Don Harris Hemingway Was Soft

Generally regarded as a stoic badass and pioneer of modern prose, Hemingway was and is the Chuck Norris (Dos Equis Guy?) of literature.  Even still, I’m pretty sure I could take him. The guys was just such a fucking predictable rain cloud target, he’s sure to have lost as many fights as he won. Hemingway defined grace as “courage under pressure” but basically what this translates to is: when life gives you lemons you make lemon moonshine and pretend that it’s difficult to get hammered all the time. With the right circumstances, training regiment, suspension of disbelief, etc..  I could fucking take him!

I’ve seen so many tough guys get their asses kicked when they’re drunk (; it’s almost an immutable law of physics. There’s a line where ability and agility become inversely related.  This is known as Milwaukee’s Law: At the point of bemused drunkenness, for every pool shot you take that you would bet on, you should bet against it double that amount in forty five minutes time. This applies to throwing ‘bows as well.

The drunker you get when you have to accomplish something, the more chance cards you throw in the situation. And for a pickled sad-sack like Hemingway, the fucking deck was hopelessly stacked against him. I’m confident I could goad him and, in the moment before he snapped like Andy Richter at an all-you-can-eat Pizza Hut ice cream bar, preemptively strike, perhaps even head-butt him or kick him in the balls if necessary.

He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to scrap over a woman, which is how most bar fights usually go down. No, no, what would really have raised Ernie’s hackles – and by the way I’m an expert because I read one of his books fifty times- is to insult his momma. I know exactly how to give him the gears, “Hey, nervous Ernie, does your Mom still dress you up like your sister… No wait she’s dead” He would cave in like George Harrison at a band meeting, firstly, and in that pregnant moment before his eyes turned to steely courage.. KAPOW! His drunken ass would get served.

Hemingway always seemed to leave the distinct impression that bombs were falling all around him and that the thought of tomorrow was cause for despair. The guy let a depressing fucking life. He literally had bombs falling around him for a good while there. Bukowski said about Hemingway (truly the Lloyd and Harry of literary dipsomaniacs): “He never danced, he never sang, for him it was total war.” Yeah, total war sounds intense, but if you wanna bar fight, ya gotta dance.

So yeah, when I got to Paris I would first of all get shit can hammered, actually yes maybe I would arrive there via some time travelling concoction of glowing absinthe. Yeah, that’s good I’ll leave that in there.  So I’m in Paris, I’m trippin’ on nuclear absinthe. Waiting in the alleyway. We meet, “Hemingway you’re a choad”. Pregnant pause. He’s ko’ed. Providing the bastard’s not quicker than he looks.

And yet, I feel so empty inside. Like the end of “A Farewell to Arms”, I walk off into the rain alone

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