the right kind of eyes

"the summer is over

the harvest is in,

and we are not saved."

-- jeremiah 8:20

fuck you, hunter thompson.

i guess the fucker really did kill himself. i was holding out writing this because i figured he would reappear, claiming to be King Lono – prince of royal polynesian blood, ruler of all the islands, born 1700 years ago in a canoe off the kona coast of hawaii.

i mean, how great would it have been…he could have had everybody waiting for his ashes to be blown all over the place, and then from the smoke, the twisted sonofabitch parachutes back to earth and announces the rebirth of the weird.

but it seems that’s not gonna happen…so i have no other choice than to sit down and lash this together.

it’s gonna be real easy for people to write this old cat off as a casualty from the acid generation or just another stupid dope freak. people might say that he lived to become a caricature of himself, a packaged commodity. apart from his sporadic ramblings on espn2’s website, hunter was busy refining prince jellyfish, a work that was written and set in [where else?] the sixties. the ghost of hemingway seemed to hang heavy over his door. in casual conversation just the other day, some lunkhead mentioned something about smoking hunter’s ashes. that’s a lowlife, right-against-left reaction, one that he no doubt will endure after his passing as he weathered during most of his wild life. granted, he was a habitual and shallow dope fiend, one who would raid your stash when you were looking…an unpredictable, sometimes violent, multiple felon who posed a threat to national security and no doubt cost his friends countless sleepless nights and more than a little of their hard-earned dollars in bail money. and there's also his negative side.

and i wish those kinds of people who would sneer with contempt at the doctor could come around, but fuck them anyway. time now to gather round your own…mourn for a fallen.

he was a warrior in the culture war that still rages today…the man was there for the sixties and all the idealism that went along with it. and then he saw it fall by the wayside, or take a turn in the wrong direction, or get caught up along the way…however you’d like to see it and say it. the walls of evil that they railed against in the sixties closed in quickly…and what better way to inoculate yourself against it than to load up on drugs…get absurd. surely, whatever shit you could put in your system couldn’t twist you up as bad as the bad-trip nightmare that became the american dream. so load up, buy the ticket, take the ride…maybe on that trip you could find something to peel away all of this bullshit “reality” that the motherfuckers with the power want you to believe is the only way for something that cuts a bit closer to the bone, to the truth, to the beauty.

and since those forty-odd years ago…whatever fantastic universal sense of righteousness that seemed to spread against the forces of old and evil seems to be long gone. hunter thompson lived to see all that shit…understood it early…and it haunted him…gave him the fear.

did he know that fear-soaked loathing would see his end?

i’ll admit, all those drug-soaked stories have that can-you-believe-this-shit factor to them…but there was something within his words that rose above that dumb-fun level. i got a little faith out of it. that through all the craziness, you really can get your mind open…that above all else, you can find beauty and truth in even the darkest of places. if kerouac showed me the beauty of the written word, then thompson showed me its power.

he was an outlaw and patriot in the truest sense of the word. he believed in the promise of this country so much that he refused to sentimentalize it…training a cold and calloused eye instead on the monster the typical american had become. he got in the thick of it all and lived to tell about it with words that may have told lies but never failed to get to the truth. he was cursed to live, like he told steadman, as a man both before and after his time. and for that, i guess, we can be thankful.

mahalo, bro…

dr. hunter s. thompson (1937 - 2005)

who among us shall carry the sickness forward?

we are lucky he hung on this long.

more to follow, but for now: res ipsa loquitur

on the record #5

queens of the stone age - lullabies to paralyze

i stole this off the internet the other day…i was all like “i’m takin’ this shit…what,” and the computer was all scared. ha ha…you should have seen it. fuckin’ faggot-ass computer. i pulled my guns and shit…what the fuck was it gonna do. yeah...you know…i'm a beast, yo. hell to the motherfuckin’ yeah!

so i burned it then taped it…i like to play my records on my old boombox. it helps me keep up my street cred. henceforth i got all loaded cuz it was the afternoon and took my boombox and went and sat in the grass to groove on the new rawk. there was a cop car in the parking lot, and a k-9 was in the back.

i’ve often wondered if the dogs were trained for specific purposes…i mean, are certain cop dogs drug dogs as opposed to, like, the type of dog that they sic on the fugitives? or are the dogs multi-purpose…meaning they can sniff out the ya-yo and the dude hiding in your backyard under the plastic baby pool? that seems like the logical route…you want the dog that can pull double duty, right?

exactly.

so i push play to get the new queens rollin’ on my stereo…lannegan opens up with some slow, waltzy, folksy number. sounds like french quarter back alley dumpster sludge heroin. it’s not that bad, but who the fuck decided to open up the record with this number…i mean, look at the openers from the past: regular john, feel good hit of the summer, millionaire…apparently the k-9 shared my perplexiosityiousness, because he picked his ears up and cocked his head to the side. the back window was cracked and i went [makes that sound that gets a dog’s attention]. the dog yelped a coupla times then cocked its retarded head to the side again, and held it there with a kind of confused anticipation until the song ended.

for a moment, it was strangely serene.

the clicks of sticks that open “medication” got the k-9’s attention, and while the bass rumblings below the feedback might be a gram less drug-addled since oliveri split / got the boot, it still felt dangerous. by the time the fuckin’ gee-tars blew the doors off the motherfucker, the cop dog was going bananas in the backseat, gnashing its teeth, and licking the window.

the cop came running back to his car to check on the dog, which had gone completely ape-shit, running back and forth in the backseat and rocking the car. he wanted to know what i had been up to, and he sweared to “fucking christ" that he was gonna open up the back door and let the dog loose. he muttered something about never seeing the beast in such a state, and sure enough, when he lifted the handle, the dog made a bee-line for me.

at least i thought it was me. he actually ran right for the radio, stopping momentarily to sniff the radio’s ass, then circling wildly and yelping.

“you sure you ain’t been smoking any drugs?” the cop asked. “are there any drugs hidden in that radio?”

i just shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. the cop moved in to stop the dog and regain some semblance of control, but i stepped in front of him and waved an open palm slowly from left to right.

“the dog is causing no harm,” i said.

“the dog is causing no harm,” he said.

“let him go for a while,” i said.

“i’m gonna let him go for a while,” he said.

“you don’t mind if i drink a beer,” i said.

“no…go ahead.”

the k-9 continued to circle and yelp…and by the time “little sister” made it onto the box, the dog apparently had enough. it tried to hump my boombox, and when that effort proved futile, it lifted it’s leg and took a piss on the speakers.

i don’t know about you or your mammy, but that’s a punk rock show of approval if i ever saw one.

professionalism - episode #2

been forced to ride to work with the doktor for the past week and a half…in the future, i will take the bus or ride a bike…maybe hitchhike.

friday morning, he arrives extra early and lays on the horn while i tie my tie, grab my coat, and walk down the stairs. an old lady throws a pot full of hot water from her balcony in my general direction…it melts the snow and splashes on my pants…this napoleon-like, biker wanna-be gives me evil scowls and throws the fuck-word around a few times while i smile politely and get in the car…don’t forget to wave…the doktor continues to lay on the horn as we drive slowly through the parking lot and out of the complex.

fighting crosstown traffic…rush hour in a second-class city…people on the sidewalks walking fast…cell phones and leather pouches slung over shoulders…briefcases attached to the wrist…an umbilical cord to currency…dour faces…this world is white-washed…birth to school to work to death…all with a beseeming purpose and direction…i am curious and confused…wow…i am sickened with doubt…fuck work…there must be a million other more important things to do.

…near the bus terminal…

“yo…”

“hmm?”

“look at her…right there…” sunshine is walking in the opposite direction.

the doktor lays on the horn…i catch her eye, think she smiles…watch her as she walks on down the road.

“back the car up…”

he does and doesn’t look…bumps into a car full of old ladies…gets out to inspect the damage.

i look around for that girl, but she is crossing the street…down the block…the doktor is gesticulating wildly behind his car…the cigarette moves in time to the curse words…he approaches the driver’s window of the old lady’s impala…she rolls it down…he throws his hands up and is almost instantly hit with a blast of some kind of spray…probably pepper, but maybe – with any luck – it’s mace.

the doktor turns and buckles over, rubbing his eyes with clenched fists and curse words…i leave the still-running car…two old ladies jump out of the passenger side of the impala to greet me…one from the front seat, one from the back…the lady from the front points an umbrella ominously in my direction…the one from the back holds a king james version of the bible above her head with both hands…they are ready to strike…i retreat, call for the doktor, don’t forget to wave…he feels his way into the car…i hear “i rebuke thee, satan,” and “we’ve got your license plate number,” and “lousy sons-a-bitches,” from behind me…the doktor cannot see…i offer to drive but am refused…he asks for a beer from the back seat.

“what do you want a beer for?”

“i need something to wash this shit out of my eyes.”

“you can’t do that with…”

“I’VE GOT NO TIME TO SPLIT SEMANTICAL HAIRS WITH YOU…GET ME A BEER,” he yells.

i pause, wonder about that girl, grab a beer from the backseat…the horns behind us are blaring…people starring…he pours a handful of beer and splashes it in his face, takes a sip from the can, passes it to me.

we arrive at work on time shortly thereafter…because we are, after all, professionals.

one hit

the icarus line - 'up against the wall motherfuckers'

i’ve been meaning to review the entire record for about six hundred and sixty some odd days now, but i never get past the first song. and holy sweet mother of creeping jesus…there is a punk rock!

imagine some lowlife, alley-livin’ ma-fuckers…now between shootin’ drugs, b&e’s, and fuckin’ bitches, these scumbags get their dirty hands on some stones and sex pistols records. you know a better way to supplement your income and support a raging crack habit than to get a gig in a rock and roll band? i can’t think of one. sloppy drums, sloppy guitars, crack-addled vocals, and hooks so catchy that they’ll stick in your head like a dirty needle…this is what i wanna hear and i get it fuckin’ loud. and when i hear the singer spit something about why can’t he “get some fo’ free,” i’m pretty sure he’s talking about drugs or pussy…maybe both. by the sound of this record, they’ll get it one way or another. yeah. and they’ll smell bad. yeah! and they're gonna get loaded. YEAH!!