.T. believes you must participate in your story and not be afraid to tell it as you see it or live it, even if it means exposing yourself to your gut or living on the edge, which always makes for good stories if nothing else.
I wanted to go to sleep tonight at a decent hour, half pass ten or so, and was already in bed, cuddled and warm and one gag short of sub-consciously allowing my relaxed tongue to block my airwaves making for a good snore, when the sound of the helicopter blades rotating got louder and louder until my eyes were wide open by the time it was passing directly over the big beach house which sits miles on the outskirts of town where the usual sounds are crickets humming, rotation of fan blades, some days the surf crashing on the reef out front, or Lassie barking at the security golf cart which passes every hour, driven by the ex-policeman in his new position as the head of the neighborhood watch, who was dismissed from the local police force for brutally beating a prisoner in the cell while under his watch.
The helicopter hovering above, usually British Army medical personnel coming from their base in Ladyville, offers extreme emergency only pick-up service to the outer islands of Belize long after regular flights and water taxi's stop running at dark, or after some appointed local makes the call to them after having decided that the emergency was serious enough to warrant an airlift to a hospital in the city. All this noise made me conclude prematurely, that that rotating blade sound at this hour only means bad news, & we are too far out of town or too late to call and bother anybody to get the scoop on the Coconut Wireless tonight.
So the helicopter and Hunter S. T. combined, rustled me out of bed & to the computer here now wondering as I type, if I could be so brave as he HST, the famous writer, to speak of his life, habits & craziness with such openness and honesty. If I could really write like him, then I would tell the truth as to why I felt so uncomfortable sitting in the Police Station today in San Pedro for an hour or so in the visitor's section of the station while SeaFox was allowed behind the counter, to stew with impatience, with all the policemen sitting around deep in personal conversation and ignoring the numerous stressed out people trying to get service at the counter or in some instances, standing right in front of their faces, who are either here to bring food to a prisoner, trying to make a report or bail a guest at Her Majesty's Motel.
A report could technically take no more than five minutes, but is normally delayed for a week or more at times, because who-so-ever you have to see will not be there again at any hour you show up. Never mind that we had been back to the station several times during the course of the week being told in the morning to come back at 4:00pm and when we go back at 4:00 pm, they tell us come back two days later at a certain hour only to be told to come back later which gets postponed again & again for no apparent reason other than the group of uniformed men and women behind that desk don't seem too enthusiastic about performing their duties in any kind of efficient or courteous manner.
I wonder if I would have the courage as HST to talk freely about the gringo with the girlfriend from Orange Walk who has her own marijuana fields patrolled by armed guards?
Or to make mockery in print about the Coast Guards boat that allegedly got stolen while our civil servants were once again not paying attention to their jobs?
I'm told over and over again that I should try harder to get along with everyone and really should not be so blunt in yapping to anyone who cares how I feel or what I think of a situation, place or person because mostly it won't be pretty as I have become bitter and crude and even more un-sympathetic. The next book I read will be Allan C. Weisbecker "CANT YOU GET ALONG WITH ANYONE?" which will probably keep me from getting anywhere close to the gonzo journalism style of HST that I would like to emulate.
I am currently intrigued by Hunter S. Thompson's "gonzo journalism" style of reporting based on William Faulkner's idea that the best fiction is far more of the truth than any kind of journalism and the best journalists know this he says. H. S.T. believes you must participate in your story and not be afraid to tell it as you see it or live it, even if it means exposing yourself to your gut or living on the edge, which always makes for good stories if nothing else.
I wanted to go to sleep tonight at a decent hour, half pass ten or so, and was already in bed, cuddled and warm and one gag short of sub-consciously allowing my relaxed tongue to block my airwaves making for a good snore, when the sound of the helicopter blades rotating got louder and louder until my eyes were wide open by the time it was passing directly over the big beach house which sits miles on the outskirts of town where the usual sounds are crickets humming, rotation of fan blades, some days the surf crashing on the reef out front, or Lassie barking at the security golf cart which passes every hour, driven by the ex-policeman in his new position as the head of the neighborhood watch, who was dismissed from the local police force for brutally beating a prisoner in the cell while under his watch.
The helicopter hovering above, usually British Army medical personnel coming from their base in Ladyville, offers extreme emergency only pick-up service to the outer islands of Belize long after regular flights and water taxi's stop running at dark, or after some appointed local makes the call to them after having decided that the emergency was serious enough to warrant an airlift to a hospital in the city. All this noise made me conclude prematurely, that that rotating blade sound at this hour only means bad news, & we are too far out of town or too late to call and bother anybody to get the scoop on the Coconut Wireless tonight.
So the helicopter and Hunter S. T. combined, rustled me out of bed & to the computer here now wondering as I type, if I could be so brave as he HST, the famous writer, to speak of his life, habits & craziness with such openness and honesty. If I could really write like him, then I would tell the truth as to why I felt so uncomfortable sitting in the Police Station today in San Pedro for an hour or so in the visitor's section of the station while SeaFox was allowed behind the counter, to stew with impatience, with all the policemen sitting around deep in personal conversation and ignoring the numerous stressed out people trying to get service at the counter or in some instances, standing right in front of their faces, who are either here to bring food to a prisoner, trying to make a report or bail a guest at Her Majesty's Motel.
A report could technically take no more than five minutes, but is normally delayed for a week or more at times, because who-so-ever you have to see will not be there again at any hour you show up. Never mind that we had been back to the station several times during the course of the week being told in the morning to come back at 4:00pm and when we go back at 4:00 pm, they tell us come back two days later at a certain hour only to be told to come back later which gets postponed again & again for no apparent reason other than the group of uniformed men and women behind that desk don't seem too enthusiastic about performing their duties in any kind of efficient or courteous manner.
I wonder if I would have the courage as HST to talk freely about the gringo with the girlfriend from Orange Walk who has her own marijuana fields patrolled by armed guards?
Or to make mockery in print about the Coast Guards boat that allegedly got stolen while our civil servants were once again not paying attention to their jobs?
Or if I could give details of Island Girl's recent one week trip around the country of Belize, him scouting locations and looking for creative juices, her, in her "un-official" capacity as tour guide hawling along with her three unruly children, & with a hallucinating writer/producer from London, a series of hysterically funny & crazy events followed, & made her dub her experience as the
"trip, Trip, TRIP!!!"
Islandgirl: "I told him, you have no reason to complain and and you should have plenty of material to write.
You got such a good tour of our country that you even know what the inside of the jail looks like."
"trip, Trip, TRIP!!!"
Islandgirl: "I told him, you have no reason to complain and and you should have plenty of material to write.
You got such a good tour of our country that you even know what the inside of the jail looks like."
I'm told over and over again that I should try harder to get along with everyone and really should not be so blunt in yapping to anyone who cares how I feel or what I think of a situation, place or person because mostly it won't be pretty as I have become bitter and crude and even more un-sympathetic. The next book I read will be Allan C. Weisbecker "CANT YOU GET ALONG WITH ANYONE?" which will probably keep me from getting anywhere close to the gonzo journalism style of HST that I would like to emulate.
I identify with this writer. HST will tell you without shame that he is tired of the dead-end loneliness of a man who makes his own rules, that life is too short to suffer guilt, that he is happy to get high and wild until he feels like a one ton stingray jumping from the tip of my dock across the reef half a mile out. He is also not afraid to tell you when he is feeling bitter after an event having lost his shoes, his dignity and his sanity sort of thing.
I don't know which way is left and there is no point in being right, so I will hold my breath until I see the light.
Comments
Translation - Go Eff yourself!