Hunter S. Thompson memorials

when a talent dies - one who sort of remained on the peripheral, a bit below the radar, occasionally popping up here and there - the accolades blast the frontline like rapid fire.

kind of like when John Ritter died.

the following entry is a collection of exerpts of some of the better memorials and rememberances of heir Doctor Gonzo...

Rolling Stone magazine:
In a recent piece for Rolling Stone on the 2004 presidential campaign, he called George Bush a "treacherous little freak." To Thompson -- who once threatened to run for the presidency himself and narrowly lost an election in 1970 for sheriff of the Aspen area, running on the Freak Power Party ticket -- politics was a blood sport, and American politicians, so prone to corruption, were only too deserving of contempt. Observing President Bush's poor performance in a debate with "my man" John Kerry, he wrote for the magazine, "I almost felt sorry for him, until I heard someone call him 'Mister President,' and then I felt ashamed."

--

Thompson's incorrigible behavior, his mumbling incoherence, his fishing hats, aviator frames and cigarette holders all made for a larger-than-life presence. He was a hardboiled writer of the old Hemingway school, terse and piercing, enamored of guns. Yet he will be forever associated with the counterculture of the hippie era for his ruthless dogging of the Nixon administration and his gleeful experimentation with psychedelic drugs, two subjects which he often wrote about in tandem.

--

The Associate Press:
Because the style of writing he invented — "gonzo journalism" — surely reached its peak with its creator and isn't likely to be duplicated in quite that way ever again.

Thompson was often linked with fellow writers Gay Talese and Tom Wolfe as part of a troika of literary titans who invented a reporting style in the 1960s that came to be known as the New Journalism. But Talese, for his part, never saw it that way, saying Monday that Thompson was an original.

While all three writers took an eye for description and detail to new heights, only Thompson immersed himself so thoroughly — and often so outrageously — into his stories, Talese told The Associated Press.

"I will miss him as a man who was amusing while he was also insightful," the author of "Honor Thy Father" said by phone from his New York City apartment. "He was amusing and also maybe wretchedly out of step with the current morality. At this time of political correctness, he was never politically correct, and that is what I'll miss the most about him."

--

"We had two bags of grass, 75 pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine and a whole galaxy of multicolored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers," he wrote.

Whether he actually prepared for his assignments with that kind of indulgence, Talese said he didn't know.

"You never know what these people do," the author said. "They know what is entertaining about their material, and sometimes what is not true about their life becomes part of their persona."

What is known is that authorities who raided Thompson's rural Colorado home in 1990 found LSD, cocaine, marijuana and dynamite there. He beat the charges, however, when the search was ruled illegal.

His home was often described as a "heavily fortified compound," although Thompson, who would sometimes take high-powered firearms into his back yard for target practice, acknowledged in a 2003 interview that that was an exaggeration.

"I think the only fortification might be my reputation," he told Salon magazine. "If people believe they're going to be shot, they might stay away."

--

L.A. Times interviews friends in Woody Creek, CO.:
Thompson lived in a secluded compound along a rural highway a mile or so from the tavern. Friends said he liked to pass the time firing automatic weapons, writing and drinking heavily. He typically woke at 5 p.m., wrote through the night and slept all day.

His death seems to have winded Woody Creek, a wealthy enclave eight miles northwest of Aspen. For some, Thompson was beyond eccentric — he was an enigma. He could be rude and nasty, then turn on a dime and be sweet and lovable.

"Everyone sort of adopted him and accepted him as he was," said Mary Harris, owner of the Woody Creek Tavern. "I used to live next door to him. I'd hear gunshots coming from his backyard. We used to hang out. He liked to come in when we closed. He could be a bully or your best friend."

"I knew Hunter for 25 years, and I think some of what he did was an act," said Joel Lapin, drinking a beer at the tavern. "He was an extremely intelligent man. He would walk around town with a drink in his hand, but it was his persona, like Groucho Marx with the cigar. He once showed up at the golf course with a shotgun. He was actually no more outrageous with firearms than any of the rest of us here."

Those who knew him often found his rambling style of conversation unintelligible.

"I never knew what he was talking about," said Don Collins, a 50-year-old plumber sitting at the bar. "You would hear this mumbling and then loud interjections. He could have been saying anything. Maybe he was telling me, 'Get out of my house or I'll shoot you!' "

Groupies liked to drop in or call Thompson at the bar. He didn't respond well to invasions of privacy and didn't talk much to strangers, his friends said.

--

The Wall Street Journal Tom Wolfe on HST:
Hunter S. Thompson was one of those rare writers who come as advertised. The Addams-family eyebrows in Stephen King's book jacket photos combined with the heeby-jeeby horrors of his stories always made me think of Dracula. When I finally met Mr. King, he was in Miami playing, along with Amy Tan, in a jook-house band called the Remainders. He was Sunshine itself, a laugh and a half, the very picture of innocent fun, a Count Dracula who in real life was Peter Pan. Carl Hiaasen, the genius who has written such zany antic novels as "Striptease," "Sick Puppy," and "Skinny Dip" is in person as intelligent, thoughtful, sober, courteous, even courtly, a Southern gentleman as you could ask for (and I ask for them all the time and never find them). But the gonzo--Hunter's coinage--madness of Hunter Thompson's "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" (1971) and his Rolling Stone classics such as "The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved" (1970) was what you got in the flesh too. You didn't have lunch or dinner with Hunter Thompson. You attended an event at mealtime.

I had never met Hunter when the book that established him as a literary figure, "The Hell's Angels, a Strange and Terrible Saga," was published in 1967. It was brilliant investigative journalism of the hazardous sort, written in a style and a voice no one had ever seen or heard before. The book revealed that he had been present at a party for the Hell's Angels given by Ken Kesey and his hippie--at the time the term was not "hippie' but "acid-head"--commune, the Merry Pranksters. The party would be a key scene in a book I was writing, (The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test). I cold-called Hunter in California, and he generously gave me not only his recollections but also the audiotapes he had recorded at that first famous alliance of the hippies and "outlaw" motorcycle gangs, a strange and terrible saga in itself, culminating in the Rolling Stones band hiring the Angels as security guards for a concert in Altamont, Calif., and the "security guards" beating a spectator to death with pool cues.

By way of a thank you for his help, I invited Hunter to lunch the next time he was in New York. It was one bright spring day in 1969. He proved to be one of those tall, rawboned, rangy young men with alarmingly bright eyes, who more than any other sort of human, in my experience, are prone to manic explosions. Hunter didn't so much have a conversation with you as speak in explosive salvos of words on a related subject.

We were walking along West 46th Street toward a restaurant, The Brazilian Coffee House, when we passed Goldberg Marine Supply. Hunter stopped, ducked into the store and emerged holding a tiny brown paper bag. A sixth sense, probably activated by the alarming eyes and the six-inch rise and fall of his Adam's apple, told me not to ask what was inside. In the restaurant he kept it on top of the table as we ate. Finally, the fool in me became so curious, he had to go and ask, "What's in the bag, Hunter?"

"I've got something in there that would clear out this restaurant in 20 seconds," said Hunter. He began opening the bag. His eyes had rheostated up to 300 watts. "No, never mind," I said. "I believe you! Show me later!" From the bag he produced what looked like a small travel-size can of shaving foam, uncapped the top and pressed down on it. There ensued the most violently brain-piercing sound I had ever heard. It didn't clear out The Brazilian Coffee House. It froze it. The place became so quiet, you could hear an old-fashioned timer clock ticking in the kitchen. Chunks of churasco gaucho remained impaled on forks in mid-air. A bartender mixing a sidecar became a statue holding a shaker with both hands just below his chin. Hunter was slipping the little can back into the paper bag. It was a marine distress signaling device, audible for 20 miles over water.

The next time I saw Hunter was in June of 1976 at the Aspen Design Conference in Aspen, Colo. By now Hunter had bought a large farm near Aspen where he seemed to raise mainly vicious dogs and deadly weapons, such as the .357 magnum. He publicized them constantly as a warning to those, Hell's Angels presumably, who had been sending him death threats. I invited him to dinner at a swell restaurant in Aspen and a performance at the Big Tent, where the conference was held. My soon-to-be wife, Sheila, and I gave the waitress our dinner orders. Hunter ordered two banana daiquiris and two banana splits. Once he had finished them off, he summoned the waitress, looped his forefinger in the air and said, "Do it again." Without a moment's hesitation he downed his third and fourth banana daiquiris and his third and fourth banana splits, and departed with a glass of Wild Turkey bourbon in his hand.

When we reached the tent, the flap-keepers refused to let him enter with the whiskey. A loud argument broke out. I whispered to Hunter. "Just give me the glass and I'll hold under my jacket and give it back to you inside." That didn't interest him in the slightest. What I failed to realize was that it was not about getting into the tent or drinking whiskey. It was the grand finale of an event, a happening aimed at turning the conventional order of things upside down. By and by we were all ejected from the premises, and Hunter couldn't have been happier. The curtain came down for the evening.

In Hunter's scheme of things, there were curtains .. . and there were curtains. In the summer of 1988 I happened to be at the Edinburgh Festival in Scotland one afternoon when an agitated but otherwise dignified, silver-haired old Scotsman came up to me and said, "I understand you're a friend of the American writer Hunter Thompson."

I said yes.

"By God--your Mr. Thompson is supposed to deliver a lecture at the Festival this evening--and I've just received a telephone call from him saying he's in Kennedy Airport and has run into an old friend. What's wrong with this man? He's run into an old friend? There's no possible way he can get here by this evening!"

"Sir," I said, "when you book Hunter Thompson for a lecture, you have to realize it's not actually going to be a lecture. It's an event--and I'm afraid you've just had yours."

Hunter's life, like his work, was one long barbaric yawp, to use Whitman's term, of the drug-fueled freedom from and mockery of all conventional proprieties that began in the 1960s. In that enterprise Hunter was something entirely new, something unique in our literary history. When I included an excerpt from "The Hell's Angels" in a 1973 anthology called "The New Journalism," he said he wasn't part of anybody's group. He wrote "gonzo." He was sui generis. And that he was.

Yet he was also part of a century-old tradition in American letters, the tradition of Mark Twain, Artemus Ward and Petroleum V. Nasby, comic writers who mined the human comedy of a new chapter in the history of the West, namely, the American story, and wrote in a form that was part journalism and part personal memoir admixed with powers of wild invention, and wilder rhetoric inspired by the bizarre exuberance of a young civilization. No one categorization covers this new form unless it is Hunter Thompson's own word, gonzo. If so, in the 19th century Mark Twain was king of all the gonzo-writers. In the 20th century it was Hunter Thompson, whom I would nominate as the century's greatest comic writer in the English language.

--

On HST's final rest:

If one of Hunter S. Thompson's last wishes comes true, the body of the late maverick journalist will be cremated this week and his ashes blasted from a cannon across his sprawling ranch in Woody Creek, CO.

Hunter S. Thompson, gonzo journalist, 1939-2005

I'm unhappy and disappointed.

Hunter was a lion.

I discovered Hunter S. Thompson when I was 19 years old and had picked up a worn dog-earred paperback of Fear and loathing in Las Vegas.

I remember being taken immediately by the dark, hilarious lunacy that challenges you to take the running start to jump the bullet train and join in the ride:

"We were somewhere around Barstow at the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feeling a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive...." And suddenly there was a horrible roar all around us and the sky was filled with 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 all these goddamn animals?"

Then it was quiet again. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer and his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. "What the hell are you yelling about?" he muttered, starring 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.

These two paragraphs open a book that I've read five or six times and have given to at least a dozen friends as a gift over the years. It's a remarkable piece of literature that is alive. You may open it to any page, and it's immediately dark and fun.

Last spring I saw 3 or 4 of the first typed pages of the book at an exhibit at the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland... the freaky thing about it was that there was maybe two copy edits... it was all first draft. That's impossible, and that's genius.

side note: I write every entry in this blog first draft, and maybe edit myself as I go. When I occasionally look back at old entrys, I usually see a lot of shit that I would've edited out or written in a different way... or could have written better. regardless, my point being that to get it all down 100% correct the first time is an inhuman act of achievement.

I think that the renegade spirit of HST's writing was a real positive and negative influence on me at that age, and well into (and possibly throughout) my 20's.

I'd always enjoyed writing, and had decided in college that I wanted to write for a living. I didn't want to be one of those fuck-o's you see with a laptop (and probably a h-mo black turtle neck and scarf) recording their never ending novel over a chi tea and clove cigarettes at Starbucks.

I regarded, and continue to regard, this sort as "hacks." Writing takes talent and balls, and to get paid for this (as in writing is your only job), you have to have a good measure of both.

Anybody who walks around telling people "I'm a writer" more often than not writes the most long-winded uninteresting psuedo intellectual shit you could ever waste your time reading. If you're a writer, shut the fuck up and write. And make it interesting. And if you can't do that, fucking give it up and accept the fact that you're an accountant,.. or a soccer mom,.. or that you work at Hardees.

HST had mad talent and huge balls, and served as a rebel hero to my young idealist aspirations. To stroke my own shit, I went the professional route and got myself involved in, and in a position to be, an advertising copywriter, and am now working my sixth year without having to pick up work on the side.

HST's works inspired me to believe that anything that I created during my daily inner-arguments was possible on paper. You can fucking say anything you want on paper, and these ideas can have true effect and meaning on the reader. It's fucking fun... and occasionally it's powerful.

The bravado persona, the chemical abusing machoism, the aggressive paranoid intellectualism was another aspect that crept in... the fuck em all attitude that seemed like such a natural fit during my piss and vinegar youth. In hindsight, it was age appropriate and super fuckin fun.

I've felt a kinship with anyone (of any age) that I found to be a HST fan. We all seem to be the same kind of people with same sense of humor (because HST is fucking funny), and we all shared a deep enthusiasm and interest in the scenerios, ideas and morals of HST's work. If you're a fan, you're not a casual fan. And beyond all that, HST ideas and creations are quite simply fun.

I haven't really got a point to make, and this isn't much of a memorial to one of my heroes, so I'm going to cut this short. Hunter Thompson was a patriot, an American original, and a writer of such strikingly honest and creative work that his body of work could not be mimicked. My sister forwarded me a section of the New York Times dedicated to Thompson that I recommend.

Fortunately Hunter Thompson leaves a cannon of work that would take even the casual fan several years to cut through. And it's time well spent.

Goodbye Hunter, I'm sorry that you left us.

ebonics debate

About ten years ago the Oakland school district came under fire because they had proposed to teach their inner city school children in Ebonics.

"Ebonics" as listed in the Princeton University dictionary, is defined as:
n : a nonstandard form of American English spoken by some Black people in the United States

((in other news, "ebonics" is listed in the Princeton University dictionary.))

This caught some shit and national media coverage because of the debate: why teach ebonics in school, when that's the place that you're supposed to learn proper english? It's a good debate.

On one hand, although not the official language of the United States, english is spoken by the majority of our citizens, and schools are charged with teaching its proper usage.

On the other hand, how is a student supposed to be able to understand his or her instructors if he or she cannot fully understand what is being said or taught to them? Wouldn't it make more sense to speak to the children in a language that everyone in the classroom can understand? Wouldn't that be a better way of actually reaching the children and teaching them something?

--

Allegedly, Oakland is very much involved with ebonics. I ran across this site where an Oakland High School student allegedly won an ebonics translation contest by deciphering Notorious B.I.G's cut One More Chance into the standard english spoken by white people in blue states.

as follows...

Lyrics
First things first, I poppa, freaks all the honeys/Dummies - playboy bunnies, those wantin’ money/Those the ones I like ‘cause they don’t get nathan’/But penetration, unless it smells like sanitation/Garbage, I turn like doorknobs/Heart throb, never, black and ugly as ever/However, I stay coochied down to the socks/Rings and watch filled with rocks

TRANSLATION
As a general rule, I perform deviant sexual acts with women of all kinds, including but not limited to those with limited intellect, nude magazine models, and prostitutes. I particularly enjoy sexual encounters with the latter group as they are generally disappointed in the fact that they only receive penile intercourse and nothing more, unless of course, they douche on a consistent basis. Although I am extremely unattractive, I am able to engage in these types of sexual acts with some regularity. Perhaps my sexuality is somehow related to my fancy and expensive jewelry.

Lyrics
First I talk about how I dress and this/And diamond necklaces - stretch Lexuses/The sex is just immaculate from the back I get/Deeper and deeper - help ya reach the/Climax that your man can’t make/Call and tell him you’ll be home real late/Let’s sing the break

TRANSLATION
I prefer to open the conversation with light banter about my wardrobe and jewelry, then I like to discuss my collection of expensive cars. This is more than enough to convince you to have sexual intercourse with me. I am able to insert my penis further into you when I enter you from behind. Furthermore, you will be able to reach orgasm. I understand this to be a problem with your current sexual partner. He needn’t be concerned about your whereabouts. Please phone him and inform him that you won’t be home for a while. By the way, please sing the chorus of the song for me also.

Lyrics
She’s sick of that song on how it’s so long/Thought he worked his until I handled my biz/There I is - major pain like Damon Wayans/Low down dirty even like his brother Keenan/Schemin’ - don’t bring your girl ‘round me/True player for real, ask Puff Daddy

TRANSLATION
Your current love interest no longer wishes to hear your fabrications about the length of your member. After I had sexual intercourse with your woman, she became enlightened as to the proper way it is supposed to be performed; violently and immorally. It would be in your best interest to keep your woman away from me as my sexual prowess is very strong. If you are unconvinced, ask Puff Daddy.

Lyrics
You - ringin’ bells with bags from Chanel/Baby Benz, traded in your Hyundai Excel/Fully equipped, CD changer with the cell/She beeped me, meet me at twelve

TRANSLATION
Despite the fact that you attempted to win her at her doorstep with bags full of expensive clothes and a car (the lower end model Mercedes Benz which you financed by signing over your current vehicle) containing an expensive stereo and a cellular phone, your woman has contacted me through my pager indicating that we should rendezvous at midnight.

Lyrics
Where you at? Flippin’ jobs, playin’ car notes?/While I’m swimmin’ in ya women like the breast stroke/Right stroke, left stroke what’s the best stroke/Death stroke - tongue all down her throat/Nuthin’ left to do but send her home to you/I’m through - can ya sing the song for me, boo?

TRANSLATION
You, on the other hand, jump from job to job, barely able to maintain payments on the Mercedes Benz you purchased for your woman. Meanwhile, I continue to engage in sexual intercourse and commit lewd osculatory acts with your women. My only remaining option is to request that she leave my home and return to you because I have reached orgasm and no longer have a need for her presence.

Lyrics
So, what’s it gonna be? Him or me?/We can cruise the world with pearls/Gator boots for girls/The envy of all women, crushed linen/Cartier wrist-wear with diamonds in ‘em/The finest women I love with a passion/Ya man’s a wimp, I give that ass a good thrashin’

TRANSLATION
The ultimate decision rests with you. Whom do you choose as your sexual partner. I can take you on cruises around the world. I will dress you in the finest jewelry and footwear. You will be envied by women worldwide in your fine clothes and jewelry. There is a special place in my heart for beautiful women. I will defeat your man in an altercation because he is effeminate.

Lyrics
High fashion - flyin’ into all states./Sexin’ me while your man masturbates./Isn’t this great? Your flight leaves at eight./Her flight lands at nine, my game just rewinds./Lyrically I’m supposed to represent./I’m not only the client, I’m the player president

TRANSLATION
You will be dressed in finest clothes on the runways of Paris. I will fly you to every state to shop for fine clothes and jewelry. You will enjoy sexual intercourse with me and your man will be forced to pleasure himself through manual stimulation. What a life! I’ll return you to LaGuardia in time to catch your 8 o’clock flight. The timing is perfect because I have scheduled a date with a second woman who arrives at the same gate at 9 o’clock. I’ll seduce her in the same way that I seduced you. I rap well and I am a positive reflection of my home town. Not only am I a sexually deviant, misogynistic, immoral, wealthy, male prostitute, but I also sit on the board of directors of the organization that governs others of my kind.

--

see?

I went to college, and I can barely follow what B.I.G. is saying in his lyrics, but the translation makes perfect sense.

This is the division: one that separates us culturally. I vote for ebonics in all public schools where the children are more comfortable with this expression of language.

question: are you fucking insane?

I read today that that talentless hack Jenna Elfman (Dharma and Greg, ED TV) wants to use her scientology to rid, or "clear" the world of “body thetans”.

What are "body thetans"? You might ask?

How fucking stupid you must be for being kept in the dark from the truth! A truth that only scientologists are capable of truly understanding.

"body thetans" are aliens who scientologists believe inhabit the earth from a nuclear explosion 75 million years ago.

Actually, that's only part of it... first,

Xenu - the evil head of the Galactic Confederation - flew people to Teegeeack (Earth) 75 million years ago in space ships, chained them to volcanos and blew them up with hydrogen bombs, releasing exploded 'thetas' that are now the source of most human suffering.

Now I know that the truth is a bit difficult to swallow sometimes, but you have to be honest with me... are you fucking serious? do you really believe that Jenna Elfman? like, for real?

you are stupid.

I don't see how an educated, rational mind can be duped into such a line of bullshit. aliens? come on!

In the article, Jenna Elfman states "I intend to make Scientology as accessible to as many people as I can. And that is my goal. It is my duty to clear the planet (by clearing she means to rid the world of body thetans — aliens who scientologists believe inhabit the earth from a nuclear explosion 75 million years ago). The more successful I became, the more suppression I bumped into... especially in the entertainment industry, which really is home to rabid suppression."

I've never liked Jenna Elfman for a few reasons:

1. I don't think that she has any talent.
2. I don't think that she's attractive and her onscreen personality is annoying.
3. I didn't realize that she was a "celebrity," nor that she could clear the world of body thetans.

Are these people really this stupid? This bullshit was made up by a hack science fiction writer in the 1950's.

I've seen the scientology celebrity center in Los Angeles... my friend Lope lives about two blocks away from the compound in Hollywood. It's fantastic. It looks like a four star hotel. The scientologists have 19 year old boys and girls either doing yard work, or have them out on the sidewalks in dress clothes handing out flyers for "free personality exams."

Other celebrity suckers:
Catherine Bell - I have a difficult time believing that this woman could be talked into anything.

Danny Masterson - dipshit from "That 70's Show"

Erika Christensen - the daughter in Traffic who fucks that other dipshit from That 70's Show before getting caught up smoking the rock and fucking black guys.

Giovanni Ribisi - who admits that he'd be in an alley smoking cock for rock if it wasn't for scientology.

Jason Lee - pro skater turned B-film actor. Maybe you should pay a little more attention to your career, and a little less time contemplating the meaning of the evil galactic warlord Xenu. Just a thought.

John Travolta - named his son "Jet", because, um, he likes to fly jets. He also never graduated from high school... how fucking hard is it to graduate from high school?

Juliette Lewis - this girl sweats crazy out of her pores... she looks like 72 hours of cocaine fueled cockarific insanity with a ripped off credit card... tapered down by 12 hours of suicidal crying, zoloft and a trip to the emergency room for a minor opiates overdose and herpes outbreak.

Kelly Preston - aging opportunist married to Travolta.

Tom Cruise - high school drop out.

you can see a whole list of the celebrity cult members here.

"one fingered victory salute"

Goddamn! Does this motherfucker bug me.

Mr. Everything's a Big Fucking Joke Man.

Then chuckling like he's getting away with some shit. Fucking hick.

Oh yeah, he is getting away with some shit.

moby "hotel"

listen to moby "hotel" here.

utter shite

I hate the dentist.

--

John Bonham studio drum outtakes.

--

incredible tall girl.

--

women in spacesuits.

--

I saw this excellent movie last night called Shaun of the Dead. It was easily one of the top ten movies I've seen in the last year. Make that top five. Believe it when I say that this movie is super fucking funny. AND it's a worthy zombie movie... sometimes scary, gory, nail biting fucked up crazy ass zombie shit. On top of being super silly ass funny. And British.

--

I'm two pages into drawing the second episode of Lez Is More, and it's coming out really well. I think that the art has improved, and the script is really really good this time (as opposed to being "really good")... it's super fuckin funny. Premieres March 28th at 8 p.m. Watch for it.

"LEZ IS MORE"

my sister Kristine (in Washington DC) and two of her friends Allison (in Chicago), and Joe (in Milwaukee) began trading joke scenarios and dialogue over e-mails a year or so ago, slowly crafting the sitcom "Lez Is More."

Allison wrote, edited and fine tuned the first episode, and after reading a couple of the completed scripts, I decided to draw it.

Please see the first episode here: Lez Is More: "Therapist"

bookmark and check back, I'm working on the next episodes right now!

If you like it, pass it on.

hail pista!

so I took off from work at about 3:45 on friday. everyone knew that I was cutting out early to pick up the 05 bianchi pista... I got home, changed, drove that plastic car to the store.

the bike store dude behind the counter knew exactly what I was there for when he looked up and said "bianchi?". I said "si".

he'd already taken the 59 cent. off the wall and had it waiting. I had a short list of enhancements: swap out the clipless pedals (pocket those for el scorpio)... replace white handlebar tape with black tape... add a (temporary) front brake... lose the freewheel and convert to a fixed gear.

I also got another back light for my bag. this one's got a (((disco))) setting.

in total, I paid $20 of my own dollars for this bike, the rest was paid for by money that fell out of the sky.

it was one of the only times in my life where I've walked into a store knowing exactly what I wanted, had the money to pay for it ("paid off"), and then walked out with it. I called my dad to tell him about it... I told my friend Tom - a Chicago cop - about it later that night, and he handed me a Heinken, toasted me and said "you've made it."

I wheeled the pista out the door and caught a pedal rub against my leg. reminder: pedals always move when wheels move.

the bike doesn't have easy release wheels or seat (and no tool in the car), and I wanted to get a ride in, so I rode the bike the 2 or 3 miles back to my place. it took some getting used to, but it was all totally in my head. my mind was preoccupied with the fear "how do I properly and successfully stop with all of this traffic around?" it caused me some unecessary worry.

it's a polished chrome finish, which is hot. this bike is flashier than my style. I looked at it for a bit and wondered if it was too flash, but decided "fuck it. this bike is hot."

some friends came over, stared at the bike. we went out late. we got up early and scored tickets to queens of the stone age in early april at the vic (same venue as the ween show) around 10 a.m. afterwards, I spent the day riding to friends' places to show off the bike and get used to the fixed gear.

believe it or not, traffic isn't a worry to me because I'm used to it. there's so many cars, that most of the time they're stuck at lights in traffic or slow moving... it's the asshole that decides to pull into the right lane (so that he can tear ahead of the lead car when the light changes) that you have to be wary of. It's usually an SUV (male/female driver,.. doesn't matter). This city breeds fuckers like this. I've just been getting used to the fixed gear. There's no coasting.

the bike is super light, and it's cool because as soon as you step on the pedal you're moving immediately. it's super easy to get a good speed of 15 mph (or so) very quickly, like within a few feet.. and the ride is solid. bike/body = one vehicle.

the bike speeds up quickly, will slow quicker once I'm used to the pedals, and cuts super clean. I also squeezed through some tight spots that I may have waited on with el scorpio.

I don't really like the handlebars I've got right now. I think that it's tough to find a comfortable grip for long term grip. I already decided on a different handlebar after I decided that I don't need the brake anymore.

bianchi pista

Holy motherfucking shit. I am in a sudden and unexpected good fucking mood right now.

The board of directors at my job has been kind of a secretive not saying shit pain in the ass for the past 6 mos or so because they were "re-organizing" the company and not being real upfront about what the changes were going to be. that makes everyone scared because "re-organization" sometimes means "fire people."

the reorganization has been totally to my department's (marketing) benefit however because they've decided to funnel more money and focus on marketing... so my job is actually going to be getting better.

as a suprise, every employee received a $1000 bonus this morning! no shit. I couldn't believe it. taxes are lame, so after takes it came out a flat $643. I don't care.

so, instead of budgeting my money and waiting on a tax return and selling the car to piece together the cash to get the 05 pista, I'm going to get the pista tonight. that's right, TONIGHT.

there's a store about 2 miles from my place that has her on sale for $550. I'm going to have a front brake attached (until I get used to the single track) for an additional $50. they've got a 59 cent. at the store right now, so I'm going to go get fitted on it. the punk on the phone said that there's a 6'2" mechanic there who rides one comfortably... if I think it's a hair too small, they can order the 61 cent and get it in a week or so.

now that I look at the site, I also get a free pair of gloves. yeah! holy shit, now I might even get laid or something unheard of.

she's a polished chrome. she's beautiful.

the weather's projected to stay in the low 40s this weekend and into next week, so I'll get some time out on her.

I'm psyched. nothing fun happens to me ever.

crazy fuckers at telefund

my sister Diana - the baby of the family - is living the best period of her life (and I think that she's only slightly aware of it).

she's 24 years old and slowly whittling away at college in Denver. being 24 is the shit. I had a great time that year (I was still in school at that time as well).

on the side she works for a telephone fundraiser. she talked people into donating $40,000 to the democratic party this year. I like to mention that when I listen to democrats bitch - like "what have you done for the cause? she's a better democrat than you are." I must admit that I donated $0.00 to the democrats this year (instead I spit a lot of hot air). there you have it.

anyways, I got to see her place of work when I visited in november. it was awesome. if I were 24 again and not tied to anything (really), that is the exact place that I'd like to work. everyone there is fucking insane.

the first two characters I met were these two twenty-something guys (each from wealthy families) who were open communists. they had all the props: the hammer and sickle buttons, the CCCP pins, the worn dog ear copy of the Communist Manifesto... all of it. my sister told me that recently one of them took off for Mexico to join a communist cell. good luck, my young white American friend...

--

another guy, Mike P., was my favorite. In his mid-50's, he's a member of MENSA, frequent contributor to the Letters to the Editor page of several New York City newspapers, a member of ASCAP (American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers), a member - advanced to the level "senior fellow" level of the ISPE (International Society for Philosophical Enquiry) - and greatest of all, he scores original soundtracks for B-grade horror films.

Mike P. designed his own logo (of himself) and went out and purchased a lot of marketing items with the logo (T-shirts, hats, headbands)... to market... himself.

his best marketing piece was this small teddy bear wearing a small t-shirt with his logo on it. what was great about it, was that examining the design and the material of the bear easily showed that he'd placed a lot of time and thought and care into his decision... this wasn't a piece of shit bear. this bear rocked.

I liked Mike P. right away because he eagerly shaked my hand and told me that he liked the different writing pieces I'd written that my sister had given him (I encourage praise from MENSA members), and that he thought that my sister was "an incredible human." He's also wanted to hire my sister to be his personal assistant/part time employee. To order his marketing materials, I guess.

In his personal press release he lists hobbies and talents as: "can dance backwards in a completely darkened room whilst humming the melody to various television shows from the '50s and '60s."

--

one crazy fucker - Jamie P. - that I didn't get to meet, but has become my sister's secret admirer, is a scary bastard.

She describes him as a "forty-something, one one-legged, schizophrenic, alcoholic, junkie" who writes her poems, hands them to her and then runs away.

she showed me a poem that he wrote for her on the back of a 7/11 receipt:

DIAN... you are
my dream anything, anytime
anywhere
all i have with a ribbon
buy a telescope
because on a
very, very, very
high peddlestool
i will alight
from all this
madness i will
deliver you
-jamie

from all of this madness... indeed.

Jamie P's most recent work was this character plot/build-up/whatever the fuck for this book he's writing:

Solange knelt at the garden edge, a dusted promise opened as her hand poured dirt into the morning sun, preparing the wedding. Casually, whispering something, the air before her stirred. suddenly wind from above, icy sea fingers, seeking weakness mocking her concentration for a moment and dirupted atoms melded back into shapes and reality. but she stood and faced her glorious burning, squinting she said the first word, again. like so many before her she started her day in this greeting of the mother union.

over solange's shoulder she peered at the rememberance, then she looked between them to the south finding only purity there she turned north to call wisdom. sure enough, there she found today's bride, the lovely wisdom in rememberance. solange turns within; there at the mirror she searched the murk for a reflection until she places the map of thirteen (other words the compass or directions) upon her belly.

staying within the mechanics of each reflection, while under the influence of it she felt tedious, but nontheless mastered. solange raised her arms slowly reaching for the celestial angle crossing them before her face then lowering them spread before her face one again thus tearing the veil and consummating the act by entering the world now with her chosen bride. she pulled her finger and stepped into the day with a small hop, as always solange... and the needle was thread...

is this genius? madness? it's beyond me.

I gave my sister pepper spray for chirstmas. I showed her how to use it too.