quoth the doktor...

the following conversation was recorded all the way live on my answering machine…sunday, pre-dawn, november 21, in this foul year of our lord, 2004.

st. clair: [inaudible]
johnson: i’m here.
st. clair: what?
johnson: i made it. if anyone asks for me, tell them i’ll be here a while.
st. clair: where are you? you better not be here! [at this point, i check my
window for strange happenings outside. plenty.]
johnson: i’m not there…what the fuck would i be there for. your place is
dead anyway. i’m at the porno store.
st. clair: it’s late…call me when you’re sober or out of jail.
johnson: listen man, i’m serious. i’m on the roof of the porno store. i’ve got a tent and blankets and a kitbag of supplies. i’ll be here as long as
it takes.
st. clair: what the fuck…
johnson: oh yeah
st. clair: you’re lying
johnson: i’m here johnny st. bizzle or whatever the fuck you’re calling
yourself nowadays. i’m not leaving until porn is legal again in grosseville.
st. clair: porn is legal…aw, what the fuck, i’m not getting into this with you. you’re a sick and twisted degenerate. who is this anyway? prank call! prank call!
johnson: stop stealing other people’s shit and do something of your own. was that all bullshit about defending the american way? huh? do you hear me? intellectual terrorism? hello? i’m livin’ some anarchy…
st. clair: what the fuck does that mean?
johnson: consider this right up there with rosa parks…this is my action, my plot, my fuck-you to the moral majority. city council is trying to ban the porno yo…that’s wack.
st. clair: oh yeah, great cause you picked there…so what's the plan, garbagecan?
johnson: i’m not moving…soon, the cameras will arrive. i’ve prepared a lengthy statement on the state of the union and the acts of unfaithfulness to our constitution perpetrated by the powers that be. sticky is totally behind me on this…
st. clair: who’s sticky?
johnson: the owner
st. clair: right…
johnson: listen man, this is about freedom, about choice, about the american way…i’ll be dammed if i’m gonna sit here and listen to whatever shit their sellin’ about MY best interest.
st. clair: and this has absolutely nothing to do with your love of porn
johnson: that’s beside the point
st. clair: i disagree
johnson: LISTEN YOU SOULLESS HUMP…i’ve no time to split semantical hairs with you…YOU were the one who said all that about the spark and building steam and new waves. GET ON THE BUS, you son-of-a-bitch!
st. clair: oh man, it’s not even light outside…
johnson: and it’s going to get a whole lot darker…are you with me?
st. clair: no
johnson: no?
st. clair: no…i’m not hanging out on a porno store roof with you for fuck’s sake.
johnson: little bitch…alright then. i'll be calling you soon. there is something i may need for you to do.
st. clair: what?
johnson: i’ve got a huge tarp with a doctored image of the mayor and george bush in a compromising position.
st. clair: really…was that a good time?
johnson: yeah…listen…if the shit goes down, i’m going to need you to drape that fucker across the city courthouse...maybe a church. i haven’t decided for sure.
st. clair: i…i…i’m proud of you doktor.
johnson: let’s not start sucking each other’s dicks quite yet…there is much work to be done. are you with me?
st. clair: in my mind brother, i’m already there.

one hit

jack johnson - 'breakdown'

finally some new songs are surfacing from this motherfucker...two albums from live shows and then nothing new. practically an entire u.s. tour without new songs. except for 'rainbow' with g love. and 'free' with that stoner dude. and that new g love song. and 'good feeling.' and that other song. but this fucking 'breakdown' is so good, i've already used fuckwords twice. in the same paragraph, even. fascinating.

jack's got rhythm...perfect for the lazy, dusted beat that prince paul lays down. not a whole lot going instumentally...a few scratches and plinks, some guitar...the beat and the hook are golden though. say what you want about the lyrics, there's no denying he has a skill to work the rhythm in language. this is the sound of the last good time in warm weather - when you got it, and you know it, and you use it - the time to slowdown and look around. like the man says, ‘and i got no time that i got to get to where i don't need to be'

ol' dirty bastard: american icon

in 1993, i got the wu-tang tape second hand [read: stole it]. at the end of the second side, they play an interview from a radio show where the names of each member are explained. the only one worth its weight was o.d.b.'s...he got that name cuz there's no father to his style.

ol' dirty bastard is gone but he was never truly here to begin with.

so if you see mourners taking to the streets by the hundreds...thousands, even...allow them a moment of sorrow. the artist - variously known as ol' dirty bastard, o.d.b., dirt, dirt dog, dirt mcgirt, osiris, big baby jesus [for the kids, man], and ol' dirty chinese restaurant - passed away on saturday doing what he did the craziest: music.

don't belive me? check this out:

• my name black / do words wanna play in my dirt? / bitch stop my momma serve / free lunch from the church

what the fuck?

wu-tang toured with rage against the machine in like '97 or '98 and although i caught the show, dirt dog was nowhere to be found. i was so far back that i couldn't see who the fuck was on stage anyway, but someone else was doing his parts, and it wasn't dirt. i could tell. that boy dirt...he had talent. definite buzzkill. the place was absolutely seething with violence that night as i recall...madness at every turn...you could strike sparks in any direction. but since dirt was absent, i couldn't be moved. i was so sad.

• unglove the news / watch a nigga transfuse / dirty add to the fuse / heavy at the booze

not long after i got that first tape, i saw him on the television. he had his baby mama, plenty of kids, a limo, and his welfare i.d. card. they all got into the limo, went to the welfare office, and got the food stamps that he said he would get. while the cameras rolled. yeah. now you know why that bitch was singing about having his money. she knew better...cuz if she didn't, she was gettin' choked.

• i don't walk i get carried / gold and platinum frisbees on my wall / lookin properly but come-ly / i U.F.O. you wright brothers

dirt was a new kind of modern day johnny appleseed, spreading his love [and seed] all around the country, fathering dozens of children in the process. it is my sincerest hope that this second generation of bastards can meet and dare to exceed the standards which their ol' dirty father invented. he sold america every crazy kid i knew in grade school: the ones who would liberally use the 'fuck' word in the principal's face, the ones who sold their free lunch tickets for a quarter, the ones who taught me to roll joints with notebook paper and pencil shavings, the ones who were taken out in shackles in eighth-grade, who sewed their own cuts with needle and thread, who didn't wash their ass, brush their teeth, comb their hair. the ones with a double digit i.q. ahhh, public education...

• the indian that sold manhattan to the white man / my grandfather / step up and get knocked right the fuck out / come to the cook-out / dirty bitch / at the mouth

so i bid you adieu, dirty...you were one of a kind and for that we should be thankful.

on the record #3

believe me, there is nothing more i’d like to do than trash this record. before i got all grimey with it, i knew it was a supposed fusion of jazz and hip-hop, which isn’t bad. baby, my planets was digable way back in the early '90s. but i also knew that branford marsalis was involved. for the uninformed [myself included], i believe he was involved with like jay leno’s or arsenio hall’s band. or maybe that was his brother…but anyway, he plays trumpet, and he really blows. get it? come on…you know…when i say ‘blows,’ i really mean ‘sucks.’ and when i say ‘trumpet,’ i really mean ‘dick.’ damm that’s good. your dick-sucking, i mean.

buckshot lefonque – music evolution

ok, first off…this is ‘buckshot lefonque,’ a musical collective and not ‘suckbutt lefuck,’ what all the cool kids called you in middle school. 'suckbutt lefuck, the french cocksucker.' ‘uh, yes, i’m looking for a buttsucker. anyone in mind?’ ‘why yes, you’re looking for eric suckbutt the butt-nut lefuck.’ ‘where can i find this suckbutt lefuck?‘ ‘uranus.’ wait…wait…how about ‘taint’ or ‘fromunda.’ damm i’m funny.

right…

some groove-y, slightly experimental r&b, rap, and jazz for the most part. number #2 is the shit and ain't that right?…but the first tune is the one that won me over because i was sure this was gonna suck butt [giggle]. it had this dubby drum and slow groove, samples, echo…point of reference? a less paranoid dj shadow maybe…

matters become blurred at this point…i’m rising above my body now…somewhere in the air, in the far corner…being sucked through the air vent and into the night air…there is someone here with me…who are you?...i’m the imperial wizard of funk…where are we going?...to the other side of morning?...when will we get there?...after we’ve eaten…i’m not hungry…oh, we meant beaten…he is pulling me towards a spinning light…by the pineal gland…wait…that's no ordinary light, that’s a disco ball…all sorts of impossible creatures here…the walls, floor, ceiling, all lined with pink shag carpeting…the floor is alive with seeds…these animals are fury or slimy, sometimes both…weird tentacles everywhere, scaly skin, bug eyes [mmmm, bug eyes]…strange instruments with strings…drums made of skin and heartbeat rhythms…my skin is shining…there is a strange fume in this room…something worse than mos eisley [awww yeah, all the nerds in the house say 3.1428571]…i’m spinning now…fingertips stretched…trying to find the center…some strange kind of gyroscopic effect…these animals are closing in now…i’ll never get out of this stinky boots…i can’t stay here you filthy beasts…the sound is all around, in my skin…disembodied voices float on by…struggling to find a center…impossible concentration…the lights cut out and the music fades…i’m swimming in black vaseline…unable to move…a she-devil bellydances on my chest and feeds me pills...

what the fuck was that?

you listen to it again…i’m getting the fuck out of here.

in a bag #3

there has been such an overwhelmingly positive response to the "yankees" joke...

• Q: do you like the yankees?
• A: how 'bout you yank deez nuts

...that i would like to let you know 'expos' and 'phillies' are also acceptable substitutions.

discuss.

building steam with a grain of salt

one fall evening about 13 years ago, i was trying to get this girlie back to my bedroom. damm, i was real smooth…you should have seen me. anyway, the television was tuned to eMpTyV, and shit was gettin’ real hot, when all of a sudden the dreck stopped. no, no…i mean the shit on the tube. whatever garbage they were playing was replaced by sounds sweet and familiar, like a thousand angels or getting drunk outside at night. but what was it? up until that point, i had rapidly been losing hope in rock music…it seemed that the only shit worth hearing was on vinyl by some band who’d broken up when you were like 7. yet before me, swirling from those cheap fuckin’ floor-model tv speakers, was something like gold. and i’ll be dammed if it didn’t smell like teen spirit.

it was a watershed moment…a time and place i can go back to instantly, describe what it was like outside, what i was wearing, where i was, what i was on…it changed my lens, so to speak. as time passed, it seemed that people were finally getting it, tuning in, turning on, coming around to a new way of thinking. the vibe seemed less self-conscious and more self-assured. conformity seemed to be falling by the wayside. it seemed sure that soon a wave would sweep across the country and that our differences would be of no more matter than the color of our eyes…that maybe – maybe – we could get right what the hippies lost somewhere along the way. rip it all the fuck down, you know…

what happened to us all? are we still out there? this generation without a war to name it, this generation of x’s…wished it was x’d like malcolm until it found its own identity. is it searching or has it sold out, cashed in, ceo’s, and cell phones, pre-fab housing plans and that good, good blow? i think a lot of us felt like we were on the outside looking in for so long, and then it was like we found each other and just had the fuckin’ party outside, you understand. i hope we weren’t only clamoring and killing time until we found a way to get in.

sit and judge, tell me i had blinders on…that i missed a war and a riot and a trial that revealed scars deeper than we can ever understand. tell me that the revolution was packaged for convenience and all that really happened was kids were being sold to other kids. tell me i’m full of shit now and full of hope then…cuz hope is where your eyes fall when the grave is on your back. tell me i was looking to believe in something – anything – even if it was a stupid song. tell me that we are more afraid of violence than sex. tell me that the pill i’m trying to swallow isn’t as bitter as i believe. tell me that yesterday was only about the next four years and not the long-term. tell me that the semi-literate moron will not unleash an unholiness on the world. tell me that i am paranoid, that our rights weren’t whittled away, that the world won’t be plunged into instability through an arbitrary and capricious war, that a corporation doesn’t have more pull than a man's life. tell me we won’t use the name of god to hold another down. tell me that we don’t need to fuck people over in order to survive. fucking tell me.

my dream sprang from a song and perhaps that’s the problem. i failed to recognize there must be real struggle. i’ve heard and heard that the only worthy fight is the one where you lose and lose and lose and lose and lose – and then lose again – before you win. i’m just having a hard time finding where that spark may come from…that something that could bring us people together again.

it’s high fucking time we start looking. indeed…we will march on a road of bones.

for fuck's sake man, i hope you're right

[this was sent psychically over the mojo wire...i am desperate with fear]

George McGovern called Saturday night from New Orleans and said he was ready to rumble.

"This is it, Hunter. This is the day we've been waiting for all our lives," he cackled. "Nixon was nothing compared to these bastards. This is the most important election of my lifetime, including my own race."

"What do you think is going to happen on Tuesday?"

"I think Kerry will win," I answered.

"Yes, I think so, too. He is about the greatest thing since God created you and me," he laughed. His voice became serious then, and he said, "I think he is a good guy."

"Yes, I think he will be a good president," I said.

"So do I," he answered.

"By the way," I said, "Tell Eleanor that I still have a crush on her."

"That's good. I'll tell her that on Sunday, which is our 61st wedding anniversary. We got married on Halloween."

I could tell he was smiling over the phone. "Eleanor is still trying to figure out if it was a trick or a treat," he said.

*****

It is now Tuesday, and John Kerry is looking good today, while George Bush is looking a little desperate. His eyes are wild and his voice is shrill and he is acting more and more like a doomed animal on its way to the meat-grinder. Young George is about to lose his first election.
JFK will win this one decisively enough to make any recounts or challenges irrelevant. If Kerry wins New Hampshire and Pennsylvania and Florida, for instance, this election will be over before it really gets started.

Kerry will win big today. I guarantee it. The evil Bush family of central Texas is about to suffer another humiliating failure on another disastrous election day.

And I knew it Sunday after returning from Los Angeles, where I had been campaigning for Kerry, my friend. Football and politics were never so fatally linked as they were when the Washington Redskins lost to the Green Bay Packers that day. It was all over after that.

The sun has come up over the Rockies and the time has come to drive into town and vote aggressively for my man, who will win this election handily. And the Democrats will regain control of both houses of Congress. That is all I know right now, and all I need to know.

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. We will march on a road of bones.

Mahalo.

Hunter S. Thompson