I am not the person to speak of his life, and death, for only Thomas Kalorama can pay the appropriate tribute on this site. However, I can't let the passing of HST go without a few words of my own.
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was a book I was terrified to read, for I feared the lure and temptation of ridiculous drugs. As my collegiate classmates joyously giggled and tried to re-create hilarious experiences they read about, I saw Hunter S. Thompson as an evil miscreant hell bent on fucking up a generation. I knew drugs were evil, because I had spent a night listening to my parents arguing about who's fault it was that I was dead. I thought both were partially to blame, they both made good arguments, and I ruled a tie. After I had accepted that I was dead, I then realized I wasn't. A knock at the door, an inquiry into my health, holy shit, I'm not dead. Closed the door, holy fuck, I'm alive, and then I had to listen to the ridicule of an invisible audience laughing at me for falling for the gag. And that was only on PCP laced dope when I was 19.
So, I swore off drugs, except booze, and avoided the writings of the great Doctor. Until 7 years later, in 1992, when I read "Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail". I longed for someone to cover the 1992 campaign with such verve. I desired myself to be that person, if HST wasn't up for it. But surely he was. The book would be coming. I, of course, did nothing.
In anticipation of the book I knew had to be forthcoming, I started consuming HST literature like a starved rat. Hell's Angels, yeah sure. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I think I can handle it now. I was so jazzed for the Clinton book, I was almost insane.
Finally came Better than Sex, which was good, I still have it, I will read it again in memorium. But it was no Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail. Whether he had become lazy or marginalized is up for debate, but I suspect he became lazy and had begun to lose his edge.
Afterwards, I read "The Proud Highway", which really let you into his soul. Shortly after that I read The Rum Diaries, where he gave novel writing the good college try. I went back into time and read "The Curse of Lono" which was a wonderful mix of published articles and unpublished nonsense that made you not only long for Hawaii, but also made you deathly afraid of Somoans. But nothing, for my money, compared to Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail.
The Johnny Depp film in '98 was horrible. Depp portrayed him as a stumbling, mumbling, barely audible bum. To his devotees, he was crystal fucking clear, loud as a church bell, screaming his opinions. Yeah, I dig the drug thing, but Dr. Thompson mumbling through 2 hours ain't what fear and loathing in las vegas was all about. Shoulda figured out a way to hear his brain.
In 2000, ESPN.com announced a page 2, and HST was a featured contributor. And he did a better than decent job meeting his deadlines. I read it religiously, but I also notice that it declined in prominence. From Page 2 major headline, to Page 2 side board, to Page 2, gotta search long and hard to find it. He had lost his luster, and perhaps he had lost a forum.
I won't speculate on why he killed himself, we all have lots of potential demons, some we can never face. There are horrifying circumstances that each of us can conjure up that could drive us to the same place. Some our own doing, some are the result of fate and negligence, but we can all see a situation where the future ain't worth strugglling toward. But most of us will. We'll be strong, and endure. But we'll be tempted....
Whatever it was, the Good Doctor couldn't figure out a better deal than consciously experiencing death. Just like a gram of mescaline, twenty downers, and a bottle tequila, he injested death, and waited for its aftertaste.
Mahalo
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Goat Cheese
I am disturbed by Goat Cheese. Not because it's awful, it's not, but because it makes me wonder how we figured out goat cheese was a marketable, edible product, and other mammal's milk by-products were not.
There are all kinds of other mammals, all producing milk, and I assume, this milk is capable of being turned into a cheese. How did we figure out the goat was the great cow alternative? Who picked the cow, for that matter?
I shudder to think of the testing. Rat cheese? Tastes too much like the plague. Dog cheese? Will make you lick your balls. What about whale or dolphin cheese? Too much salt. Have we ever made or tested human cheese, or is that too creepy? Someone somewhere has made human cheese, and has tasted it. I want to know the results of that project or experiment. Have we ever compared Swiss Cheese to Swede Cheese? I need an answer to this question.
In the mean time, I'll stick to garlic and onions and cow cheese on my pizza. Unless pig cheese tastes like spicy sausage. Then I'm all over that.
There are all kinds of other mammals, all producing milk, and I assume, this milk is capable of being turned into a cheese. How did we figure out the goat was the great cow alternative? Who picked the cow, for that matter?
I shudder to think of the testing. Rat cheese? Tastes too much like the plague. Dog cheese? Will make you lick your balls. What about whale or dolphin cheese? Too much salt. Have we ever made or tested human cheese, or is that too creepy? Someone somewhere has made human cheese, and has tasted it. I want to know the results of that project or experiment. Have we ever compared Swiss Cheese to Swede Cheese? I need an answer to this question.
In the mean time, I'll stick to garlic and onions and cow cheese on my pizza. Unless pig cheese tastes like spicy sausage. Then I'm all over that.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Super Bowl XXXIX
Well by now you know of the New England Patriot's dynasty establishing 24-21 victory over the Philadelphia Eagles in Super Bowl 39. Hopefully what is not lost in the story is the heroism of Terrell Owens, and the stupidity of Super Bowl parties.
Owens, the Eagles receiver who broke his ankle 7 weeks ago, caught 9 passes for 122 yards, a huge game for someone who critics were calling an ego-maniacal distraction five days ago. And because I watched the game at a very large gathering, I missed the gags on most, if not all, of the commercials.
First to Owens. I like the dude. I have never been one to shy away from showtime. I thought the Randy Moss thing, mooning the Packer fans after the TD catch in response to the many moonings the Vikings had received on the bus after Lambeau Field losses - that was fucking brilliant. T.O. got what he deserved when he tried to celebrate on the Cowboy's 50-yard line, but the pom-pom routine and the sharpie gag - priceless. So, I was hoping he would be a factor tonight, and thankfully he was.
Unfortunately, his quarterback, Donovan McNabb, must face another season of bullshit from the redneck nation that believes (thanks to right-wing pigfucker Rush Limbaugh) a black man can't quarterback an NFL team. Believe you me, the red states were rooting for the blond haired blue-eyed Tom Brady, while the blue states were pulling for McNabb. He made some ill-advised throws tonight, for sure, but his brilliance was immortalized with that 10 yard thread the needle pass to Westbrook for a 3rd quarter TD. In the end, he came up short, but hopefully he came up short in the vein of "too bad someone had to lose" rather than the redneck agenda's "stupid nigger ain't goin' to win no Super Bowl". Not trying to be controversial, but I grew up in the south, and I know people that still think that way. Sorry.
Back to the party. There is so much food that we shouldn't eat, and booze that we shouldn't drink, but we do. And it forces us to pay less attention to the game than we normally would, and less attention to the ads than we probably should, so what's the point?
I have hosted Super Bowl parties in the past, without contemplation of these great questions. But I always tried to make sure that the serious TV viewing room was scarce with smalltalk and loud with TV volume. So perhaps I was simply a victim of a too big of a party thrown by an amateur football fan that didn't have his shit together. Or maybe I am getting old and crumudgeonly, and will never be satisfied with watching a Super Bowl anywhere but my own chair. Who knows, we'll find out in the years ahead, but for me, this year's Super Bowl experience, despite a B-plus game, only rates a C-minus.
And next year, watch out for my Buccaneers, bitch.
Owens, the Eagles receiver who broke his ankle 7 weeks ago, caught 9 passes for 122 yards, a huge game for someone who critics were calling an ego-maniacal distraction five days ago. And because I watched the game at a very large gathering, I missed the gags on most, if not all, of the commercials.
First to Owens. I like the dude. I have never been one to shy away from showtime. I thought the Randy Moss thing, mooning the Packer fans after the TD catch in response to the many moonings the Vikings had received on the bus after Lambeau Field losses - that was fucking brilliant. T.O. got what he deserved when he tried to celebrate on the Cowboy's 50-yard line, but the pom-pom routine and the sharpie gag - priceless. So, I was hoping he would be a factor tonight, and thankfully he was.
Unfortunately, his quarterback, Donovan McNabb, must face another season of bullshit from the redneck nation that believes (thanks to right-wing pigfucker Rush Limbaugh) a black man can't quarterback an NFL team. Believe you me, the red states were rooting for the blond haired blue-eyed Tom Brady, while the blue states were pulling for McNabb. He made some ill-advised throws tonight, for sure, but his brilliance was immortalized with that 10 yard thread the needle pass to Westbrook for a 3rd quarter TD. In the end, he came up short, but hopefully he came up short in the vein of "too bad someone had to lose" rather than the redneck agenda's "stupid nigger ain't goin' to win no Super Bowl". Not trying to be controversial, but I grew up in the south, and I know people that still think that way. Sorry.
Back to the party. There is so much food that we shouldn't eat, and booze that we shouldn't drink, but we do. And it forces us to pay less attention to the game than we normally would, and less attention to the ads than we probably should, so what's the point?
I have hosted Super Bowl parties in the past, without contemplation of these great questions. But I always tried to make sure that the serious TV viewing room was scarce with smalltalk and loud with TV volume. So perhaps I was simply a victim of a too big of a party thrown by an amateur football fan that didn't have his shit together. Or maybe I am getting old and crumudgeonly, and will never be satisfied with watching a Super Bowl anywhere but my own chair. Who knows, we'll find out in the years ahead, but for me, this year's Super Bowl experience, despite a B-plus game, only rates a C-minus.
And next year, watch out for my Buccaneers, bitch.
Friday, February 04, 2005
The Inauguration Of George W. Bush (Part II) Requiem
It's 8AM Jan 20th, and I got drunk the night before, and got on the metro with a shaky sense of unreal. Here we go, nobody's going to stop this, dammit, but maybe they still will. The days leading up to the inaugural created the same feeling you get when you watch a historical documentary of a World Series where your team lost. Maybe Torre will play the infield back this time, maybe Lonnie Smith will hold at third this time. Maybe someone in Ohio will find 140,000 uncounted Kerry votes in a Cleveland bus station, or in a Toledo whorehouse, and Renquist will say "Not So Fast, Buster". But I had my ticket, and was ready to rock either way.
Stopped for breakfast before heading to work, there was much work to be done. Great breakfast, excellent crowd, seemed to favor the left and the mimosas. But there was work to be done. So I went to work.
Upon completing the work, I returned to the place of breakfast, and resumed the consumption of mango mimosas. Yeah, that's right, I said mango. Mango because I am a 38 year old man with a hangover, and I will not be a prisoner of the heartburn wrought by the satanic oranges produced by the President's brother. If ever there was an over-rated fruit, it's the fucking orange. There's no way to eat it elegantly. Pulp and sticky are everywhere, it's as acidic as a car battery. Someone in Florida had a friend at the FDA when they rated oranges healthy. Cats have short digestive tracks, and they eat complex meat compounds, so cat shit is actually high in protein. I'm convinced that if the guys behind the "orange is health food" campaign had nothing but barren fields of kitty litter to mine, we'd be eating cat shit pancakes for protein every morning. But the evil of oranges isn't the point of this story.
I had 2 tickets, so I grabbed an interesting stranger who seemed to be alone and asked whether he'd like to watch the event. There was a giant crush of people without tickets, just trying to move along. The secret service was securing the area ahead of the area that had to be secured, so we got screwed. We had tickets, but we had to wait with the commonfolk to pass through security so we could pass through additional security to use our tickets. By the time we negotiated the first wave of security, Bush had laid down his gauntlet against the world, so we headed for protest central with extra vinegar in our piss.
There is no way I can do justice to the pains the DC Metropolitan Police Department, and the US Capitol Police took to ensure the protesters had a prime spot. If you read or believe that protesters got shafted, that's bullshit. There was a stage 40 feet from the parade route where speaker after speaker came up and railed against the evils of this administration. There was about an acre of standing room to observe the stage. There also was a gigantic bleacher seat structure which was filled with old people who were obviously expecting to die within the next four years, and their signs all implied that America's vote had fucked them out of eternal peace. That was a little creepy.
Even more creepy was sitting in a bar, watching soundless news coverage, and seeing myself on the TV. Holy shit, that's me. That seems like 10 minutes ago, but it was hours ago. Let's get away from the TV and go to a quieter venue. We'll talk of mores, and rules, and exceptions. And when it's time for the cab, we'll forget what we did with our keys. And we'll forget almost everything else.
Despite the forgetfulness, it was one of the finest days I have ever had.
Go figure.
Stopped for breakfast before heading to work, there was much work to be done. Great breakfast, excellent crowd, seemed to favor the left and the mimosas. But there was work to be done. So I went to work.
Upon completing the work, I returned to the place of breakfast, and resumed the consumption of mango mimosas. Yeah, that's right, I said mango. Mango because I am a 38 year old man with a hangover, and I will not be a prisoner of the heartburn wrought by the satanic oranges produced by the President's brother. If ever there was an over-rated fruit, it's the fucking orange. There's no way to eat it elegantly. Pulp and sticky are everywhere, it's as acidic as a car battery. Someone in Florida had a friend at the FDA when they rated oranges healthy. Cats have short digestive tracks, and they eat complex meat compounds, so cat shit is actually high in protein. I'm convinced that if the guys behind the "orange is health food" campaign had nothing but barren fields of kitty litter to mine, we'd be eating cat shit pancakes for protein every morning. But the evil of oranges isn't the point of this story.
I had 2 tickets, so I grabbed an interesting stranger who seemed to be alone and asked whether he'd like to watch the event. There was a giant crush of people without tickets, just trying to move along. The secret service was securing the area ahead of the area that had to be secured, so we got screwed. We had tickets, but we had to wait with the commonfolk to pass through security so we could pass through additional security to use our tickets. By the time we negotiated the first wave of security, Bush had laid down his gauntlet against the world, so we headed for protest central with extra vinegar in our piss.
There is no way I can do justice to the pains the DC Metropolitan Police Department, and the US Capitol Police took to ensure the protesters had a prime spot. If you read or believe that protesters got shafted, that's bullshit. There was a stage 40 feet from the parade route where speaker after speaker came up and railed against the evils of this administration. There was about an acre of standing room to observe the stage. There also was a gigantic bleacher seat structure which was filled with old people who were obviously expecting to die within the next four years, and their signs all implied that America's vote had fucked them out of eternal peace. That was a little creepy.
Even more creepy was sitting in a bar, watching soundless news coverage, and seeing myself on the TV. Holy shit, that's me. That seems like 10 minutes ago, but it was hours ago. Let's get away from the TV and go to a quieter venue. We'll talk of mores, and rules, and exceptions. And when it's time for the cab, we'll forget what we did with our keys. And we'll forget almost everything else.
Despite the forgetfulness, it was one of the finest days I have ever had.
Go figure.
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