It had nothing to do with drugs, the F word or being cool, and everything to do with the fact that Thompson never lost his sense of appropriate outrage, never fell into the trap of accepting that moral compromise was somehow a sign of growth and adulthood.
-Matt Taibbi’s Introduction to the 40th Anniversary Edition of Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72 by Hunter S. Thompson
Nothing on climate change, nothing on poverty, nothing on ending the war in Afghanistan, nothing on banks, on housing, on education, on campaign finance, health care, racial injustice….
–Jeffrey St Clair on the Presidential Debates on Wednesday
Welcome back motherfucker. ‘Tis I, the bitter and grizzled one. I’m siting here sipping iced coffee with a bum leg-amidst piles of poetry, calendars, lists, and Hunter Thompson books. I just finished Generation of Swine this week and I’m a quarter into Fear And Loathing On The Campaign Trail ’72. I have a lot to say about the good Doctor and his eviscerating view of politics in this country but not a damn thing to say about what’s been going down on just about every TV set in the country last night. To the disappointment and chagrin of every hard working and earnest participant in this thing we call democracy I am not voting on November 8. That’s about all I have to say about it. One less voice oughtn’t tip the scales, right Brother? The way some of you are carrying on, my silence can only improve the landscape, or at least afford me the peace of mind to get these 600 words written and posted up for you, good reader.
The psoas is cranked tight. 11 days on shift with an anger problem has fucked me, Pilgrim. I take hot baths and do what Yoga I can. That, and sessions with the lovely Cecily, coupled with long bouts on my back has been the sum total of my time off so far. I stepped out to see Turning Tricks With The Darlings chop a man’s dick off onstage last night at Bedpost Confessions; and with these scant hours before my Third Thursday at House Wine tonight, I’ll try and get to the kernel of it. The Wisdom, as Dr. Thompson has eloquently referred to it. The reason, the meaning, the gist and the thrust-the why if not the how.
Truth is I can’t tell you nothin, man. I mean I just spent 296 words telling you how I’m gonna come through with 300 more, and that they will have weight and discern some meaning from the spinning circus of birth and death we are all caught up in. And just as I set that up and build enough tension and thrust around the thing, I tell you I’ve got nothing. That I’m laid up in between gigs and the day job with a bum leg and an anger problem. That I couldn’t give less of a fuck about the dog and pony of Presidential politics, I’m behind deadline on the next book-I should’ve been in Portland by now, and without drugs or alcohol, without the cigarette I need so fucking bad right now, the only thing I can do is write to you.
Oh but what a blessing, eh Sister? That what’s wrong with me is what’s right with me. That anger and anxiety, lust and greed and spiritual poverty-this is what spins the wheel of dharma round. That I’m totally gone and halfway to nowhere. I don’t mind standing at the back of the theater, dressed in black and sipping seltzer, laughing at Nikki DeVaughn. That I’m the King of Irish Goodbyes and I don’t mind being alone for long periods of time. I’m a freak and you’re a freak and we’re all freaks in this Circus-except for the squares, who ain’t right, at all. In a geeked out way I feel I’m really coming into my own. I feel like I’m gonna wanna be sober for what comes next. Life is the strangest trip and I don’t want to miss a thing. The dark can take its turns, the job can take its pound of flesh. And the TVs can blare blue light into every house and home as the Autumn rages on-and our days dwindle and we find what little love there is in these waning hours and dare to give of it and make it last.
And that’s all it is. This blog. You, me. This thing we got. A torch. Thank you for burning yours back at me. See you next Thursday motherfucker.
Trainer, Going For The Throat
-Brother Chris, from out on the road somewhere in the Pacific Northwest