Kingdom of Fear (and Mourning)

[anastasiav]

"We have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of the whole world--a nation of bullies and bastards who would rather kill than live peacefully. We are not just Whores for power and oil, but killer whores with hate and fear in our hearts. We are human scum, and that is how history will judge us....No redeeming social value. Just whores. Get out of our way, or we'll kill you.

Well, shit on that dumbness. George W. Bush does not speak for me or my son or my mother or my friends or the people I respect in this world. We didn't vote for these cheap, greedy little killers speak for America today--and we will not vote for them again in 2002. Or 2004. Or ever.

Who does vote for these dishonest shitheads? Who among us can be happy and proud of having all this innocent blood on our hands? Who are these swine? These flag-sucking half-wits who get fleeced and fooled by stupid little rich kids like George Bush?

They are same ones who wanted to have Muhammad Ali locked up for refusing to kill gooks. They speak for all that is cruel and stupid and vicious in the American Character. They are the racists and hate mongers among us--they are the Ku Klux Klan. I piss down the throats of these Nazis.

And I am too old to worry about whether they like it or not. Fuck them.

-Hunter S. Thompson
Kingdom of Fear, 2002

Its snowing here. The sky is gray and bleak and what light is coming in through the windows has a flatness, a quality to it that says "This is the day I've given you. Take it or leave it." This seems like a turning point, though I can't quite put my finger on why. The world is smaller, weaker, saner, less truthful, scarier, calmer, greener and more terrifying. We are on a bus tour in Hell and the guide has mysteriously left us.

I had big plans for the day. Things I was going to do. Straighten. Neaten. Clean. Sort. Those things seem random and slightly meaningless now. The busy work of the suburban life. The things we do to bring order to our spaces, so we can ignore the fact that what we really yearn for is chaos, adventure, disorder, anarchy.

These are my icons who are gone: Lennon (murder) Ginsberg (cancer) Hoffman (suicide) Strummer (heart attack) Vicious (overdose) Henson (pneumonia) Wellstone (plane crash) Gray (suicide) Thompson (suicide)

Someone on the internet wrote "And now is not the time to be idle, now is the time to realize that this he is gone because he could no longer help us, and it's time to fucking help ourselves."

Comments

[goldsquare.livejournal.com]

I used to read a lot of Hunter Thompson's work. And, once upon an ancient time, I went to hear him speak at the Miami International Book Fair. I dragged a bunch of people with me, and they all wanted to leave after 10 minutes. But unlike them, I listened to Hunter Thompson that day.

I re-interpreted him completely after that.

This ragingly infantile goon had, by some mistaken catalog error of the universe, held within his puny frame two things - unbridled hatred and loathing for the world around him and himself, and a writing talent so amped with power and essence that despite his best efforts to deny it and damage it, it could not be stopped.

It became clarion-clear to me that Hunter Thompson, when he could no longer handle being himself, would cowardly do himself in. And he did. His talent is no longer bound to him, and he no longer troubles us.

He, like so many before him, was too frail and selfish a vessel for what he could do. Goodbye Hunter, you weak and failing man. Thanks for letting your talent appear. You were a terrible custodian of it.

[bubbette.livejournal.com]

Sorry, but one quote came to mind...

"Jimi Hendrix...deceased...drugs.
Janis Joplin...deceased...alcohol.
Mama Cass...deceased...ham sandwich."

Thompson lived his life on his own terms, and took himself out when he was done. Hopefully he found his own peace.