Been more than two months now since Hunter S. Thompson punched his own ticket and I still think about him. A friend e-mailed the sad news, "Hunter S. Thompson RIP" read the subject line and I checked the news and sure enough - there it was - 67 and found by his son. Jesus. "Why not?", I imagined his last words, then the banner fell and less than a penny's worth of lead destroyed the infinite treasure caves of his mammoth, sagging mind. I wondered about his friends, Bill Murray, Johnny Depp, all the folks up at Woody Creek, all of them left here to continue the crawl without him. That night I had my own memorial, there was loud music and single malt Scotch and toasts to the night sky to all those not present. All those gone for good or going soon, and some still around, but the light's dimmed from their eyes.
I'm still wearing the black armband for that scary old mutant uncle who showed me how to spill the ink and walk with the rabid baboons and play chicken with a lightening storm. He was my own Pope of heavy water and crossed swords and bent nails. There's a bottle of Turkey and a shotgun and a copy of Morrison Hotel gathering dust in the corner. The mojo wire is quiet now, too damn quiet and I miss him.
OK HW
Wanderings through art, film and travel by Hal Weaver.
