Top Ten Tuesdays is a blogging activity hosted by The Broke And The Bookish.
Let's get one this out of the way. I'm not DYING to meet anybody. I have been around mixed martial arts long enough to see its transformation into New Hollywood and fanboys are annoying enough. Let's say you're taking your coffee on a terrace one morning and one idiot recognizes you. Then all the fanboys come at you a dime a dozen, with their bleeding heart story, hoping to establish a special bond with you through a photography and an autograph. I mean I understand how special it would be to meet your hero, but it's not for me. Unless I'd be invited for dinner with Dennis Lehane, I'd probably leave him alone if I saw him. So let's take this week's topic literally. This is the top ten writers I'd DIE to meet, which means that they need to be dead to qualify. Also, I'll try to find something to do with them that doesn't have any intellectual undertones.
David Foster Wallace: One thing I wouldn't put him through is the mandatory barrage of questions about the nature of contemporary life. During his living, people treated him like a new age messiah or something. I'd go mini-putt with the guy. Relieve him from his intellectual stress a little bit.
C.O.D: Aneurysm
Ernest Hemingway: This one spells trouble. What would you do with Hemingway huh? I'd fucking hit the local pub with him like there's no tomorrow. I'm sure the old man was a blast around the bottle AND would have wrestled me while drunk.
C.O.D: Stabbed during an altercation in a back alley.
Hunter S. Thompson: The king of debauchery. I'd love to visit his little kingdom in the Colorado mountain and do whatever the Thompsons do on a Saturday night. Peyotl, shoot shit, walk around naked with the guests. Hard living can be interesting for a week-end.
C.O.D: Fell from a cliff. Autopsy found unknown substance in bloodstream.
Edgar Allan Poe: He was a miserable bastard. He could have used a buddy to light him up for an evening or two. I guess I'd bring him to the Olive Garden for an evening. Get him a decent meal and meet a few girls. That would cheer him up.
C.O.D: Self-inflicted injury made during psychotic episode.
James Jones: The man had an interesting angle on war and its effect on the human soul. The best way to trigger him into talking about his work would be to bring him to a support group or make him do some sort of therapeutic activity, like stroke-a-puppy or something. That would make the man feel better and share killer war stories.
C.O.D: Went A.W.O.L. Never found.
Kurt Vonnegut: He's one of those guys I miss. I also feel he was one of those guys who could appreciate somebody NOT questioning him about literature for an evening. If I'd die to meet Kurt, I'd bring him for a walk in Colonia Del Sacramento in Uruguay. I'm sure he'd appreciate the sights.
C.O.D: Car accident. He died, yet the person he hit with his car survived to have twelve children and be prime minister.
Hubert Selby Jr.: The writer of Last Exit To Brooklyn and Requiem For A Dream had secrets to his writing that I would have died to know (and I heard he was very generous of his time to discuss literature). But since I'm not a fanboy I would have brought him to a base-ball game. This way we could've ate hot-dogs, drink beer and philosophize.
C.O.D: Heart attack. Presumably at a very ironic moment.
Francis Scott Fitzgerald: The sensitive, yet immensely talented little brother of the lost generation. Fitzgerald's life with Zelda was not very fun. Glamorous sure, but also tormented. If I had met Scott, I would have brought him to the wrestling club, to show him a few move. That way, he could have burned all this bad energy.
C.O.D: Killed by a scorned lover from the past.
Philip K. Dick: The man was a nervous wreck. The only thing that could have probably soothed him would have been to be in a moving car. So yeah, I would have taken the man for a ride in a smaller, low-key city where the feds wouldn't watch him. I'm sure he had interesting conspiracy theories,
C.O.D: Unknown, but the body was unexplainably found in Puerto Rico.
Raymond Carver: Another fantastic drinking buddy. If I'd spend an evening with Carver, I'd be smart and provoke one of those Carver-moments. I'd get him out in town, hit the clubs, get him a girl and whatnot, just to have one of these moments where everything quiets down and life becomes normal again. I'm sure I could learn a thing or two about his magic.
C.O.D: Painless, in his sleep, yet his loved ones became charmingly melancholic.
C.O.D: Aneurysm
Ernest Hemingway: This one spells trouble. What would you do with Hemingway huh? I'd fucking hit the local pub with him like there's no tomorrow. I'm sure the old man was a blast around the bottle AND would have wrestled me while drunk.
C.O.D: Stabbed during an altercation in a back alley.
Hunter S. Thompson: The king of debauchery. I'd love to visit his little kingdom in the Colorado mountain and do whatever the Thompsons do on a Saturday night. Peyotl, shoot shit, walk around naked with the guests. Hard living can be interesting for a week-end.
C.O.D: Fell from a cliff. Autopsy found unknown substance in bloodstream.
Edgar Allan Poe: He was a miserable bastard. He could have used a buddy to light him up for an evening or two. I guess I'd bring him to the Olive Garden for an evening. Get him a decent meal and meet a few girls. That would cheer him up.
C.O.D: Self-inflicted injury made during psychotic episode.
James Jones: The man had an interesting angle on war and its effect on the human soul. The best way to trigger him into talking about his work would be to bring him to a support group or make him do some sort of therapeutic activity, like stroke-a-puppy or something. That would make the man feel better and share killer war stories.
C.O.D: Went A.W.O.L. Never found.
Kurt Vonnegut: He's one of those guys I miss. I also feel he was one of those guys who could appreciate somebody NOT questioning him about literature for an evening. If I'd die to meet Kurt, I'd bring him for a walk in Colonia Del Sacramento in Uruguay. I'm sure he'd appreciate the sights.
C.O.D: Car accident. He died, yet the person he hit with his car survived to have twelve children and be prime minister.
Hubert Selby Jr.: The writer of Last Exit To Brooklyn and Requiem For A Dream had secrets to his writing that I would have died to know (and I heard he was very generous of his time to discuss literature). But since I'm not a fanboy I would have brought him to a base-ball game. This way we could've ate hot-dogs, drink beer and philosophize.
C.O.D: Heart attack. Presumably at a very ironic moment.
Francis Scott Fitzgerald: The sensitive, yet immensely talented little brother of the lost generation. Fitzgerald's life with Zelda was not very fun. Glamorous sure, but also tormented. If I had met Scott, I would have brought him to the wrestling club, to show him a few move. That way, he could have burned all this bad energy.
C.O.D: Killed by a scorned lover from the past.
Philip K. Dick: The man was a nervous wreck. The only thing that could have probably soothed him would have been to be in a moving car. So yeah, I would have taken the man for a ride in a smaller, low-key city where the feds wouldn't watch him. I'm sure he had interesting conspiracy theories,
C.O.D: Unknown, but the body was unexplainably found in Puerto Rico.
Raymond Carver: Another fantastic drinking buddy. If I'd spend an evening with Carver, I'd be smart and provoke one of those Carver-moments. I'd get him out in town, hit the clubs, get him a girl and whatnot, just to have one of these moments where everything quiets down and life becomes normal again. I'm sure I could learn a thing or two about his magic.
C.O.D: Painless, in his sleep, yet his loved ones became charmingly melancholic.