#1 I would like to report that I read 46 books last year, the most since I have started keeping a book journal (if you are not keeping a book journal, I urge you to start now).
A recent book that I finished (not the most recent, that is another (again) Arryhay Otterpay (it is just nice to be in that world for awhile)) (and now I would like to report that the cat was unsuccessful at deleting this post...and now he his trying (and failing) again) was "Conversations With Hunter S. Thompson" edited by Beef Torrey and Kevin Simonson.
Is this Hunter's best work laid out for all to see? No. Is it sometimes repetitive and derivative? Well, yes. Are the interviewers always on top of it? Are they trying to hard to be "Gonzo" sometimes? Is it a good read for fans of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" and "The Curse of Lono"? Yes. (It also helps a great deal to have read "Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail" and "Hell's Angels").
I read it through, mostly laying on the couch. New information? Not so much. Inhabiting Hunter's world? Sometimes. Does it make me want to be a Gonzo journalist? Not like Fear and Loathing (then I faint away from imaging too many drugs and alcohol (what a pansy)).
Happy Trails...
(I realize that I posted this on the wrong blog. What a loser :-(
Friday, January 23, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
Older
I’m scared, and I hate that. I read Hunter and think that probably, I am invulnerable, immortal. Then I look at my dead father laying on the ski slope and realize that I am more than mortal: my genetics tell me that I could die any day. Fuck! I want to drink and eat and double-shit!
I like my new desk. It overlooks the stairway and the window to outside, birds and all (why the obsession?), overlooking the stairs (I feel a little giddy in my gut (beer rests on the guard rail)).
I am now officially on drugs: Lisonopril, statins. I feel one hundred years old, trapped in the body of someone who wants to be so much younger and not informed. Goddamnit! I am super-pissed at my dad for having these genes, then giving them to me. I feel that I can do what I have been doing and live eight more years (he died at 46) or change and maybe live longer; always, the axe is hanging over my head. (Won’t that shorten my life as well?)
I realize that I am gripping the desk. What the fuck!? How did it come to this? Probably it is because I am a runner and so pay attention to my body and what affects it, and what I put in it. I try to eat well, though at times, I have to “live” as my doctor puts it. Tonight, I am drinking too much and have eaten an hamburger. Remember when hamburgers were the norm, not the exception. It wasn’t a fast-food hamburger, but it wasn’t exactly a super-lean burger either. It was tasty, I can say that, and the salad with it was good too, though a little oniony. (There is the gut clench when I put the beer back on the rail over the stairs.)
And then, I went out and did something that I was meant to do. Taught. Shoed horses. Wrote. Made furniture. Made jewelry (the latest interest). I am a man who loves hobbies and would like nothing better than to succeed at everything while only having to do one thing every now and then. My life is caring for the kids. My passion is? My mom once said something like, You have to live with your choices. I resisted that for many, many moons but here I am, a product of my choices. Yet, still, I can’t imagine myself anywhere else…
I’m looking at the music list, trying to conjure something different, but I listen to music so rarely, that I cannot stop it. Now: Sympathy for the Devil. I am closing my eyes, having another sip…
I like my new desk. It overlooks the stairway and the window to outside, birds and all (why the obsession?), overlooking the stairs (I feel a little giddy in my gut (beer rests on the guard rail)).
I am now officially on drugs: Lisonopril, statins. I feel one hundred years old, trapped in the body of someone who wants to be so much younger and not informed. Goddamnit! I am super-pissed at my dad for having these genes, then giving them to me. I feel that I can do what I have been doing and live eight more years (he died at 46) or change and maybe live longer; always, the axe is hanging over my head. (Won’t that shorten my life as well?)
I realize that I am gripping the desk. What the fuck!? How did it come to this? Probably it is because I am a runner and so pay attention to my body and what affects it, and what I put in it. I try to eat well, though at times, I have to “live” as my doctor puts it. Tonight, I am drinking too much and have eaten an hamburger. Remember when hamburgers were the norm, not the exception. It wasn’t a fast-food hamburger, but it wasn’t exactly a super-lean burger either. It was tasty, I can say that, and the salad with it was good too, though a little oniony. (There is the gut clench when I put the beer back on the rail over the stairs.)
And then, I went out and did something that I was meant to do. Taught. Shoed horses. Wrote. Made furniture. Made jewelry (the latest interest). I am a man who loves hobbies and would like nothing better than to succeed at everything while only having to do one thing every now and then. My life is caring for the kids. My passion is? My mom once said something like, You have to live with your choices. I resisted that for many, many moons but here I am, a product of my choices. Yet, still, I can’t imagine myself anywhere else…
I’m looking at the music list, trying to conjure something different, but I listen to music so rarely, that I cannot stop it. Now: Sympathy for the Devil. I am closing my eyes, having another sip…
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