Monday, February 21, 2005
to the original Good Doctor
Hunter S. Thompson
We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive. . . "And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming: "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamned animals?"
Then it was quiet again. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. "What the hell are you yelling about?" he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. "Never mind," I said. "It's your turn to drive." I hit the brakes and aimed the Great Red Shark toward the shoulder of the highway. No point mentioning those bats, I thought. The poor bastard will see them soon enough.
It was almost noon, and we still had more than a hundred miles to go. They would be tough miles. Very soon, I knew, we would both be completely twisted. But there was no going back, and no time to rest."
- Hunter S. Thompson, FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS
Completely twisted. And no going back.
As previously mentioned, I first read those words when I arrived at The University. And yes, it was not merely a novel, but a guidebook, a manual for living.
And implicit in those words was a challenge, how far can you push it? How far can you precariously teeter on the precipice of madness and still maintain your balance and make it back? Just how whacked out of your head can you get in one night, or weekend, or week, and wake up fundamentally yourself and not in jail some morning when it's all said and done.
The Road Trip? The Original Good Doctor was a mentor and an inspiration. We would stop at the liquor store on our way out of town. The rule was one shot of Jack every 25 miles and load a new bowl every 50, swallowing ephedrine tablets as needed and chainsmoking Camels to prevent the booze and the weed from completely dulling my edge.
I vividly remember nights huddled under the covers in the darkness of my room, reminding and repeating as sort of a mantra to myself, "it's just the drugs, I'm not crazy, it's just the drugs. . ."
And then there's all the nights I don't remember, or remember as sort of hazy stuporous dream.
Any regrets? Nah.
Any after effects? Well, I'd like to think some of those nights spent out of my skull on Dragworm Acid help me today by giving me some insight into the mindset of some of my students with autism.
But I might just be blowing smoke out my ass.
Those days are decades behind me. I am now blissfully living the savage journey deep into the heart of the American Dream: The Wife, The Boy, the career as a Teacher. Although I still look everybit the part of a slovenly hippie or dopefiend, I am actually a respected professional in my field.
It is with bittersweet and mournful irony this morning that I awoke to the news that The Great Gonzo chose to end his life using the same method as the dear friend who turned me onto his writing in our youth.
May you both have found the peace you desired.
|
We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive. . . "And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming: "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamned animals?"
Then it was quiet again. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. "What the hell are you yelling about?" he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. "Never mind," I said. "It's your turn to drive." I hit the brakes and aimed the Great Red Shark toward the shoulder of the highway. No point mentioning those bats, I thought. The poor bastard will see them soon enough.
It was almost noon, and we still had more than a hundred miles to go. They would be tough miles. Very soon, I knew, we would both be completely twisted. But there was no going back, and no time to rest."
- Hunter S. Thompson, FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS
Completely twisted. And no going back.
As previously mentioned, I first read those words when I arrived at The University. And yes, it was not merely a novel, but a guidebook, a manual for living.
And implicit in those words was a challenge, how far can you push it? How far can you precariously teeter on the precipice of madness and still maintain your balance and make it back? Just how whacked out of your head can you get in one night, or weekend, or week, and wake up fundamentally yourself and not in jail some morning when it's all said and done.
The Road Trip? The Original Good Doctor was a mentor and an inspiration. We would stop at the liquor store on our way out of town. The rule was one shot of Jack every 25 miles and load a new bowl every 50, swallowing ephedrine tablets as needed and chainsmoking Camels to prevent the booze and the weed from completely dulling my edge.
I vividly remember nights huddled under the covers in the darkness of my room, reminding and repeating as sort of a mantra to myself, "it's just the drugs, I'm not crazy, it's just the drugs. . ."
And then there's all the nights I don't remember, or remember as sort of hazy stuporous dream.
Any regrets? Nah.
Any after effects? Well, I'd like to think some of those nights spent out of my skull on Dragworm Acid help me today by giving me some insight into the mindset of some of my students with autism.
But I might just be blowing smoke out my ass.
Those days are decades behind me. I am now blissfully living the savage journey deep into the heart of the American Dream: The Wife, The Boy, the career as a Teacher. Although I still look everybit the part of a slovenly hippie or dopefiend, I am actually a respected professional in my field.
It is with bittersweet and mournful irony this morning that I awoke to the news that The Great Gonzo chose to end his life using the same method as the dear friend who turned me onto his writing in our youth.
May you both have found the peace you desired.
|
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