Screenwriting Into the Wind

The Backatcha Bandit Returns

I spent so little time in Oregon. I had a great notion to do so more often. I dreamed of a bus and Indi-film making, so much so my graduate school public history project became Arts, Objects, and Information…a proposal for a road tour to generate opposition to American fascism.

I had done the acid testing in the early 1970’s as part of the mushroom program’s clueless, unsupervised teen contingent, after getting my ass beat in wrestling, often. I was smitten with Bromden. I was growing my own as a teen. Paraquat and mandatory sentencing became a big part of my radicalization after the calms were condemned and NYC’s trash was burning off the NJ shoreline.

Better Duck Inn was imagined for screen writing, not memoir, or primary documentation creation, as respite from the combine, consumption, and commodification. A trip without the kids, acid, or any combination thereof.

As I peck away cryptically waiting for the likes of Taylor Sheridan to discover a trail of breadcrumbs left to lure a whale up the Delaware to Treasure Island, north of Point Pleasant, Pa. and Washingtons Crossing, I am aware of my own breathing.

The feeling is sublime.