Tag: Hunter S. Thompson

The Summer of Hate 2009

Hunter S. Thompson revised 2009

The hippies Wingnuts, who had never really believed they were the wave of the future anyway, saw the election results as brutal confirmation of the futility of fighting the establishment on its own terms by stealing elections and voter suppression.

There had to be a whole new scene, they said, and the only way to do it was to make the big move – either figuratively or literally –

Berkeley to the Haight-Ashbury cognitive dissonance to sheer lunacy, from pragmatism to mysticism, from politics propaganda to dope violence…

The thrust is no longer for change obscene wealth” or progress retrogression” or “revolution blind obedience,” but merely to escape enslave, to live on the far far right perimeter of a world that might have been they do not understand.











Killer on the Road


jack Pictures, Images and PhotosMany long, blood-drenched and greedy years ago, before Vietnam, before Watergate, before Iran-Contra and Enron and Wall Street wars for profit, Jack Kerouac watched America going by and asked, “Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?”

America went on a long roadtrip, Jack.  We’ve put a lot of miles behind us, but we’re no closer to where we want to be than we were when we started.  It’s been a rough trip.  There were a lot of potholes on the Silent Majority Tollway, but we managed to make it through NixonLand relatively intact.  Back then, many of us thought the worst part of the journey was behind us, but we discovered otherwise.  

The Check Engine light started flashing on the Ronald Reagan Expressway, but the Gipper just grinned, cranked up the radio, and we got our first earful of the tirades of some shithead named Limbaugh as he bellowed on and on and on and on about blacks and feminists and unions and liberals destroying everything in sight.      

By the time we took the Thousand Points of Light Exit we were burning a lot of oil, the transmission was shot, the radiator was steaming, and something was on fire in the trunk.  In other words, major repairs were required, but Poppy just had Gomer fill ‘er up, clean the windshield, kick the tires, and off we went again.  

The Case of Little Dutch Big Dutch (My Story – Part III)

Note:  I got a little out of sequence with this series and published Part IV – Love and Death in Colombia before this Part III.  This one gets me back on track sequence-wise and sets the stage for Part V.  

Links to the other parts of this series:

This is my story – I hope that it finds you (Part I)

Wear Your Love Like Heaven (My Story – Part II)

Love and Death in Colombia  (My Story – Part IV)

First, so as to set the mood, I present to you a tender love ballad by John Prine and sung here with Iris DeMent called In Spite of Ourselves.

Music for an Empire in Decline

NOTE:  All but the last two videos in this diary are YouTube finds.  The final two are compilations of my own (please forgive the poor quality – I’m still learning), and the last one features some prominent kossacks from last year’s Yearly Kos in Chicago.

It is all too easy to idealize an age, especially if sufficient time has passed to blunt the pain and obscure the harsh realities of the day.  It is too tempting to look back in longing for a past that never really existed.  We all seem to have a tendency to do this – ah the good old days we say.

“Nothing is more responsible for the good old days than a bad memory.”

Franklin Pierce Adams

“Things ain’t what they used to be and probably never was.”

Will Rogers

“The good old days. I was there. Where was they?”

Moms Mabley


A Tribute to God’s Own Outlaw Journalist – Hunter S. Thompson

I have recently had more than one occasion to quote from the inimitable Hunter S. Thompson, a favorite writer from back in the day who is recently deceased from a lethal overdose of harsh reality. 

I was just a sprout when I read Hell’s Angels, Thompson’s first major commercial success.  I found the writing extremely entertaining, the author’s skill with language uncanny.  I had no idea that he was just getting warmed up for what would become a phenomenal gale of journalistic and literary hyper-excellence the likes of which the world had never seen.  By the sheer power of his writing he lifted himself into a whole new category in which he remains the sole member.  We’ll not likely see another like him.