I have to update the GS blog because Amazon says they’ll ban me if I don’t. I don’t know if I actually care about it. It was just such a chastising sort of email. Like I’m the bad guy as opposed to the fact that they are Satan incarnate.
But…that’s fine. Here’s the goddamned link to this shit at sister-raping Amazon. It’s 99 cents a month to subscribe to GS. I keep meaning to change that to, you know, a year…but I forgot my login info. So, if you do subscribe, and you don’t cancel, I’ll put you on my “free books” list and you’ll get galleys of awesome books by high-level literati and you’ll be so special it’ll hurt your bladder. Contact me here. You’ll get these rewards for membership and you’ll be all like, “Whaaaat? What is this shit?” And I’ll be like, “That shit’s some shit, girlfriend!” And you’ll all, “Sheeeeeeeeeiiiiittt! That’s some shit!” And then we’ll knowingly nod at each other.
If you fail to do this I will put my demon seed into your 13 year old sister. Which I may have done already. I don’t remember. Vodka is bad.
Where was I? I was talking about something. Oh yes! Story ideas for GS so Amazon doesn’t censor me! I’ve been so insanely busy lately it hurts. Like, all of 2013 has kind of been like putting a thin glass tube into my urethra and then smashing it and then being taken to meet porn starlet Evelyn Lin for sex.
I’ve been so busy I haven’t been drinking enough to do “Nacho Sasha” justice. Which might be a good thing. I’ve reached an odd point in my life… I might be happy. I mean, obviously, I’m not. I constantly daydream about sodomizing my boss’s daughters while he’s locked in a cage and screaming at him, “I AM THE BOSS OF ME NOW!”, so I shouldn’t just go throwing the word “happy” around. But… I see the path. I don’t know how it will end, or what will happen to me, or if I will be happy. But I see the path.
I’ve come to realize that simply seeing the path may just be the battle.
Another way to put it is that I’ve finally learned to respect my role in the battle.
A long time ago, the Gram Parsons classic “Still Feeling Blue” sort of informed me. Here it is:
Parsons was the sort of tragic, broken creature I identified with. The man was instrumental in making modern music. What you listen to today, from country to rap to rock, is Parsons. And he did all of this in a sort of blaze of glory and fucking imploded in his 20s and was gone. His grave is a humble, rarely visited slab in a nondescript cemetery along Airline Drive in Metairie, LA. I went to it with a friend not long ago. A friend to whom I have not been a very good friend in return.
In 2002, I read a manuscript I loved. A fictionalized account of Gram Parsons and his life. I published it in 2005. To do so I spent my savings, I maxed out my credit cards, I spent the meager inheritance left to me by my suicided mother after the IRS and my long absent dad ripped the bulk of the cash away. I did all this while under a wave of physical nerve pain that doctors say makes cancer pale in comparison. I sacrificed friends, lovers. The book sold poorly. I lost my shirt. Good friends betrayed me and tried to undermine the book. Much later, the author insisted that I give up the book and hand it over for free to Canadian publishers who will make a profit on it, who used me to get into the US market, and who, in return, treat me like the corporate fucks they are.
They don’t love the craft of writing and publishing and creativity as I do. Once, years ago, I would have blamed myself for the failings. Months ago, I did blame myself for the failings. But now I see.
This is why “Nacho Sasha” has been alive since 1990. This alter ego has been the voice of my creativity. (Observations from The Path!)
Long ago, in high school, I applied to be the editor of our school lit mag. At that point, I had rewritten the Bible, was running the Role Playing Games Club (Shut. The. Fuck. Up.), had effectively started my own religion, had started a publishing company specializing in chapbooks and poetry, and was a reluctant sponsor for a computer-generated fiction adventure that echoed the horrific “Twitter-based books” of today.
The faculty sponsor said I was too radical and even went so far as to send me a very rude rejection. A highly personalized dressing down listing all of my bad qualities.
So…I started my own lit mag. I published the true voice of my high school. Suicide poetry, infant porn…you know. That stuff. I deemed it wise to choose a pseudonym. It was wise, too. Because the cops came after me eventually. Quietly. That, and the shortsightedness of my peers, meant that the lit mag died after two issues.
From that was born a publishing company where, for five years, I sold chapbooks full of writing by my friends — some who are friends on FB today and should be reading this now — for fun and profit. And without their knowledge. It was awesome.
All of this is to say that Nacho is not dead. Nor is Great Society. This webpage has been around for over 12 years. I’ve just, in the last few months, been studying the path. 1990 to 2013 is a long life for an alter ego created on a lark so I could trade in high school porn. I’m much older right now, dear reader. So much has changed. Most of all is the fact that I’m free. I’m free from all the things that once fueled this alter ego. And, so, now, all change. We’ll never know where we end up. We’ll never understand how or why we got there. You know what clicked not so long ago? Understanding all of that was the fun part. Give me more, give me more, give me more.