Desperate Southern Gentleman

History is hard to know, because of all of the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of "history it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time - and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened. My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights - or very early mornings - when I left the Fillmore half - crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lighting across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L.L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder's jacket.. booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite surre which turn - off to take when I go to the other end ( always stalling at the toll gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change)… but bring absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that.. There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate, or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda.... You could strike sparks anywhere.

Hunter S. Thompson

    -Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey Into the Heart of the American Dream

I love Hunter S Thompson's work. One of the few examples of a genuine human being that we have out here. Retyping his work, I could tell that he wasn't really a heavy hitter. If you could compare wordsmithing to boxing, then every good wordsmith would have their own rhythm to their punches, their own flow, their own unique brand of Power. I can tell by Mr. Thompson's work that he is not a heavyweight fighter, pulling out elaborate filigree's of dense prose and heavy pictures. No, he was a lightweight, using his agility to put the hooks home, and he always made sure that the person going toe to toe with this Neolithic fly-swatter, was never in control. He is light on his feet as a writer, a real mercurial force pile-driving through his shattered enigmas of the disillusioned American dream armed with nothing but grit, guts, and pure Gonzo journalism.

His punchlines come and go faster than a cocaine trip from a habitual snorter, they always stop you dead in your tracks for their absurdity - but you know, I know, and every homosapien who has ever read hunter s Thompson knows that there is an unverifiable truth backing every piece of prose ever produced from that desperate sonofabitch.

There is no need to discern fact from fiction when reading Hunter's works. The beauty of it all is that, no matter how ludicrous the statement, there is an inane sigh of relief attached to whatever is said. There is two parts to the ridiculous nature of Hunter's works: the first being that his imagination was so strong, the pictures were so clear, consise, no fluff, no guff, just the tuff stuff, that of course! Of course I can believe that Dr. Gonzo is real! Of Course I can live the life of a drug-addled, psychotic, cream of the national sporting press, and his Hackensackically happenstansical, dementedly possessed, attorney who also plays the voice of reason as a side hustle.

We can't talk about the ridiculousness of Hunter's work without talking about this one fundamental fact, he makes light of our darkness. He says all the things we want to say, does all the things we think about, don't like to think about, or have never even thought was possible. It's like FINAALLLY, SOMEBODY AS FUCKED UP IN THE HEAD AS I AM. Now we can discredit people who actively use drugs, but I promise you that whatever they find beyond the threshold is of value. I believe that people who actively participate in drugs are the most selfish bastards in the world, but they are so entrenched in their convictionsto find whatever they so stark-ravingly need, that they are willing to sacrifice reality itself in order to do so. Hunter called himself a roadman to the hall of karma. Calling Hunter a roadman to karma is the most apt description he could have ever given himself. A Roadman, for he lived quite the parapetetic lifestyle, he has to be a sagg. Let me look it up really quicksies, ….nope he was the scum of the earth, a fucking cancer. As in the zodiac, and the terminal illness.

You can tell through his writings how much he was on the move. No need to stop anywhere for too long, don't get too attached, don't make too many memories, because you never know when the duty calls and times change. Or idk, im talking out of my ass at this point, but the point is this post is a mini tribute to a guy that I could tolerate if he and I were in the same room (that list grows shorter by the day), and a writer that has put a little toke of a flame underneath me.