the poplar trees picketing Laurel Canyon provide no security

for those bordering their shoots and bark

fans of celebrity confuse the familiarity

and intimacy

of inviting this host or that guest into their home

for a weeknight conversation

one might miss the simple truth we are all just people

define your heroes and heroines

strip away the fame, the prestige and adoration

they are simply primates bustling through the forest of the city

getting by on scraps of work and pressures of expectation

you cannot relate to the stigma of relatable charisma

but you CAN learn

learn to be a loving human

build a castle to protect your friends, your shadows you seek

build a chasm of wealth and opportunity and be a genuine person

do not look to the screen for sex

do not look in your heart to set aside boundaries

do bring open your blood to boil with kindness

do see that idol with chrome, plastic eyes

as to not pierce your desire

as to not spark the fantasy

as to be honest

having a friend is the most important cookware for a long, happy life

try to imagine your deathbed

with no regrets

positive thought and zero "i wish i hadn't"

imagine a cloud of the closest people surrounding you

applauding and loving and crying for your interest and interaction

too much energy is wasted on that which is not reciprocal

too little breath and electricity is spent on the greatest form of cooperation

real synergy is intoxicating

actual love is euphoric

with a man or woman, child or adult, black or white,

anger evaporates in our last moments

shy the envy, slough off the lust. it is as false a high as a placebo.

even if it has an effect

it is not uplifting you

it is not enchantment

the rapture of what was

does not cool one degree

of exalting your heart

plant not a poplar

but a blade of grass

hold a fervor for true, blessed consideration

I purchased my ticket like the not many of you for GonzoFest, Louisville 2015. First, I had to get the proper elocution down. Looah-vul. LU’VL. Either would be acceptable as long as I didn’t try throwing up another Looey Ville!! Once it was not-so-subtly pointed out to me by the androgynous bartender at The Slippery Noodle here in Indy, I did realize the cartoonish timbre I’d been using all these years. I blame Mel Blanc and Chuck Jones, and while I’m renouncing my loyalties, might as well throw Mother into the mix.

I left early Saturday morning in my 1980 rust-covered Chevy El Camino. I packed in three fifths of Jägermeister, four packs of non-filtered Lucky Strikes, six granola bars, nine CD’s of soundtracks to movies I have yet to watch, a bottle of V-8 Splash, a bottle of Firefly, a half drunk bottle of Minute Maid Lemonade, a grilled-cheese sandwich right off the pan, a roll of napkins, a roll of toilet paper (because you never know, but you pretty much do), a 24oz. cup of Colombia Bruselas coffee from Kuma, Visine, a toothbrush, a bag of pistachios, a pack of 12 lighters, some four day old rotisserie chicken in Tupperware, Right Guard, $365 cash in way too many small bills, a melted tube of cherry Chap Stick, and a change of shorts in case I wanted to break out of these tattered, ball-chafing Lucky Brand denims I can’t seem to yet donate to The Salvation Army. I have an anomalous body; once proud and full of vigor. Now I can’t seem to find a pair of jeans that don’t either cut my ass in twain, or make me look like a payaso on Telemundo. I agree with most men: when you find a good pair of jeans, it’s somewhat of a marriage, except when this relationship comes to a close, I don’t have to share a house, become insomnious, or threaten to castrate a lawyer. But if I were to threaten, I’d probably just insist he wear these goddamned jeans.

With the chariot loaded, I took off like a cat shot in the ass. Guess I won’t need these soundtracks… I just found a random mix tape on the floor. No label. Just that shitty, transparent grey all magnetic audio cassettes looked like before Phillips and Magnavox made televisions. If this bolt bucket is good for anything, it’s the little surprises I snare on a daily basis. I once found a raccoon claw. No blood. Clean cut. Just the wrist and claw. Or at least, I think it was the wrist. Do raccoons have wrists? It didn’t have a bracelet or Rolex attached to it, but the damn thing was cut off. In any case, it was either my luck, or his Murphy’s Law. Now let’s see if this mix tape is any good.

79 minutes and 48 seconds of magic. I must have made this tape recently on a binge of some sort. It had new and older songs. And it was perfectly edited for zero interruptions. Each song was cut to start milliseconds after the previous had ended. I looked later, and sure enough, I had cut and spliced the thin, brown, magnetic strip 16 times with Scotch tape. Good for me having ambition. Say what you want about Adderall, but the focus furnished by particular psychostimulants is unparalleled.

Hunting Bears – Radiohead; Death in His Grave – John Mark McMillan; Daydream (Live)– Robin Trower; Down Around My Place – John Hiatt with Joe Bonamassa; Little Black Submarines – The Black Keys; I Can Hardly Wait – Juliette Lewis; How You Like Me Now? – The Heavy; Them Shoes – Patrick Sweaney; 250 Miles – Radio Moscow; Night Call – Kavinsky; Sweet Ophelia – Zella Day; Beba – PANTyRAiD; Bangarang – Skrillex; Bonfire – Knife Party; Teardrop – Massive Attack.

At an average of 5 minutes and 21 seconds per song, and continuous play, I could be in Louisville if I let the music move me. It moved me at an average speed of 94 miles per hour, which also happens to be the speed my very conspicuous vehicle is undetectable to radar-toting highway patrolmen. And women. Oxidation blindness is an equal opportunity handicap.

Lipping my first cigarette out of the pack, adrenaline reached my hands, my feet, and ears. I could smell the wet manure from the field beside I-65 South. Last night was Christmas Eve, and today was going to be a pleasurable and conceivably fatiguing day. I was already animated- humming to the tunes and beating the steering wheel. I was enthusiastic for the first time in an elongated stretch to be doing something that made me innocently happy. Yes, innocent. The semantic and foundational paradox of an innocent man seems to be more about the perception of harm done than it does about his intentions. I never lied, stole or cheated anyone out of malicious intent…but I certainly understand how it must have looked at the time.

Travelling only an hour south to Louisville, I had enough time to think, but not enough time to act. The music wouldn’t allow it. PAY ATTENTION TO THE ROAD, YOU MEATBAG! I swerved away from a fresh, crispy pothole only to almost hit the Woodie and green 1951 Buick Roadmaster Riviera coupe (ask me how I know, and I’ll tell you another). The isometric projection of the road became a flat screen of blurred, foreshortened lines merging with a point of infinitesimally small meaning. The destination was only a fractional part of the experience. A pediatric surgeon’s hands are indescribably powerful things, but not when they’re opening a milk carton. Then they are mediocre tools at best.

I found the city waiting naked for me just over this last hill. Spaghetti Junction, and then a quick right onto Brook Street. For reasons still unknown to me, I hooked a left, went down about a mile and parked at an all-day lot off of 6th and Main, just to find myself a healthy trek away from the Waterfront. Healthy is the wrong word. A smoker’s cough away. Maybe ten. But it’s not like I’m going to quit now- I’m not training for the Olympics, people.

Walking towards Riverfront Plaza/Belvedere, I see some tall son of a bitch staring back at me. “What the hell are you looking at?” Turns out, it is a bronze statue by Viennese-born, American sculptor Felix de Weldon of George Rogers Clark. He is looking away from the river; a river with a cantilever bridge of his namesake that guides US-31. You should be interested. Louisville loves this man. And so does Indiana. Take a minute to Wikipedia this tall, tan, son of a bitch. I’ll wait. Oh, and he’s only tall and tan in person. Well, more so, in statue. Go on. Educate yourself. Put a wrinkle in that otherwise huddled brain filled with malted hops and bong resin. We’ll get back to the march when you’re done.

“The public have an insatiable curiosity to know everything, except what is worth knowing!” – Oscar Wilde, The Soul of Man Under Socialism, and Selected Critical Prose

I stopped along the waterfront next to the Belle of Louisville. A beautiful steamboat, she shines, despite the recent rains bringing mucked debris of broken wood, faded beer cans, broken Styrofoam padding, and empty plastic bottles of your favorite diabetes-inducing slobber. Self-righteously ignoring the diminutive Spirit of Jefferson just a few paces behind me, I avowed, “This is a gem!” Vibrant and bossy as any new cruise-liner, The Belle evokes a history of black and white photos, parsnips, flapper dresses, the worth of American pioneering, and hard, soot-concealed arms, shoveling coal into a blasting furnace to ferry these good folks to Memphis. But enough antiquity. You people came for the ride. However, you’ll be delightedly disappointed to find I have left the crazy for a later date. So for now, you’re just going to have to deal with John Head. Don’t bother looking him up. There are 42 John Heads in Louisville. Though I assure you, this is the coolest one.

“Excuse me…How much further is the Waterfront Park? The Big Four Lawn, specifically.” I tend to mumble when I’m lost. Not this time. The frosty capped fella had earbuds in, so I shouted a bit. I actually kept shouting until I knew both earbuds were out. Seemed to make him more curious and eager to answer my fumble-fucking question, whatever it may turn out to be.

“Not much further. See Joe’s Crab Shack, it’s right past that. Well, closer to a quarter-mile, I’d say. You’ll run right into it. Can’t miss it.”

This guy was a walking contradiction. Impeccable skin, he was smoking a cigarette in full powerwalk gait, wearing relaxed, white Saucony sneakers, otherwise dressed to the casual nines, and was listening to Wu-Tang Clan and Pantera. Wu-Tang’s hit “Impossible” was playing when I first looked at him for the time and directions, and trying to place his iPod Shuffle on pause, he inadvertently changed songs to “Walk”. Any hip-hop fan ought to know the first with the unmistakable wordplay of RZA, Method Man, Raekwon, and Ghostface Killah, and any metal fan of any capacity will undeniably know the first five distorted notes of the latter – Duhn…da dah duh duhn…

John and I discussed relationships, corporate finance, Louisville as a home, intolerant and intolerable politicians of the United States government, good Italian food, great Latin women, terrible writers, and inspiration for photography. I decided this was a fantastic interview opportunity, so I started shooting pictures, and asking questions, in the most unoriginal way I knew how.

“John, you ever heard of Bernard Pivot?” He shook his head. “Well, you just keep looking straight ahead, or wherever the hell you want to look; just ignore me. I’m going for authenticity.” He caught my bullshit before I had a chance to reach out and swallow back the stupidity that just departed my snout.

“Well, what’s authentic about that? If you want authentic, put that thing down, and just talk, or ask. It was going so well, Brendan. What the fuck?” Of course he was right, so I stopped snapping, and prefaced that this was the list of questions James Lipton asks people on Inside the Actor’s Studio. He seemed even less interested once I explained it. He labored in his humoring me anyway. I’m leaving my retorts out of this so you can meet John, but I’m sure the lot of you can come up with a mean average of an edga-macated voice.

1. What is your favorite word? I guess, love. Maybe? That’ll do.

2. What is your least favorite word? I hate a lot of words. Tender beef. Wait… just one by itself? I don’t like meal. Tender beef meal. There. There’s three.

3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? This. People. Women.

4. What turns you off? Dumb people. Dumb women.

5. What is your favorite curse word? I only bring out cunt on special occasions, and fuck is so overused, so yeah. I guess that.

6. What sound or noise do you love? So many… uhhh… shit. I don’t know. Good music. The traffic. Sounds of the city. I love all of that.

7. What sound or noise do you hate? I don’t like opera much.

8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Back to what you’re doing. Photography. I’m inspired now. I was pretty good. Probably better than what you’re doing now, but then again, I wasn’t an asshole. (Man after my own heart)

9. What profession would you not like to do? Anything having to regular consumers. Like anything associated with food. People are just terrible like that. Real mean, you know? I don’t want to even think about the people who might have done something to my food. Ugh.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? Hopefully, he’d have to tell me I need to wait a minute while He bitches out a clergy member for not exploiting all the gifts He gave them. “Like, pizza? Are you fucking kidding me?? That was a gift, and you ate bland bread and zero-calorie spit water because you thought it would fucking impress me? What the fuck is wrong with you people?? Back of the line, asshole. John, come on in; you’re good. Don’t mind this idiot.” That would be so great.

I left John after we shared a few more cigarettes and lies. I hiked another quarter mile from The Great Lawn to The Big Four Ramp towering over GonzoFest like a pissed off older brother keeping tabs on the liquor cabinet. I arrived at the ticket table at exactly 2:00 pm. Do I want a neon-green 21 and older pass? But, of course! Rum? You don’t say…

I peered into the crowd for any familiar pate or puss. I saw two men shaking hands. Overhearing their banter, I shook off the goosebumps, introduced myself and said, “How lucky did I get that I catch Ron Whitehead, the poet master himself, and Bill Longworth (a Gonzo loving veteran I met via the interwebs) in the same spot as they meet for the first time? I’m Brendan Burrow.” They both shook my hand, made their own introductions, and walked away. That’s a good omen in anyone’s book.

Oh, but alas, I was at GonzoFest. The Good Doctor tells all. And at 2:02pm, he was telling me to go ahead and find that rum. “You don’t want to be sober around these animals, do you?” So, sorry everyone. Doctor’s orders.

The tincture took immediate effect. Bill was disappointed. I could tell. He lapped up a few moments with me, only to be annoyed by my voice, my face, my clothes, my stories, and my staggering. Kenneth Laing Herdy was the next to allow my shined breath to pass his personal space. A professional photographer, I was amazed at how much he looked like Keith Richards and Iggy Pop had a baby together. Jinn Bugg and Ken’s wife were looking over an old camera I didn’t think to identify by noting. But it was beautiful. No film initially, Jinn went out to scan the land for objectivity and allure. I sat and watched Mr. Herdy’s punim shake and cock with each drag of his cigarette, and each cross of his legs. This was a man of mystery and complete defiance. He looked solemn, but confident in every second to follow. I wish I could shoot him; not with a 9mm. With a camera. A camera of his choosing. Something he could have taught me years ago to use, and master. This was a man of art. One of the only honest creatures in this humid, stinking picnic! *For the record, I have pictures of most of these people and places. Even if this piece eventually sees fame, just ask me, and I'll send you the pack. Or use your fucking imagination, you lazy bastard.

First band, second band, third band, rush. I’m an avid blues lover, and a jazz fusion enthusiast. Neither the tone, instruments, performers, or the stage could be more fit for the event. Trusses pieced together like a welded 3-D jigsaw puzzle. Blue sky shielding the backdrop. A fuzz of electricity almost scorching the air. Couples, kids, teens, geriatrics, foul-mouthed mothers, “tough” guys who slap around their girls, a slow Asian woman, a tattooed cranium, acrobatic rustling ten feet in the air as aerial silk whisped and weened off perfectly zeroed waists of girls who looked like they might be too frail and hungry to fly. All of these things propped me in a haphazard, circuitous route from Port-O-Crapper to stage to bar to tent, back to the john. Maybe Bill was right. Maybe I am a disappointment? Guess Dad was right, too.

I approached a young pair of girls who couldn’t be over 25 by a day. From the curves, outfit, perfectly straightened blonde hair and accessories, I could even tell from behind they were twins. I always thought twins, especially female twins, had to have matchy-matchy names, like Mary and Sherry, or Molly and Holly. Because that is what Playboy and Hustler Forum promised us, goddamn it! Angie and Shauna(?) turned, smiles and said they’d notice me bouncing around like popcorn. I asked if they were twins. Giggling through sweat, they nodded. Then, for whatever curl of demon wanted to fuck with me, I mentioned they couldn’t be twins because Shante’s eyebrows were pencil thin and looked like they had recently been shaved. Angie surrounded her sister in protection, like I was a wildfire, blasting over the dry, brushy hill.

“I just want you to know you should think next time before you speak, you fucking asshole! She just got done with seven months of chemo. She has cancer, you faggot!! She’s in remission! You’re a total piece of shit.”

Two things about this: One. I have never been so embarrassed concerning an inquiry or statement in my life. I am, afterall, an awkward bastard. These things have come up. But not like this. This feeling was ferocious, but quickly trampled. How in the hell would I have known? What an abrasive assumption of astuteness! Never in my wildest dreams did I think I was saying anything more than an observation. Your eyebrows are different. It was almost a compliment, for God sakes… Secondly, how shitty a life, how irresponsible a choice would it be for one, or two, to come to GonzoFest and engage with anyone in this mess? Like I mentioned before; it was a goopy jungle of sex, greed, a malaise of discontent, and wonder. Someone told me mushrooms and cocaine would be rampant here. Though I saw no sign of the chalky gear, I felt these girls should have found some before entering the den. It WAS bright outside, but the gravity of the situation hits everyone differently, I suppose.

Ryan Case, you groovy son of a bitch. Ryan is an amazing artist lving and working in Louisville. Friends with the Whitehead. I approached his table with a Johnny-come-lately cheekiness, and though it was clear to me he could sense it immediately, I sauntered on. Handing out life lessons like a big shot in a small target. Then I collapsed from the whiskey, the rum, and the heat. Bill was right again. What an enormous jackass. I needed to sober up. Ryan looked down, and then looked up. He’s a short fella, with wicked sensibility, and a keen style for adjustment to strangers. As an artist in Louisville, and owner of Sink or Swim Art Gallery he tells me, he’s only been doing this 8 years. I ask him if he’ll add to something if I get a piece of blank paper and pass around the piece to other artists in the collective. “Yeah, totally.” I think his wife wanted to just get me the fuck out of there, so she bobbed a signal of permission and a agreement Ryan would do just that. Fantastic. Now, I’m infiltrating their layers and I’ve only been here… 6 hoursHOLYSHIT I HAVE TO GO….

I vulnerably traveled from coach to coach, model to model, musician to musician, organizer to performer, trying to put together some semblance of art. Selfishly, I thought I’d take it home to keep. Which I did. But the intention was to show everyone a part of the spirit. It was an unruffled locale to suck in (profoundly) for an afternoon.

I took video of police officers playing hacking sack with some festival patrons. I saw a tenured politician curl his lips at one citizen, grin at a baby, and look frightened when a gentleman came to quickly and too close to his security detail. I witnessed the brokering of a toddler with his mother for another load of popcorn. I beheld distasteful gears of swagger in good vibration of music. I drank too much, but had I not, I would have been disappointed in myself. The One Gonzo Spirit experienced that day was pleasing to the mind and body- bushy, titillating, drizzling with attitude, and tasty with sex. Small children around or not, there were as many women groping men as there were boys trying to impress the ladies with their knowledge of the organizers’ intent.

Find yourself at GonzoFest 2016, if you can. Grant, Ryan, Bridget, Kim, Mark, Sarah, Trevor, Tiffany, Brit, Rick, John, Ron, Jinn, Ken, Bill, David, Rube, Ashley, Kris, Cody and I will probably be there. I’ll be stuck somewhere between a foul-mouthed twentysomething hermaphrodite with mother issues and the bar.

Even if you don’t want to meet us, you eventually will. Somewhere. Might as well get it over with. Some people you meet are worth the fuss. Whoever you’d like to leave behind, trust me- you’ll have all the time you need to slough them off like old hat. Just try, for one year, at one place, in Louisville, in April, when you couldn’t ask for a sweeter sky or swampier soil, try to meet someone weird. I’m just now trying to find myself on that path of the right kind of strange. The path that leads me away from the same shit I’ve seen transformed a thousand times from the same boring materials of background noise. Come feel the art, the music, the respect, the wonder, the rum. Hell, come for the view. See the city. Stay for the strange. It’s confusing at times, but learning is an adaptive breath. Suck it up, buttercup.

I find no comfort in telling you how disappointed I am in you. I find no joy is having to repeat myself over and over again.

Try as I might, you glean nothing from learning, and cannot control your behavior. You fight, you mock, you destroy, you win, and all for nothing. You police officers should be done. Your power is abused and you love it. You're not a man. You're not human. You're not worthy.

I recommend ending your own life before this crowd gets a wild hair and remembers how little they care about preserving peace in the face of overwhelming evil. They will rise up, and they will not be stopped once the avalanche begins. When the dust settles, they will be rid of you, and will always remember never to allow anyone to grow to such a fatty girth again. You are the reticulated python who has eaten a saltwater croc, and is already looking for the deer in the bush. You control your breathing because you know no one can harm you. No top-tier predator to limit your powerful genome structure. Our allowance has made you what you are today; not who you are. You lost the "who" a month out of rookie drag.

You are the universal emblem of ability, and the ugly reaction to negative circumstance. You are the star. Your presence is monogrammed in the sky so all can see and fear. This is your hayday. This is your time to shine and get "in the shit". Once retirement looms, you'll cough at the coffee, and work your tired pencil to the bone. You'll flush criminals to confession, push that desk, and drink your way through another divorce and broken dream.

But this crowd doesn't know any of that. They know you are the representation of evil. That dead child in the streets you shouted reached for your weapon? He has Asperger syndrome. He is no expert in verbal or nonverbal communication. His dog you also killed? Service animal. But you won't see jail time. A grand jury will read testimony, and because no cross-examination is presented, you'll get off. You'll testify, because with your cooperation, immunity is assured. You'll go home to your wife who doesn't love you anymore, to your children who don't respect you anymore, and your reflection you don't recognize anymore.

But this crowd doesn't know any of that.

I find no comfort in telling you how disappointed I am in you. I find no joy in having to repeat myself over and over again. And this crowd is standing up to you.

Best of luck, pal. I hope your luck is as good as ours.

The time has come yet again

To show some prowess and finesse and swift

The timeliness of this clandestine rendezvous

Will see not much more

Than despondency and

Dead meat.

Rocky bounced the yellow

Then blue, red, purple

A game of 9-ball

Majestic to the man

Falling to the losers

The sore losers.

I was only ten when I solicited this life to greet me.

Fat stacks of clean cash in

Dirty waists and pockets and tits

The five boroughs offered

Little

In the way of amusement

Fat stacks and greasy plays

Condemned poor Rocky

To nitrogen cold

release.

Caustic narrows of old race days still fog the air

the abandoned, agrestic riverbeds still chirp of crickets in the fall

this is my home

the flat land, but for six earthquaked mountains with no name

the clouds circling to and fro

never cumulus, only cirrus

the old west in searing heat of modernity

it was built up so quickly, i barely matured

a mall rose up from the ground like a furious Kracken

each cove and skybridge and sheltered patio

sucking away the watershed

the blank rivers and fields

the only green would have after a rain

now the false miracles spit like camel's acid at the plastic trees and turf

this is my home

a nun stopped me when this development ensued and asked me

"you live there?"

i felt like nothing

i felt as if my valley was a handicapped friend whom i needed to push

and dress

and feed

There.

Like it was an unwashed pair of tidey-whiteys and i was a stupid toddler

there. here. anywhere else, i would not be so upset

the racetrack now a museum

the high school now a ruin

the aqueduct a straw

i love this stupid, silly, wasted arena