When the Bullet Hit My Chest I Knew I Was a Goner

I've done some stupid stuff in my life. My friends and family all said I was a daredevil, usually finding a way to add some danger to an otherwise boring life. For example, I once jumped off a roof into the swimming pool. I've always come out fine. Not even a broken bone.

But this latest incident was a killer, literally. It all began when I met Monalisa and fell in love. We both liked doing stupid stuff together. It was a shared nonsense and funny way to express ourselves. So when I mentioned to her that we should open a YouTube account and become famous, she was all for it. Man, if we could get 300,000 followers I'd throw a party and we both would be rolling in the cash! YouTube makes it possible for anyone to become famous and get rich.

We started off by doing dumb stunts. I'd climb a tree, find a weak limb, crawl out on it and then fall on my ass as Monalisa filmed it. Then we would slice together some scenes from our life together and interweave into these dangerous antics. Fame is only a few months away. That's what we thought. Our YouTube channel was our path to making it to the big time. Others have done it. Why not us?

I told Mona we needed to up the ante. Really do something spectacular. I owned a .50-caliber gold Desert Eagle pistol. What kind of stunt could we pull of with a gun, I thought. Then it hit me. Shoot myself.

I found a really thick book at the library, about an inch and half thick, and decided it could work. I placed the book on a chair in the backyard and shot a bullet into it. Sure enough, the bullet penetrated a few inches but failed to go all the way through it. The size of the hole was huge, some pages torn all to hell, but mostly the bullet just came to rest inside.  So my plan was going to work. I told Mona about my idea. She at first thought I was nuts, but when I showed her the book with the bullet hole in it I was able to convince her it would work. Followers on YouTube would go ballistic, I told her. Just think about the views we would get!

Here was my plan. We set up two cameras to record different angles of the stunt. I would hold a book, at least an inch and half thick, up to my chest. Mona would shoot me with my gun, point blank, about a foot away. We record the entire stunt and post it to our YouTube channel. What a laugh we would have. Watch our Follower numbers go through the roof. Man, I am pumped!

So, here I am now, wondering what the hell was I thinking. Everything was working great. The cameras were all set, Mona had the gun. After a couple of false starts (Mona was a little afraid at first), she raised the gun and pointed at me. I tightly held the huge dictionary to my chest, a Merriam-Webster behemoth almost two inches thick. I told Mona, "Do it. It's okay. I've tested it. The bullet will not go through. Trust me." Mona hesitated for moment then smiled. I love her laugh, and knew this was going to be great. I was excited to be sure, but confident. She raised the gun and pointed the barrel at dead center, right at the middle of the thick leather cover of the dictionary. And fired.

They say when you die you don't remember much about the loved ones you leave behind. That would be too sad for dead people. It would be much better if we were immediately transported to some beach, with a beautiful blue sky and bright sun, a real paradise, a place where you were present in the moment, and didn't think about the other place, the place you just left. But I know different. When you die a senseless death, for no reason at all, you are just left alone. Empty. When that bullet hit my chest I knew I was a goner. Now I'm dead and don't know why.

(Pedro Ruiz, 22, died this last Monday evening, when his girlfriend Monalisa Perez, 19, shot him in the chest. The stunt was filmed for their YouTube channel. She was pregnant with their second child.)

Pedro Ruiz III, and Monalisa Perez.

Automatic Writing, Stream of Consciousness, and 500 Words

I've been reading about Ernest Hemingway's early years in Paris before he became a big-shot. Gertrude Stein was a big influence. She encouraged him to try "automatic writing", the writer lets the words flow from the brain like drops of water onto the paper without regard to meaning or sense. Just let the words that enter your head land on the page.

I was reminded of Jack Kerouac. Kerouac had this way of letting a "stream of consciousness" take over and guide his writing. He would write a paragraph that might go on for pages, hundreds of words flowing out of his mind, often making no sense.

I have also played with this idea. It can be a lot of fun. So today, I'm going to write 500 words "automatically" and see if I can tap into a stream of consciousness. The setting for this exercise is a local coffee shop. I have head phones playing instrumental music, mostly from movie soundtracks via Pandora.

Here goes.
______________________________

Music in my head. My fingers typing, making mistakes, using the Delete. Why the hell can’t I type? People reading, drinking coffee, looking bored. A lady with a blue scarf, no, actually they have turned and it’s a kid, huddled together with another kid. Smart phone. Giggling. School is out. The shade just hit me in the shoulder. Warm. Buzzing noise. Breaks letting their air out. Trucks nearby. A Pepsi truck at the red light, turning, followed by a van with some kind of landscape materials. It’s cooler today. Not so hot. Shifting. Eyes. Shadows. Turning pages. The smell of muffins and burnt coffee. Someone needs deodorant. I hope it’s not me I smell. Music coming and going, beats. Movie soundtrack. I think I’m getting tired. Really? More words. Get the damn words down. Itching. My eyes watering. What the hell? Hard to think. Mom. Where is she? Hemingway said to believe in yourself. Yea. No one else will. Hard to think he was once a twenty year old who had doubts but could at least write. He knew he had to promote himself, take care of himself, believe in himself, because no one else would. Not even Hadley. She had her own issues. She looked after Hem, but still no one can care for you better than you. What was it like living in Paris. I want to go. When can I go? Is it safe? Why not? Find the right time of year so the weather doesn't kill you. Maybe stay there a year. Hem stayed there, but traveled too much. He was barely in Paris the first two years. Just traveling. He and I have some things in common. I was also a journalist, learned the newspaper writing craft. I also like to travel. He was also a fake, like me. At times I feel like a fake. Hem was always playing a role. Me, too. Can anyone really be themselves with another person? Not really. We are alone. No one but us. We are it. Shoes. The floor, twinkling with light and shadow from the morning sun. The feet cross over it, disturbing it. Clutter. My mind is cluttered. 500 words. Almost there but I shouldn’t care. Keep going. What is next? Silly. Goofy. Are people looking at me? I hope not. Leave me alone. All I want is to be left alone. Let me work. Don't mess with me. God people are messy. That lady is eating and chomping her food like a horse. Calm down. Coffee smells pink. Red. Yellow. Horns in my ears. Smiling. Laughing. Coughing. Gagging. The smell of toast or maybe eggs. What to do. Lots to do. Fingers. Lady looking for papers. Dressed in green pants, sweats. It’s too hot for sweats. Keep going. What is my brain telling me? Greys. Black. Artwork. I need to draw something, paint. Studio. Need to work. Money. Earn some money. Who needs money? I like money. Who doesn’t. We must have it to live. Done

(502 words)

Breaking Bad

I'm watching all five seasons of "Breaking Bad" on Netflix. I remember now. I loved this show. The quality of the cast and crew is topnotch. Screenwriters can learn a lot by analyzing it's structure. It's a great story. Vince Gilligan is genius.

The main theme of any great story needs to hit home, make sense, relate to us in some emotional way. We have to feel like it's real. "Breaking Bad" certainly qualifies. We all "break  bad" sometimes and get involved in something we shouldn't. We take a false step and before we know it all hell breaks loose. As I was watching the last episode of Season Two last night, I was thinking about how I have "broken bad" a few times myself.

Here are some reasons I think we break bad, often unintentionally.

1. Bad news. When Walt finds out he has cancer and a couple of years to live, he begins to unravel. Who wouldn't? His life is over, and this realization feeds his downward spiral. His motives are complicated, he's concerned for his family's future after his death, and he's broke. We are more likely to break bad after receiving bad news.

2. Bad luck. Luck is a big part of success and failure. Random events can have devastating consequences. A small dose of unforeseen bad luck can go a long way in making us feel vulnerable and defeated. How many times have we said, "I can't catch a break!" Walt and Jesse are not only the worst drug dealers in New Mexico, they are the unluckiest. Some of the fun is watching these two trip over themselves. Bad luck and breaking bad may be close relatives.

3. Bad friends. It's a cliche, but true: hanging around bad people will eventually rub off on us. Parents want their children to have positive role models. Adults need positive role models, too. We need to be careful about the people we allow into our inner circle. Bad people bring bad influences. We usually don't break bad in isolation. Many times we break bad to be a part of the group. Studies in the cause of riots has shown this. People will behave in ways thought impossible, if given the right environment. A good way to avoid breaking bad is to avoid bad people.  Jesse's young and cute landlord, a recovering drug addict, meets Jesse (bad luck), and ends up dead of an overdose.

While I've never sold drugs, I've broken bad at times. The next time I receive bad news, I'm going to think of Walt and Jesse. Just give me some good news. And with a little good luck and a few good friends, I might even break good once in a while.