chezsnarko giornale Archive for February 2005

Eulogy

posted by snarko on Monday, February 21 2005

For Hunter S. Thompson

12:53PM: Drunk and chain-smoking, wishing I were stoned but it isn't possible. Nothing can mask my tears, not even a liter of wine, shared with none, as they whom I'd like to toast all work their eleven-to-seven for da man Hunter bellowed against.

The only other famous person I'd never met I'd ever cried for was John Lennon; I think I was ten.

As a person who doesn't believe in The System, this comes as quite a blow. One of my personal heros, one of my beloved punk-rock devil-may-care idols, has just committed suicide.

I only hope time doesn't tell it was because he gave up Hope. Rumor has it he was terminal with cancer and didn't wanna go that way; I can respect that.

You are looking at this website right now because of him.

My whole in-your-face, I-don't-care-what-you-think, personal style of writing, well, I bit it from Hunter. But I'm a chick, so it sounds different.

He'd have wanted it like that.

I actually look really hot today; it's a pleasant afternoon in Texas and some 70+ degrees Fahrenheit, so I put on the low-waisted jeans I forgot I owned with the 70's "hoochie-momma" top Inger passed on to me I've been dying to wear. Sorry, but the digital camera's long dead and the new one—actually a camcorder—came without media or cable and I haven't been able to afford either.

Cuz anything that gives me a sense of clarity comes first.

But I wish Hunter could smell the air with me right now, it's so fresh. And I wish he could see how hot I look.

I extended my hair for the Black Goddess Ball recently, which was a blast, and even though the person on the phone who sold me the needed ticket couldn't give me a fashion clue, so I showed up more "ball" than "goddess" (I looked like Cinderella when I should have been Kali), I'll probably make papers this week.

Yes, this is about Hunter.

Cuz I play these idiots like a fiddle, as he did.

Hunter is the inspiration for my entire writing style, as well as this website's very existence. Brash, hopeful, insightful, personal, yet informative, Hunter showed me you can be a member of the press and a Person at the same time.

I respected, cherished, and envied his talent of working from the INSIDE, that is, working for Da Man, whilst shooting them in the foot, and still getting paid for it.

Punk-rock devil-fingers go out to you on your next journey, dear Hunter.

Sorry, crying again.

Do you realize how important this man was?! Do you realize how much he gave to us, the born-poor, intelligent, artful, upitty, pityiful, non-masses?@!

The solliloquy about the wave crashing back in Fear and Loathing has always made me cry.

I above all respected his honesty.

And a gackle cries out.

Dear Hunter, why, why, why, and before I could meet you?

Dear, dear Hunter, WHY?!?!

You were the chosen swine that lead us. You were the voice that guided me to partial salvation. You were the god of power against the power that I needed to continue to the next chapter.

I don't wanna die at 68, nor anything before 120 (despite the End of the World). Why, why did you do it?!

I seek solace in other Pisces today, despite the fact we're all fucked up.

I love you, Hunter. I mean that. I hope you knew what you were doing.

Sorry, crying again.

My cats don't get it.

Maybe Mace will.