Written after I was wrecked by the heartbreaking West Wing season three finale, Posse Comitatus, on November 8th, 2006. Revised April 29, 2010

…

“I got a couple emails to my artwork website’s inbox from Japan. I can’t read any of it, so I don’t know if it’s just junk. I never get junk at that address.” I confessed curiously to DJ Huxtable while I drove over the I-8564578298 overpass on Scrimshaw pkwy.

“What an awful name for a street.” Hux belted, gazing past his reflection at the street lamp lit army-green street sign.

CROCKETT: What? Interstate 8 billion, five hundred sixty four million, five-

DJ HUXTABLE: Scrimshaw, you dick. I should harpoon every whaler I can.

CROCKETT: Listen to this vegan extremist. You think that’s not worse than killing whales?

HUX: I’ll make artwork out of their teeth, then. Or maybe I can just take one arm and use that bone. I’ll make scrimshaw dildos and sell them back to their lonely landlocked wives. Or maybe a femur would be better for- The femur’s the thigh bone, right?

“If it’s human, it isn’t scrimshaw, it’s gotta be a marine mammal.” I thanked archbishop internet for the knowledge it once provided.

HUX: I think it’s appropriate to use that word in reference to adorning any material with that method. Human bones, dildos, chipmunk bones…Anyway, if you like Japanese girls, then I hear that new torture fest of a film from the director of 0.7407532009411887 Ounces is the one to check out. Some deaf mute Japanese schoolgirl bares it again and again.

CROCKETT: I never said anything about Japanese girls.

HUX: So, you’re not secretly hoping those emails are from cute, cartoon-craving, japanese fangirls?

He paused. Then continued, “Of course you are. Because you’re horny, like every other man on the planet. How’s your love life? Do you have one? Are you trying to have one?” He didn’t wait for the answers, because he knew them. It was an indictment, not an inquiry.

I rolled my automobile around a bend on a hillside road overlooking Lake Estella Havisham, heating it to a steam with my glare before sliding my eyeballs back onto the road. We were traveling too fast to convert the asphalt into molten bitumen. “Where’s this coming from?”

HUX: I’ve just been wondering why you haven’t been writing. And I didn’t have to wonder long.

CROCKETT: I hadn’t really noticed.

HUX: That’s depressing. Crockett, you hardly go so long-

I turned the car quickly onto Katharine Clifton Way. “What an awful name for a street…”

HUX: I think you’ve run out of ways to write the same thing over and over and over again, Crockett. You’ve got to get past that script, just find somebody to love. And conquer what makes it tough. If she’s got a boyfriend, then steal her from him. If there’s a language barrier, then learn to speak in tongues, if she likes shitty movies then show her some good ones. If she’s a republican-well, no. You shouldn’t date a republican. Just stop being so goddamned picky, shake off the psychos and offer yourself to somebody worthwhile.

CROCKETT: Goddamn it.

I laid my foot on the gas pedal and pushed it through the floorboard. The automobile accelerated at a surprising speed.

CROCKETT: You’d better get ready to jump. Roll when you hit the ground.

HUX: I’m ready when you are. I know just as well as you do.

I throttled it and shouted; we threw open the car doors and leaped out each side, rolling in the dust. My old-ass automobile with the massive oil leak launched over Lady Brett Ashley Lookout and into the gaping gorge below, crashing glass and twisting metal into an unrecognizeable pile. We stood and wiped off the dirt, collecting the wind that had just been knocked out of us.

HUX: Crockett, you’ve got a mighty mind and a powerful imagination. I’d hate to see you use it all for bitching and moaning about how hard you’ve had it.”

“I haven’t hard it had. Had it hard.” which was the required retort.

HUX: That some people have it much, much worse shouldn’t diminish your own difficulty in the day to day…but if you get stuck writing about the loves you lost or never reached for…you-

I struck a tone that suggested he not tread on me, at the same time insisting he do so. “If I get stuck, then what?”

He didn’t hesitate, “You won’t be able to help anybody change. You. Won’t change. If you’re not changing for the better, you’re staying for the worse. Crockett…You’ve got to create a new kind of artwork.”

Bullshit, I wanted to think. I formed a defensive posture, “What, new? Nothing’s original anymore. Everything’s been done to death.” Which, I didn’t believe, but-

“I meant new to you.”