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You need no ticket to make a place for yourself here where humor, black and otherwise, comes to you from the stage where the human comedy itself is being played, its performance trumping the things dark and tragic and found in the world of literature.
Friday, August 12, 2005
 
Hunter S. Thompson...

I'm trying to wrangle an invitation to the Woody Creek memorial to HST.

The ULA has a lot of his spirit within it: we're sort of next generation gonzos and one of us should be there to contribute a reading in the spirit of...

And I've got the perfect musical interlude to hit the perfect note in what will be a sad, but transcendent day.
 
Comments:
Gonzo is fun putz us right on the side of chaos and the shtick (various institutions, world agendas, and most of all the moment by moment play action of the various legends in their own minds). The great contribution overall of HT is that the gonzo journaliste does have to follow some ridiculous commandment of objectivity and "distance" to witness and observe things as they unfold but participants and embraces the juice and irony of the world as it happpens. My best wishes JD in your plan to get close and personal with HST's memorial! Keep us informed. Thompson was a sage and great sacred clown in my book. Speaking of which have you read my two contributions to Karl's Literary Fan Zeen #1 & #2? I'd like to imagine their fairly decent attempts at the ol' gonzo take.
Otherwise I'm glad I'm finally perusing your blogs!

Without A Doubt Until The Hangover
The MP
 
OOps! I meant "doesn't have to follow..." and I mean it for what it's worth.



I’m ruminating outta gauss
of what is this made up city of?
Feedback loops, two dimensional
frequently three dimensional
rarely four, decoupage
chasing its tails, pointless noise
peaked from hard parts rubbing
together that confronted with a
proper drum beat dissolves
back into Styrofoam peanuts,
intellectual hatred which the bard
of the Celtic Twilight tells of
being the worse and more, much more
like straw dogs lobbed into a bonfire.

8.2.05
 
Well, they did not take the bait, and I never made it to the memorial of the great literary shark, Hunter. Perhaps it was because I wasn't his chum, or that my line (about his spirit being found in many a ULA'er) wasn't strong enough, or perhaps the idea just sank to the bottom of this cyber-ocean and I can't carry on this stupid fishing metaphor any longer, but thanks for the post and the poem.

At least I got a picture up, so we can all see HST making an ash of himself one last time. Now, I must be gone (zoed).
 
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