Patriotism Makes The Perfect Alibi

It's been some time since I blogged, but as with all writing, there have been too many competing interests and ideas in my life to focus on just this. Yet, here I am, returning to the scene of the crime. Which brings me to the murderer.

I mean, this is a mystery. So, the first question people always ask is: Whodunnit?

The best I can come up with now is someone our pro really respects, maybe even have a man-crush on. I am thinking an independent musician, someone that warms up our pro's cold cynical heart to the music industry. The musician has to be honest, yet not corny. Admirable, but not a good-two-shoes. Maybe a war veteran. Someone who risked his life for this country and is now, deservedly, seeking to make his creative dreams come true. A patriotic musician! (And no, this is not an excuse to post the above picture. Well, maybe just a little.)

A musician also travels alot, allowing him opportunity to slip in and out of towns where he committed his last murder, giving him a serial murder aspect. And since he is former military, he has the physical ability and mentality to kill.

What he represents are those first infatuations we first have when discovering a new musician. There is so much hope and admiration placed vicariously into that artist. Then they sell out and we are left not recognizing the person we celebrating when they were "underground."

In my story, the pro never finds out the musician is the murderer. The pro remains in complete ignorant bliss that his "hero" is true. Sometimes I wish the same for artists I first discover. I wish they would remain undiscovered--or pure--forever. Like so many things in life, everything decays.

Wait. Maybe I am referring to Jessica Simpson.

Hippies. I hate these guys.

Lately, the most prevalent image is a coffeehouse here in St. Pete where my protagonist and his girlfriend frequent. Its run by two aging hippies, people I know all too well. Being born into Gen X (another term I fucking hate), the hippies are like any proceeding generation to the current brood: an archaic hindrance of eye rolling proportions.

This is supposed to represent my pro's resentment of 1960's "originators" of rock. Oh yeah. I forgot to mention that he is a rock critic/journalist for a local indie music mag. Hippies probably feel the same way about me: utter contempt for disrespecting their inroads.

After all, rock n' roll (along with hippies and their parent's money) changed the world. You remember that, don't you? It was right about the time Nixon was reelected.

Anyhoo, since my pro is now a murder suspect (this is a pseudonoir story, mixed in with Nick Hornby male arrested development episodes) he has no interest in appearing in public, let alone in an establishment such as this, owned and operated by a couple who cannot wait to verbally savage him; more so for his album reviews than shroud of murder. Like I said, they are hippies. Murder is all relative if cultural criticism supersedes it.

I want to reveal more but this brief glimpse into the story bears the most fruit for me since I conjured up the novel over six months ago. Per my previous post, I just need to put it out there--even if no one reads this--just to confirm it exists. This post, and I guess the whole purpose of the blog for that matter, is analogous to the old "if a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it" parable. I just want this story to exist.

Even if it involves hippies.


"Mellow Yellow"-- Donovan