Welcome to the crazy, pull up a chair

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, there was a rather inconsequential city. 

And in that city, there was an even less important neighborhood.  This neighborhood was in fact SO unimportant that it didn’t even have a name.  Citizens merely referred to it as “the northside.”

Now, unbeknownst to the city fathers, the neighborhood happened to have been constructed upon the ancient site of a very dangerous mineral mine.

Five thousand years prior to the establishment of that neighborhood, a tribe of prehistoric creatures ruled the area.  The exact physical nature of these beings remains shrouded in half-mystery, as all we have to go on are slim artifacts and fossils, but based upon tablets found in caves underneath the Mississippi river, we do know that they prided themselves on their “gadgets and widgets.”  We also know that, drama-lovers that they were, this group enslaved another, smaller, dumber species of prehistoric creatures (who were no less ugly, but had more thumbs for digging and scarier hair, judging by the fossils) for the purpose of rooting up Freakocrystalline – a dirty green rock which gave them all the awesome power of INSANITY. These ancient creatures valued insanity as it gave them the confidence and ability and will to do whatever the hell they wanted, with no thought for consequences. The only problem was that they ultimately all ---DUH--- went insane, and subsequently ate each other up and died out. 

Five thousand years later, we have this neighborhood.

As one could expect, it’s a rather odd place.

Residents unknowingly exposed to the ongoing radiation of the powerful Freakocrystalline are inclined toward erratic behaviors, such as blogging and socialism and bad taste in footwear, to say nothing of late-night adventures, tooling around town rubbernecking attractive ghetto cruisers and calling 911 on slightly-less-attractive crackwhores.

Some are more susceptible to the effects of the mineral than others. A few have built up a natural immunity – particularly those whose families have lived in the neighborhood for generations. The newcomers, however, are particularly impacted.

This story begins with an overweight shaggy-haired writer who blows in from some no-name-corn-town and starts blogging up a storm about how fucked up every last corner of the community is. Naturally, people hate him. But in fairness, the community IS indeed quite fucked up. So on he goes. Prostitutes here, slumlords there, shootings, gangs, trash in the streets and a Pedophile named Pete who spanks minors and sues Church Ladies.

It’s like a car-wreck – who can look away??

He calls himself Johnny Northside.

Johnny likes to eat from dumpsters and compose love-letters to strangers when he’s not out calling the city on every motherfucking absentee-owned property in this ghetto for tall grass or graffiti.

He chews with his mouth open and has a crush on his Realtor. She is afraid she may catch a stray bullet while showing him broken down homes in crazy-town.

But, she wears hot shorts.  So there’s that.

But anyway, so Johnny takes his backpack-load of papers and his half-chewed mouth-full of bacon and he ultimately moves to the Northside.  (The gangbangers spared his Realtor and she’s now recovering on a yogic-vegan commune in Benson, Minnesota. OMMMMMM…….)

Insanity is the only possible outcome, of course.

But my friends, the road thereto is paved with ten thousand incredible adventures.

And I intend to write about them.