Hunter Thompson
commits suicide
"Fear and Loathing" author dead at 67
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Sunday February 20, 2005
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Hunter Thompson
commits suicide
"Fear and Loathing" author dead at 67
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Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.
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February 21, 2005
holiday.
no work.
something to do with dead presidents.
salute to the professional scum, those who hang onto the political ladder long enough to reach the “top” of the heap… hanging on for the chance to live like well-fed swine and live in a big white house… long enough to reach the top, to control the levers that send souls to some war in some godforsaken land for a brutal existence… a place where they all shoot first and ask questions later.. or never ask questions… oh, wait,,, this is not Viet Nam… this is not the 60s, I am not in a Los Angeles suburb dodging the draft… it is 2005, and the clouds outside are filled with rain, sleet and snow… a dark sky in a dark world where everything is as crazy as 40 years ago…
ah.. the holiday, the “no work” syndrome… getting up, tanking down a day and a half worth of caffeine, prowling around the house… a bit of cleaning and vacuuming, but still, there is something in the air that has nothing to do with which cockaroacha is ruling the political system.. there is something different in the air today… upstairs in this hi-tech bridge, I push the button on the wall that automatically sets in motion the CD player downstairs with whatever is loaded up…
outside, the sky opens up like a weeping orphan in the back alley of heaven… cold, little spits of ice and hail… the caffeine is kicking in, I actually decide to scrub the upstair floors… but MUSIC.. . I need some music, some something, so the button is pushed, the CD kicks in somewhere down in the massive audio video center… oh, lord, deliver me something, I cant remember what CD is in there… “excitable boy.” yeppers, W arren Zevon pops up like an emotional ring master… ‘Get busy, you excitable boy…”
shuffling through the CD, the first comes up third, just like the fourth one came up first…
SPLENDID ISOLATION
I DON’T NEED NO ONE
SPLENDID ISOLATION
IM PUTTING TIN FOIL ON THE WINDOWS
LYING DOWN IN THE DARK TO DREAM
I DON’T WANT TO SEE THEIR FACES
I DON’T WANT TO HEAR THEM SCREAM
so, whoaaa… what is this mood? why this CD, why this song? this is not the sixties, or the seventies, this is the goddamned next frigging millennium, where all answers come faster than the speed of a printing press, faster than the scrip writers of CNN… this is the time when all knowledge is instant , when we drown in so much data that we scramble in the torrent, trying to grab a small tree trunk floating by, hoping it carries us to a life of greater simplicity… to crawl up on the dry sand of a shore on some deserted island… one without news, or computers, or instant knowledge of all things great and USELESS… just wanting the keyboard to write all of this down, cause that is the only way we can figure things out… writing in silence in a simple world, living a simpler life… ah, but the torrent drags us along as we dog paddle with nostrils barely above the mad waters filled with strange water creatures nibbling at our heals… jaheeeezus , where is that tree trunk that will carry us away from the swirl of everything the tidepools are filled with… crap, possessions, STUFF… the vortexes called JOB and CAREER that whip us around, pulling down to the tip of the inverse water tornado…
SEND LAWYERS, GUNS AND MONEY…
IM A DESPERATE MAN
SEND LAWYERS, GUNS AND MONEY
THE SHIT HAS HIT THE FAN
Go Warren, set this crazy tone for a crazy day that lets us drink away a Monday to honor the dead presidents… dark and stormy skies and dark and stormy edges of reality… how did Mr. Zevon end up in the player at the right time of the right day, and WHAT DOES ALL THIS MEAN, this excitable boy, this SPLENDID ISOLATION, the desperate cry for LAWYERS, GUNS AND MONEY???
well, by mid morning, the mopping is done, ZEVON is on repeat, and the fridge has NO FRIGGING BEER in it… just a sack full of frozen brownies… too early, not enough of a reason… but jeeeeeze, a beer on this cold, circling day still would be just about right…
well, fire up the internet, instead, and see who is doing what to someone else, and why this person or this group, or political party/system is rationalizing stupid, violent wars here and there…
but wait…
internet screen home page pops up
‘HUNTER THOMPSON.. SELF INFLICTED GUN SHOT… DEAD”
splendid isolation…
that is where it ends, you wild assed fucker??? WHAT KIND OF SHIT IS THIS, YOU SELF PITYING TRAITOR???? you, describing the indescribable world so wired that your fingers must have been the size of an overstuffed buon gusto sausage, chuncked up from writing a the speed of light..
AND YOU DIDN’T GIVE A SHIT IF IT WAS ABOUT THE HELL’S ANGELS OR HUBERT HUMPHREY… you always hit the sick nail on the head with your drug infested hammer…
WHACKWHACK WHACK… finally someone who could look at Nixon or Muskie or Sonny Barger and describe the weirdness with an avalanche of words… worlds fueled with hi octane rocket fuel for the brain… you never slowed down, you never failed to see the ugly, funhouse twisted truth in anything or everything… a sinking boat off the Hawaiian islands, a fat tire convertible speeding through the dessert wastelands of Nevada with enough funny stuff to land you in a dark, cold prison for … well, a whole lot of friggin years, I mean, so many years that THREE STRIKES inmates would pity you… enough drugs for a judge to say, “Well, Dr. Thompson, you are going to spend so much time in jail that you will meat the great grandson of your warden.. you will be there so long that we will have invented drugs that never let you die… we will give you what you always quested for… the eternal trip, the one that never ends, and you will know that you will always be there longer than Michael Jackson in the next cell.. you will be there so long that you will watch the medical staff bring in alien surgeons to the Jackson cell, surgeons who will transform him from the white woman he/she is into, well, I don’t know, Hunter, what would it be? would you be in jail so long that the medical profession could take Michel and change him into,,, WHAT, HUNTER???? some Asian hermaphrodite? a misshapen ape? maybe he will want to be a giraffe or a kangaroo… “just elongate my neck, , please.. and, oh yeah, can I have a pouch?”
yeah, Hunter, that la bamba convertible racing through the desert with enough jail time to see all that, that is what you had, that is what you did, and you DODGED the bullet… nothing like a whacked out loudmouth in Las Vegas to draw attention… so wild-assed, everyone must have figured it was a TV stunt… so you got away with that, and then you wrote about it, then you got a truck load of money, a crazy, on-call overweight Samoan lawyer, and the ability to buy a huge ranch in ASPEN and have enough money to buy enough arms, bazookas and assorted improvised explosive devices to supply an insurgent uprising in Colorado..
well, there you go… lawyers, guns and money… a freedom to take the written language into places where earthling have never imagined such wild things…
AND YOU GODDAMNED FUCKHEAD… you who mouthed off to the sheriffs as they raided your private ranch looking for something so terrible that they could silence your whacked out hallucinogenic outlook on almost everything… you drove yourself into this splendid isolation… well… you aren’t going to walk out with a whimper you little piss-ant… I need some fuel to deal with this..
and it is only noon………………………………………..
ok, a quick trip to the hardware store to order “stuff,” and next door to the grocery store for a case of beer… skies still oscillating between small patches of blue and black-gray downpours…
back at the bridge, a bit of salami and marinated mozzarella cheese, and a beer.. scanning the bookshelf, pulling off the shelf my copy of SONGS OF THE DOOMED…
pop……. first cold beer… but wait, there is a little voice coming from the freezer, the bottom shelf, way in the back, where the last of the batch of brownies is whispering… “psst.. let us out, let us share this experience with you… remember the white rabbit, the sign that said “EAT ME”
well, ok…
then it is time for the computer, another beer, and, well, what the heck, maybe one more as the brownies go “well, here we GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.”
then it is to the computer to try and capture the feeling of this.. well, what is it?
or, what are THEY?
a bunch of feelings… and a DOCTOR HUNTER S. THOMPSON attitude…
(wait… Mr.. Zevon is on replay.. time to switch, with limited options, because most of the CD’s are packed away…. so, lets see what we have to choose form.. oops. oh yeah,, PINK FLOYD…) yeppers, the pot bubbles, the ingredients are thrown in, the mozzarella, the beer, the salami, the brownies, the music, the earphones, the funeral skies that weep outside, and THAT GODDAMNED STICKMAN, that ferret on a chain, gnawing at the metal in a desperate bid for freedom, the master of all things, the word master, the attitude master who puts a gun to his own head…
shit, the superman of literature wilting away like a dog pissing on a toadstool in the blistering heat of a Nevada afternoon… so that’s it, you self indulgent funny house mirror, you and BRAUGHTIGAN… buying into the worthlessness of everything..
(oh, wait… I forgot to switch the CDs… but wait,,, the next one has Thompson’s name all over it):
POOR POOR PITIFUL ME
I’D LAID MY HEAD ON THE RAILROAD TRACKS
well, you pissed-on withering little toadstool, maybe you should have TRIED the railroad tracks..
“but the railroad don’t run no more.”
but no, you chose the “bullet special train,” the one that never stops running, the one that doesn’t give you the chance to wake up the next morning to sing along
OH OH PITIFUL ME
WELL, PINK FLOYD IS STILL SITTING ON THE SIDE..
TIME TO CHANGE RIGHT NOW
ONE OF THESE DAYS
TUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP
well, Dr. Thompson, maybe you should have listened to more Pink Floyd, maybe you should have had bigger speakers and fewer bazookas out at the ranch…. maybe you should have stayed with your fingers glued to the keyboard, maybe you should never have wandered away… MAYBE YOU SHOULD HAVE KEPT YOUR OBSESSION WITH GONZO JOURNALISM… but nooooooooooooooooooooooo, you had to sink into that dark hole of your soul where.. well, I guess you felt that infinite sadness, that thing so strong you felt compelled to just step over the edge into that dark, rancid swamp of fear called NOTHINGNESS… that was your fear, perhaps??? the fear of not trying that one, big irreversible journey? is that what this was all about?
SHIT!! I should have figured it out,,, this is some kind of paid writing assignment… ok, you phony little perverted religious hack.. that’s what it was, right, Dr. Thompson?.. which one was it? THE CATHOLIC TIDINGGS?? the MORMON GAZETTE? which magazine dangled a big fat ADVANCE and a guaranteed check for a story on…
THE AFTERLIFE, FROM THE FINGERS OF DR. HUNTER S. THOMPSON
there we, go, finally, after bouncing around the last 5 pages like a glob of silly putty in a defective bumper car…. this is it, the only way to explain your SAD-ASSED SELL OUT SUICIDE…
I mean, come on, Hunter, a stupid bullet through the head??? how creative, you brain-addled simpleton… if you take the assignment, if you are going to hook up your afterlife keyboard and transmit back and tell us about what it is REALLY like out there, if you decided to let your electric-shock fingers hot wire us the truth of the afterlife… if you really planned to tell us the answer to our ultimate, emotional question…… “does God prefer beer, wine, or a shot of whiskey.” well, if that is what you decided to do well then, for God’s sake, don’t forget (oh, wait, yeah, you already DID FORGET, you half-baked, half brained, half witted, half-a-loaf, half pint pin head, you forgot, THE JOURNEY IS HALF THE ANSWER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
remember in the sweltering sun of the Nevada Dessert with a couple of underage hitchhiking girls and a truck full of mental explosives??? well, HUNTER, think about it, THAT was one great part of the story, the trip to the desserts of Vegas to write about some pointless drunken road race through the cactus… it wasn’t the road race, now, was it, Dr, Thompson??? it was that screaming, out of control speed train through the rock and sand, the anticipation of, well, I’ll bet it was the anticipation that ANYTHING might happen on that chemical roller coaster you launched outside of Barstow… that was the trip to the destination, which is and was its own trip… cruising in the magic Cadillac, a fat pocket full of “advance payment” cash to write SOMETHING about some slot car race in the sand with 30,000 drunken spectators.. that is what you anticipated, in a fogged out sort of way, as you aimed that cruise-mobile into the heartland of America… LAS VEGAS… just like a one man grateful dead concert on the strip… a pallet of possibilities, virtually all of which should have earned you a GO TO JAIL.. GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL card… oh, the anticipation.. how long did it take for you to get from Barstow to Vegas??? about a hundred pages, about a thousand years????????????? and everything , all things great, small and twisted with a lemon lay before your eyes like the dessert bar at the end of an “all you can eat” buffet…. that is what stretched ahead of you… and before all that, there was the journey…
so what did you do for this assignment, the big 2005 assignment, the one where you got to plunge into the great unknown and tell us what heaven/nirvana/limbo/hell is like??? what was that journey like, what creative new vehicle did you pick?
A GODAMNED STUPID BULLET TO THE HEAD…. you dumb-fuck, that was as stupid as a car battery filled with nail polish… that was as pointless as your fat bank account and house payment… that was as creative as a K-mart shopping spree, that was as pathetic as a presidential debate… jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeezusHchrist, Hunter, a stupid-assed GUN??? why not a grenade shoved up your ass… how about a self -performed frontal lobotomy with complications??? how about being buried up to your neck in radioactive waste? how about having some earphones duct-taped to your ears with a layer of superglue, and being forced to listen to Jerry Fallwell attacking the little purple Teletubbie faggot promoting cartoons…
so don’t you get it, you rutting little rodent? you blew it BIG TIME… shitty little bullet to the head… so , lets say you decided it would be violent… you shoulda thought BIGGER… like a remote-launched SAM heat-seeking missile and you down-wind with a road flare stuck between your cheeks… with Ralph Steadman sitting under the pine trees, capturing the visual aspect of it all.. a big red, white and blue send off.. but NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOo… best you could come up with was a stupid GUN TO THE HEAD..
so, let me know what you found, but, really, you blew it BIG TIME…
lovingly,
your BIG TIME fan,
SPOOKYTRUTH
Comment by spookytruth — Tuesday, February 22, 2005 @ 8:39 pm