A Love Letter

March 4, 2024

Some shitty beach in Rhode Island

It's not a special day. In fact it's a carbon copy of yesterday: cold, shitty, gray Rhode Island beachfront in the winter time. Once again the gulls have gathered to watch in utter disbelief as Gary the Stupid Human walks his dumb little pattern on the sand. Despite the aggravating and incessant waaahwaaah sound from the stick he carries, they refuse to miss this spectacle. Here is the apex predator, the top of the food chain that hath wreaked havoc on the land for millenia, walking around digging in the sand.

Is this some odd mating ritual? Why would this keystone specimen waste his energy and what is that wretched stick he carries?

Of course they cannot know he's taking part in a hobby. They're birds and likely don't understand the concept of. His infernal stick is a metal detector. Gary the Stupid human is a 75 year old retired postal worker who likes to spend his mornings looking for buried treasure. He's also completely oblivious to the fact that these gulls gather to watch him. He never wanted to live in Rhode Island and this is the only time in his day he gets to spend just the way he wants. Try and explain that to a bunch of fucking gulls.

So March 4th, Gary the Stupid Human is doing his little walk. The gulls are watching him intently, discussing and deliberating on his motives behind this strange ritual.

Suddenly Gary stops in his tracks and tilts his head. He leans over and scoops something out of the receding tide. What?! The gulls go absolutely fucking mad. The beach lights up with squawking and swooping as they all try to get a closer look at what Gary the Stupid Human has found. It looks like... a bottle?

Gull are coming in from other coves now to behold this moment. They are about to take part in the culmination of Gary's stupid little figure eight patterns every day. Gary carefully removes a piece of paper from the bottle and unravels it. The suspense is unbearable.

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Dear Daytona, 

Congrats on your sobriety, I guess. 

I know, I know. As a recovering (recovered?) drug addict and alcoholic myself, I really ought to be in your corner on this one. Support your fellow man and all that bullshit. Believe me, I know the hell you’re going through right now and wouldn't wish it on anyone. Crawling up the walls while sitting in a chair, right? Fuck I remember feeling like my blood was boiling inside my skin. And even worse than all of that was the fear. Do you feel it? Like you're one breath away from falling off the face of the fucking Earth. 

Oh and that voice. The little, quiet voice that’s always there whispering impending doom into your ear. It’s like the waves of the ocean, isn’t it? You don't hear every wave crash, but you would sure notice if they stopped. What does yours say, Daytona? Mine would always ask me how long I could keep it up this time. The charade. I'm not a good man, Daytona. I never was and I'm done pretending to be.

Your sobriety reminds me of a song. It was my Pops’ favorite. ‘Sam Stone’ By John Prine.

There's a hole in daddy's arm where all the money goes Jesus Christ died for nothin' I suppose Little pitchers have big ears Don't stop to count the years Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios, mmhmm (bolded for effect)

Hear me, now, Daytona. Until you have hit rock bottom you cannot build a firm bedrock and we all know you got more miles in the tank. You stand at the intersection of mediocrity and legend. What will you be? Are you going to hang up your six shooters and settle down for the homestead act? I think the real question is what do you want it to mean. If I settled down today I would be alright with it, Daytona. I've paid my dues, bled on four different continents, lost all hearing in my right ear doing this shit. I've won fifty thousand cash money in a wrestling tournament in Mississippi and blown it on cheap liquor, crack cocaine, and Motel 8 whores in a weekend. And I needed to do all of that for any of this to mean anything. 

Don’t let that whore or this weak pimp you’ve been palling around with ruin your shot. You’re on the upward trajectory, my friend. You stand at the cusp of greatness: pillage and plunder and snort and fuck your way to it. Cut the anchors. I know you because I am you. I'm scum. You and me, kid, we're scorpions. And all of the frogs, the Don Winters and Bambi's of the world, get stung eventually. Rip the fucking band aid off. 

You are going to be a father soon. That child is clay and whether you want to be or not, you will be the artist. Do you want to subject this child to being raised by a bull who has had its nuts clipped and walks around full of resentment at what he could've been? 

I respect you. Don't worry, I'm not telling you to back down from this fight at ReVival. I know you can't because all you fucking know is self destruction and anyways, I'm looking forward to our dance. No, consider this a bit of unsolicited advice from a man who has walked the road you're on. You’ve got a real talent, but you’ve lost your way. You don’t get high because you’re Daytona Diamonds, you’re Daytona Diamonds because you get high. Without the little white bags you’re just some stupid fucking hillbilly in a bedazzled hat. Get hurt some more and see just how far you can push the envelope. You'll be amazed at what the other side of the horizon looks like. 

Remember, you're a scorpion. Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios. Eventually, you will do what's in your nature.

Yours Truly, The Legend

_______________________________________________________________

Gary the Stupid Human is just as befuddled as the gull. There is wisdom here. If you were to ask the sender, Rob Williams, this is just another example that there is no word and no light. No one is coming to save us. Just like the fateful messages about icebergs or the warnings about a potential attack on American Navy bases, it ended up in the hands of someone utterly powerless over the situation and died on the vine.

Even scarier, though, is that maybe there is an interventionist God in the Heavens above. Maybe this is all playing out exactly the way they intend. Despite the best efforts of potential heroes, hope dies on some shitty beach in the hands of a retired postal worker to an audience of confused gulls. The Titanic was supposed to crash, Pearl Harbor needed to burn, and Daytona is meant to become a eunuch. Is this the Word and Light that Don Winters professes?

Another unanswered question on this shitty Rhode Island beach.