Open Letter to Quentin Tarantino

Dear Mr. Tarantino,

After driving a thousand miles to my gold claim in Western Arizona I found my business partner totally indoctrinated by your podcast. At this moment he’s cranked out on NoDoz en route to Hollywood to cash in on this “once in a lifetime opportunity” that’s been stuck in his skull since hearing your Feb 6th episode. That’s where he got the crazy idea that used VCR machine sales are about to skyrocket. “No more digging up this goddamned desert,” he told me on the phone. “I’ll knock the dust off some old Sony Super VHS HiFi Stereo Units and make a killing off geeks like Tarantino and that Avary character he hangs out with.”

Not only is he sold on the idea that VCR machines will see a massive uptick, but now he refuses to watch anything other than VHS tapes. Apparently streaming is for “soft-headed mutants” and he won’t have any part of it.

And maybe he’s right, but who on earth are going to start lugging around VCRs, and get them refurbished at that?

Benny is convinced however, and like I said, he is ready to set up shop. “I have an investor lined up,” he said. “If you know what’s good for you, keep driving west and come and see for yourself.”

“To hell with Los Angeles,” I told him. “All the parking spots are for compact cars and the gas is too expensive. I’d rather stay in Arizona with the tarantulas and the rattlesnakes, because all the tourists are all finally gone to places like Gig Harbor, Washington and U.P. Michigan.”

“No more dust and wind for me,” he went on. “I left all my gear in a storage unit in Quartzite. Two weeks ago I was poking around for the remnants of a miner’s cabin when I found skeletal remains perched under an Iron Wood tree. The clothing had turned to dust, and in its hand I found a small leather pouch filled with Red Beryls at $1000 an ounce. I call myself satisfied for the season.”

“You crazy animal!” I yelled at him. “You just dealt yourself a dead man’s hand, and anything you touch with that money will be doomed,” I told him. “Haven’t you learned anything about prospecting?”

“That’s just an old wives tale,” he said, “designed to keep suckers poor and miserable. Not me, I’m not afraid. I’ll take the Uraeus off a Pharaoh and wear it to a disco.”

I couldn’t believe my ears.

“You’re right. California is perfect for you, you gutless bastard! The heat must have melted your brain and now that you have a mark on you, don’t come anywhere near this desert. Do you hear me? Just keep your ass in Hollywood with all the other doomed freaks!”

I’m not saying he’s your problem now, but if a sunbaked wino finds his way onto the VCR repair scene out there, just be warned that he’s gone crazy with greed for VCRs and video tapes. But what do I know? Maybe he’s just the kind of person you people like to hang out with.

Saludos,

Snake Johnson