graceland's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Rest in Chaos, Doctor I think I may have fallen for the Monster. He stayed at my place on Saturday night, if you can call me passed out him on my couch in the morning, sleeping over. We sat around and talked before he had to leave to meet his friends that afternoon and when he left, I realized that I didn't want him to leave. I liked waking up with him. I liked laying around with him. And when he left, something was definitely missing. I missed him. I'm not sure what I'm going to do about this, but something will definitely have to be done. I want to be with him. This is my favorite excerpt from his obit in today's NYT: "It was not enough for him to journey south to Cozumel off the Yucat�n Peninsula to write about rich white men hunting sharks; he also had to retrieve 50 doses of MDA, a drug he was fond of, that he had stashed in the shark pool of the aquarium the last time he was on the island." To me, Hunter Thompson was what reporting and writing is all about: excitment. He was capable of injecting an explosive dynamic into the most mundane assignments, frequently at the cost of his own life. Call it gonzo, call it lunacy, what the Good Doctor did was "make" a story. Today in a world filled with "spin" and carefully calculated stories that too often are run through copywriters and media legal departments for Machevellian fear of litigation, very few writers have the power, influence and balls to do what Thompson did. Maybe Thompson knew something that none of us are willing to recognize - that our society has been whitewashed into a state of sterile subjectivity to the ruling majority. That we have rendered ourselves powerless, cut off our own testicles and allowed the ruling elite in this country to swab our genital mutilation. Or perhaps, like so many others, he just loathed the outcome of a Superbowl that should have featured his beloved Colts and my Eagles. Either way, today the world suffers a great loss as clay pigeons are collectively relieved. If I had a 12 gauge, Doctor, I'd shoot it into the sky tonight as a salute to you. And if I had some dope, I'd shoot that too. Rest in chaos, dear mentor, just as you lived. May the afterlife be better than the ether you loved so much. 8:52 p.m. - 2005-02-22 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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