Jail Life is No Picnic
I was reading a novel that has a car accident and it sparked my memory of my teenage years, when four guys at my high school were killed in a car accident. Thanks to google, it is preserved in luridly written prose:
It was 6:20 a.m., July 29, 1995. Starting home from an overnight camping trip with seven friends, he lost control of his father's 1987 Chevrolet Suburban and sent it tumbling across a barren stretch of the Mojave Desert north of Victorville. Like a Ferris wheel set free of its mooring, the 5,000-pound truck rolled across the desert floor, and with each revolution a friend vanished, a family shattered, a future dissolved.
When everything came to a shuddering stop, he opened his eyes and saw Jono, beautiful Jono, a swimmer with out-to-here shoulders and bottomless brown eyes that made all the girls weak, and he knew right away that Jono was dead. He turned to look in the backseat at John, a snowboarder with a taste for adventure, and he knew at once that John was dead, too. He looked out the window and saw the others, scattered in the wake of the truck. Steven, Drake, Pig, Joe, Tony. He jumped out the window and ran to each one, begging them to be alive.
Encrusted with bits of windshield and chrome, the desert glittered in the morning sun like a diamond field. Nearby campers and dirt bikers, thinking a plane must have crashed nose first, came running toward the swirling plumes of smoke and found him sitting in the glassy dust, stroking the hand of Pig, his best friend since grade school. "It's my fault," he told them, sobbing. "I killed my friends!"
Yes, James, you killed your friends (!). I found his myspace page, where he has this awesome quote:
"Concerts are always killer but has to be the right band with the right friends."
But wait! He's also got a newly (ahem) "published" book about his time in jail!
("What's it like in the big house, Mickey?")
Wow, order me 140 copies and sell that mofo out!
Don't confuse this James Patterson with the bestselling author of the same name. V for Vendetta!
You know, I once had a writing teacher named Dan Brown. But not the famous one.
I swear, I'm the only one who made it out of Orange County.
It was 6:20 a.m., July 29, 1995. Starting home from an overnight camping trip with seven friends, he lost control of his father's 1987 Chevrolet Suburban and sent it tumbling across a barren stretch of the Mojave Desert north of Victorville. Like a Ferris wheel set free of its mooring, the 5,000-pound truck rolled across the desert floor, and with each revolution a friend vanished, a family shattered, a future dissolved.
When everything came to a shuddering stop, he opened his eyes and saw Jono, beautiful Jono, a swimmer with out-to-here shoulders and bottomless brown eyes that made all the girls weak, and he knew right away that Jono was dead. He turned to look in the backseat at John, a snowboarder with a taste for adventure, and he knew at once that John was dead, too. He looked out the window and saw the others, scattered in the wake of the truck. Steven, Drake, Pig, Joe, Tony. He jumped out the window and ran to each one, begging them to be alive.
Encrusted with bits of windshield and chrome, the desert glittered in the morning sun like a diamond field. Nearby campers and dirt bikers, thinking a plane must have crashed nose first, came running toward the swirling plumes of smoke and found him sitting in the glassy dust, stroking the hand of Pig, his best friend since grade school. "It's my fault," he told them, sobbing. "I killed my friends!"
Yes, James, you killed your friends (!). I found his myspace page, where he has this awesome quote:
"Concerts are always killer but has to be the right band with the right friends."
But wait! He's also got a newly (ahem) "published" book about his time in jail!
("What's it like in the big house, Mickey?")
Wow, order me 140 copies and sell that mofo out!
Don't confuse this James Patterson with the bestselling author of the same name. V for Vendetta!
You know, I once had a writing teacher named Dan Brown. But not the famous one.
I swear, I'm the only one who made it out of Orange County.
Labels: books, car accidents, high school, orange county
posted by Cutup at
10:01 PM
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