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It's Dr. Hunter S. Thompson's 76th birthday.

July 18th, 2013 by

take the ride

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson would have been 76 today.

In his honor, as is tradition, here are birthday words from Mr. Drew McKinney:

Has it been a year already? Of course it has, I can tell by simply gazing at a mirror. The hairline has, impossibly, receded even further back on my skull in a grand attempt to meet my neck. What little hair remains is a bit grayer, the creases in my face are a bit deeper, and the joints in my body make a bit more noise. And so much for aging gracefully. They lied to us about that part but what are we going to do about it? Those liars are already dead or dying and the energy we have left is better spent thinking about our own inevitable demise.

This time last year I was in the sticks of Georgia, sweltering in near triple-digit heat, watching the wells evaporate dry and wondering when it would all come to a fiery end as we inched our way to glorious spontaneous combustion. That fire never came though, we got through it and somehow between then and now I made my back to my favorite city, that fair maiden of the West, my old lover, San Francisco. The hellfire of Georgia has been replaced with a blanket of cold mist and I sit with a mug of green tea, bundled up in more layers than I have bones, contemplating the merits of powering up the space heater. Whatever happened to the July of my childhood?

318 Parnassus Avenue

318 Parnassus

San Francisco is an amazing city. It is somehow both inspiring and unpleasant, a place where the rich get richer and the dreams of peasants get crushed under thousand-dollar designer boots. The working class can no longer afford to live here and must be shuttled in by crowded bus or train to beg for pennies or the dregs of someone's Soy Latte. And yet... we all scratch and claw and bite and curse to stay here so there must be something about it.

The Good Doctor spent a fair amount of time here. His residence at 318 Parnassus isn't that far from where I am now and rumor has it that if you look closely you can still make out where the bullet holes were patched. From drunk stumbling in Haight Ashbury to drunk dancing in the Marina to drunk drinking South Of Market, Hunter had this town wired. He was equally at home writing in the offices of Rolling Stone or "managing" a gritty sex theater in the Tenderloin or partying with Hells Angels in Potrero Hill. It's said that Hunter knew the location of every motel ice machine in the city, the better to make his famous Chivas snowcones with, and I choose to believe it. The stories those ice machines must have.

Oh to have been in San Francisco during that time and with that man. I can totally imagine what it was like... roaring down Geary Boulevard to Point Lobos Avenue in a car with the top down, cold beers comfortably nestled between thighs, the remnants of a joint dangling from the ashtray, rock music blaring into the night. The ocean would come into view and Hunter would smile, flick his eyes to make sure I was cool with this and then he would floor the accelerator and we would be airborne, soaring through the air silent and weightless, flying off the cliff until we landed with a crashing thud on the beach below. He'd drain his beer and toss it into the waves, grab another from the six-pack and pop it open. "See," he would say, "nothing to worry about."

Happy Birthday, Doc.

take the ride

HST in the car via Aspen Post. 318 Parnassus photo via psychedelicsister.blogspot.com. Thank you, Drew. Thank you, Hunter.

Never Again In All Likihood. [What Day Is It?]

December 12th, 2012 by

Do you know what today is?

December 12, 2012. Yes, 12/12/12.

Neat.

Meanwhile in Turlock

Via Google image search: "Meanwhile, in Turlock..."

I likely won't see the next 12/12/12. No biggie. Once in a lifetime, eh? It's like a comet passing by. So this is me waving as it goes past.

Hi comet, it's nice to see you. Pretty cool. OK, bye.

It's Dr. Hunter S. Thompson's 75th birthday.

July 18th, 2012 by

Hunter S. Thompson, circa 1960

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson would have been 75 today.

In his honor, here are birthday words from Mr. Drew McKinney:

THIS WILL IDENTIFY HUNTER THOMPSONHunter Stockton Thompson was born seventy-five years ago in Louisville, Kentucky.

I wasn’t there that day but I have no doubt that it was miserable -- the air hot, humid, and thick with fifty different species of mosquitoes. There could be no other way to welcome the cranky Good Doctor to the planet that would trap him for nearly seventy years before he took it upon himself to leave and explore the cosmos.

But we’re not here to dredge up painful memories or mourn the passing of a great man, no, we’re here to celebrate a Rocket that burned powerful and bright and ignited the world with his white phosphorus afterglow.

I’m sitting on a front porch in rural Georgia and I can’t help but think that this is what it must have been like when Hunter was born. It’s not even eleven o’clock in the morning and the temperature is already at an oppressive ninety-seven degrees, sure to rise another ten or twelve or fifteen degrees more before the day is done. The humidity is intolerable and sits on my chest like a drunken Lady Wrestler, chafing the skin and causing the hair to grow inward and down where it will fester and poison the blood.

Bourbon is the only thing that saves in times like these. It’s too fucking hot for bourbon, yet here I sit, gulping Wild Turkey 101 like a fish gulps water. I have to, though, because of Tradition. It’s My Way and the only way I know so I keep at it, year after year, drinking a bottle of The Dirty Bird to celebrate the birthdate of that mean S.O.B. Thompson. In the years following his death my Tradition often tastes like a bitter, jagged pill that cuts all the way to the core before tearing a new asshole as it makes its way out and Beyond. But still, we do what we must and we suck it up and keep our mouths shut.

I don’t even know if the Good Doctor drank bourbon on a regular basis. Many accounts I’ve read of him suggest that he had a penchant for colorful girly drinks that contained rum and umbrellas and pieces of fruit. And so what? The man was from Kentucky -- bourbon country if there ever was one, and in my mind that makes him a bourbon drinker by default.

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson and a bottle of Wild TurkeyA birthday in America is traditionally celebrated with friends and gifts and cake but I fantasize that Hunter would have no part of that, preferring instead to pour a glass of liquor and maybe go outside and shoot something or blow some shit up and finish the day with a nice cut of beef or perhaps the heart of a bear.

I’m close to that, really close. I’m sipping straight from the bottle because I can’t stand dirtying a glass when the liquor comes in its own, and I have a .22 Long Rifle instead of heavy-duty firepower that Thompson was known for, and I don’t have any beef or hearts immediately available but I do have a ham sandwich. Sit, sip, shoot, nibble. The sitting and sipping and nibbling are easy but the shooting is something I’m not entirely used to, being a pacifist sissy City Boy and all that. So instead of taking potshots at the squirrels and foxes and lizards that seem to rule this part of the country I go for pine trees. Bang, take that you useless fucker! As far as trees go I find pine to be utterly worthless and have zero problems pumping them full of hot lead. The Doc would be proud of the War Cry that escapes from my throat every time I’m actually able to hit one, my aim being one of my truly horrible qualities that shouldn’t be discussed while in Polite Company.

And so we sit and eat ham and drink bourbon and shoot trees. Pretty tame compared to what Hunter would get himself up to but it’s what I have so Carpe Diem and all that. Happy Birthday, you weird Fucker, thanks for the inspiration and good times. We’ll do this again next year.

Young HST photo via wallofpaul.com. HST press badge photo via thethoughtexperiment.wordpress.com. HST + Wild Turkey via nomeatballs.wordpress.com. Thank you, Drew. Thank you, Scott. Thank you, Hunter.

This feels like home to me.

March 29th, 2012 by

Home is where I want to be.

I feel like I know this place, that I've been here before.

No reason.

February 20th, 2012 by
I see no reason to fight when we can stand around and talk, really.

"I see no reason to fight when we can stand around and talk, really."

[Via Warren Ellis' ubergrid.tumblr.com via milonogiannis.tumblr.com.]

Hard Work Pays Off

December 9th, 2011 by

Keep working, keep focused, and you can accomplish what you set out to do.

Proof:

Make that moon.

So, yeah. Keep on going. You can do it.

(Via Black Bunneh Sees via design-thinking.jp.)

11-11-11 [Fuck You Friday]

November 11th, 2011 by

It's a Fuck You Friday.This is pretty cool.

Days like today don't come along very often.

It's a Friday.

A Friday.

And that means it's a Fuck You Friday.

Right now as this post is published, it is November 11, 2011 at 11:11 AM PST.

11-11-11, 11:11 AM.

Awesome.

And fuck you.

"I'll love you until the end of the world."

September 19th, 2011 by

Bruce Timm's take on Jesse Custer and Tulip O'Hare from Preacher.

For The Bunyip as she crosses through book three once more, Jesse Custer and Tulip from Preacher as rendered by the mighty Bruce Timm.

(Via comicartappreciation.tumblr.com.)

Fuck you, I'm a wizard. [Fuck You Friday]

September 2nd, 2011 by

It's a Fuck You Friday.Friday.

Friday, Friday, Friday.

It's a Fuck You Friday. Always. No exceptions -- ever.

It's important. Always.

Now, this:

FURTHER EVIDENCE:

Wizards have powers. It's key to know that. And y'know what?

Fuck you.

(The Final Battle by 5-Second Films. Wizard song from Sifl And Olly by Liam Lynch and Matt Crocco via YouTube user vinylsaurus.)

Le Course De Kessel

August 12th, 2011 by

la course de kessel

Run it.

(Photo gleefully via starwarsanyone.tumblr.com.)