Masticate. Meditate. Masturbate.
Oh, yes. Indeedy. I oughta write a book. I mean, people tell me that shit all the time. And while any autobiography by yours truly may not make it into Oprah’s book club, or get spun into a Hollywood movie involving Julia Roberts, or her teeth, I’m sure some people might find it interesting. So you can’t blame me for toying with the idea, even if it doesn’t involve me traipsing around the world to India or wherever. Instead, maybe I’ll report on finding enlightenment next to a dumpster in Kettleman City or Coalinga or something. But who knows? Maybe Eric Roberts will be available to play me. Or Danny DeVito.
I’m kinda serious about this autobiography thing. But I also think it would work better as a graphic novel-type construct, or maybe a comic book. Or maybe a mixture of forms, with long narrative passages segueing into a collaborative series of pages with a comics artist, and then back again. Hell, I don’t know. That’s just the way I see it in my head, at least. And like everyone thinks of who would play them in a movie of their life, I’m thinking who oughta draw this stuff. Maybe Adrian Tomine, or Dan Clowes, or someone else. Or maybe I can get a bunch of different artists to do sections, like chapters, which I can tie together with text.
I think the comics section might be better to tell the story of my failed marriage, just … because. Because, well, I dunno, it’s a really fucked-up story. My side of it is that I was this Jimmy Stewart character, like that guy George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life, who jumped off the bridge in Frank Capra’s Bedford Falls and crawled out of the river into the Lumberton of David Lynch’s Blue Velvet, or maybe the imaginary Los Angeles of Lynch’s Lost Highway. I’m sure my ex remembers a different facet of Rashomon, but this is my story, so maybe she and that award-winning author with the huge gun collection can tell her side of it someday.
And then I’ll get some different artists to tell other parts of The Life and Many Bittersweet Loves of Ol’ Jackie Boy. Like you really wanna know, but fuck it. And there’s some other stuff, too, like me knocking it off with the hooch and other intoxicants and idiocies, and a few other things that might make for some story-board romance.
But all I have to do now is just find an artist or some artists and get started. I’ll put that one on my list, up there with “finish the novel,” “write that other book” and maybe “record an album of original songs that doesn’t sound like homemade demo poop.” One of these days. I’m sure.
Right now, I gotta sleep, so I can wake up in a few hours. Every day is a brand new deal, right? —Jackson Griffith