It’s Sunday, August 4th, 2024, 10:44 am, and I’m exhausted typing this. Insomniacathon 2024 was the definition of a Long Strange Trip. I was only supposed to be gone for a couple of days, but ended up not getting home for over a week. It was a trip that started out in disaster, but ended in a bond of Gonzo Brotherhood. I met a best friend, and became part of his family. I also learned that miracles are definitely real, and Hunter was right when he said, “All energy flows according to the whims of the great magnet.” I wasn’t sure about taking this journey. I’d been going through a lot of personal things and health issues. Battling severe depression on top of that. 2023’s Gonzofest pulled me out of the funk I was in back then. I was hoping this trip would do the same. In the long run, it did, and I’m glad that I decided to go in the end.
My first ride fell through, and I didn’t want to take a bus because I had boxes of books and artwork, plus my bags, so I thought the trip was off. I wasn’t too bothered by that since I was struggling with wanting to go anyway, but I decided to try to get a last-minute ride on Friday. Only after some of my Pop’s own brand of southern father encouragemen… “Don’t be a pussy, son. God’s got this. Everything happens for a reason. Persevere.” I made a phone call, and Leland Locke —the absolute most Gonzo son–of–a–bitch I have ever met—agreed to pick me up.
The chaos ensued right down the road from my house when we had our first flat, but that’s also when the first miracle happened. The car behind us immediately pulled over, and a kid named Cody jumped out. He said, “Y’all okay? I have a jack!,” and it wasn’t some shitty little piece of equipment. He pulls a 3-ton hydraulic jack from his trunk! Told us it was his birthday and he was having a shitty day, but still wanted to stop and help. We threw on the spare, and I slipped him $20 before we left. His face lit up. If I ever see him around town, I’ll definitely be thanking him again.
The second flat was around four in the morning. In Lebanon, Indiana, at mile marker 144 on South 65. About two hours away from the event in Kentucky. We’d already used the spare, so Leland called AAA. They were supposed to tow us the rest of the way there. We waited for two hours, and nobody showed up. He called back, and they said the order was in, but they were waiting on a driver. Waited two more hours. Nobody showed up. Called back AGAIN, now they say they couldn’t find a driver in our area so the order was canceled. At this point, it was after eight a.m. We were aggravated, tired, and the exit wasn’t far away. We decided to ride the rim to a store by the exit ramp. Lo and behold, there was a tire place right across the parking lot! Even though we were highway robbed. He knew he had us – $180 to fix one damn tire – but we were back on the road with only two hours to go.
We got about thirty minutes down the highway when the spare blew. Yes, the spare we used after the first flat. We were on the side of the fucking road for the Third Time! Not long after sitting there, a truck pulled over with a flat! Then, the next miracle happened. A car pulled over with flashing lights on the hood, and a married couple jumped out. The husband tells us he works for highway assistance, and that’s why he had the lights on his car. He and his wife were out and about on his day off when they saw us. He had all the tools to fix our tire. Two of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and the icing on the cake is that his wife was a writer! She told us she wrote children’s books and was in the process of writing a novel. We told them we were headed to Insomniacathon and gave them some books and CMP stickers before leaving. As we were pulling off, they were helping the people in the truck with their tire. Insane coincidence, or the whim of a great magnet? Decide for yourself. I know what I believe.
Finally, we make the last two-hour stretch. Went to Leland’s B&B, rinsed off, changed, and got to the church. I was a little upset that I’d been messaging everyone to let them know what was going on, and all they seemed to care about was me making it to the Cajun Mutt Press hour I was supposed to be hosting. Scheduled for noon on Saturday. If it was that important, some things should’ve been moved around, and a little more effort could’ve been made to get both of us there when the last tire blew less than two hours away. We were in a real crisis multiple times. They had someone else host it in my absence instead.
The few hours I spent there on Saturday were incredibly beautiful. I heard some excellent performances; Ron Whitehead’s was by far the best. His poetry reading with Katrina Harper and Tommy Bays singing verses of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah brought me to tears. It made the whole shitty trip getting there feel worthwhile. My friend Michael Duckwall’s son even read a poem. That takes some courage; he’s a brave kid. I read some of my poetry, but I was totally unprepared. I kind of bombed it, but I got up there and did the damn thing. That’s what counts.
Later that night, Leland and I wanted to unwind. A poet “friend” and her husband invited us to their B&B to hang out. Other poets we knew were also staying there. My original plan was to regroup with them, have some drinks, and go back to the church for Kent Fielding’s drum circle and open mic later that night, but her husband talked us into staying because Leland and I needed some sleep, so we decided to stay and get to the church in the morning.
That night was fucking awesome. Everyone hung out for a while, talking and laughing. Getting to know each other. I poured my heart out about how much I’d been struggling, and wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep Cajun Mutt Press going. Everyone told me how much they had my back. Claimed they wanted to help. It was a true tribal moment. I even stayed up and shot the shit with my “friend’s” husband for a while after everyone else went to bed. Then I took a shower, and fell asleep thinking everything was right with the world. That I was with my people. Found my tribe.
The next morning didn’t go well when it proved that to be untrue. It was a complete about-face. We woke up around eight, and the said “friend” was already gone. She came back from the church while we were all outside having coffee, and she was NOT happy. Mad because we were hungover and we weren’t at the church yet. Even more pissed that I smoked a joint outside with my coffee. In my defense, I asked her husband if it was okay. He said yes. (Maybe she was mad because her husband didn’t go to the church with her that morning after staying up with me?)
*he sat there, shrugging at us as she yelled*
I kept trying to tell her everything would be all right and to cut us some slack. It wasn’t that late, the church was only a few blocks away, and we’d be there soon. After all the disasters trying to get there, we could all still have a great time on the last day. We simply needed to regroup and get dressed. She didn’t want to hear it. The icing on the cake was when she cringed as I tried to give her a hug. We felt unwelcome, so Leland and I decided to split.
We got in the jeep, and Leland said, “Fuck it, just come to North Carolina with me. We’ll figure out how to get you home from there. These people don’t give a shit about us.” I accepted his invitation, and we packed up to hit the road. When we left, I thought all I had at the church were some books and artwork. I didn’t care if they were taken or thrown away. I was over it at that point after everything that happened. Especially since I obviously didn’t mean much to some of the people there I thought were friends. It wasn’t until after getting to Leland’s cabin that I realized I’d also left a backpack and a few other things. Huge thanks to Brother Duck for grabbing everything for me before going home. He’s been a true friend to me since we met at Gonzofest 2023. I feel bad for leaving without saying goodbye, but I was upset after the hell we went through to get there, only for the next morning to get even worse.
***
Leaving Insomniacathon the way I did ultimately led to being pushed out of Gonzofest 2025 in New Orleans and being used as a stepping stone by people I thought were friends. It hurt, but I realized that I don’t need a festival to honor Hunter S. Thompson’s legacy. Everything about Cajun Mutt Press is and has always been dedicated to the Spirit of Gonzo Journalism. I live that shit. That’s why I decided to bring it back after shutting things down for a while. Just needed time to think and rearrange my inner circle.
***
Leland and I were off on a new adventure. After pooling our resources and another insane trip (a story for a different time), we made it to the “Locke-ness Cabin” out in Wilkesboro, NC. Up on a mountain with a fantastic view from the second-floor deck. I met his beautiful wife, Tara, their incredible son Vincent, and their pack of dogs—fifteen to be exact! Most of them were Great Pyrenees. They let me stay in a nice trailer they have on the property, right down the hill from their cabin. They were actually in the process of selling it, and the buyer came to meet with Tara while I was staying there. I like to think I helped close the deal by telling her how awesome Leland and Tara are. On top of all that, the buyer was looking for a secluded place to write a novel. No shit, I can’t make this stuff up. What are the odds of that? It was meant to be. Another whim of the great magnet.
The entire time I was in NC was still a blast. We shot guns, blew shit up, ate well, drank well, and I found a great friend in The Gonzo Madman known as A.L. Locke. A true Brother. I feel like I needed this crazy trip, and the great magnet is responsible for bringing us together. I’ve realized so many things: the existence of a higher power (“All energy flows according to the whims of the great magnet”—HST), the value of true friendship, what I want to do with my life, how much I love my beautiful muse, how much I need to get in shape, and the list goes on and on. I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to do with Cajun Mutt Press. Now I know.
After it was all said and done, I still ended up on a bus after not wanting to take one, but the fun I had outweighed the cramped ride home. First time out of the house in a year, and everything went sideways, yet many life-changing things happened. This trip was supposed to be in honor of Ron Whitehead and his last Insomniacathon, but ended up something different. It was a Gonzo Journey of Disasters, Miracles, and Brotherhood… With too many coincidences for them to be coincidences. An angel feather in the devil’s hat, guided by the unseen magnetic energy that shapes this weird universe, and I was honored to buy the ticket and take the ride with a real friend.
Blowing off some steam at Locke-ness Cabin in Wilkesboro, NC.
Before hopping on the bus home.
