Archive for the 'Hunter S Thompson' Category

Nuclear Obliteration? AWESOME!!

One time we all ate Alien Turdz. Up on Spaceout Mountain. There were like 10 of us. It was a springtime Saturday in 1995. The first real warm day that spring.

Tons of people climb Spaceout Mountain. Especially on Saturday. But that one sun drenched spring Saturday everyone was lucky. Since miraculously no one besides us boisterously tripping space cases climbed Spaceout Mountain that day. A lucky break like I said because anyone who did — Sober People especially — would albeit inadvertently have Seen Too Much.

So we’d have to kill them.

Stupid Sober People.

I drooled. Giggled. Giggled & drooled. Giggled at the puddle of drool that collected on the ground beneath my chin; specifically at the colony of fairies that sprung to life from that drool puddle.

Drool fairies.

There were drool fairies because I was spun.


How spun?

Hard Spun.

Spun kookie.

Drool streamed merrily from my mouth.

“Blah blah blah.” Someone said. “Bla bl-blah bla sunglasses.”

The fairies rode the drool stream like a waterslide.

Someone nudged me.

It was Superstar Brown.

I want to write some words here to describe my friend Superstar Brown; deliver to my readers some clue about the benevolent enormity of his character.

His last name really is Brown. What else can I say about him?

I call him Superstar Brown.

“A little to the left!” He insisted.

I continually drooled.

Superstar Brown literally shook me from my inattentive yet blissful stupor.

Drool flew everywhere.

I laughed uproariously.

“Did you hear me?” He asked, seemingly excited about something.

“Oh shit yes!” I assured him. “Something about blah blah whatever SUNGLASSES!”

I wanted to stare at the ground and drool some more but Superstar Brown wouldn’t let me.

“Not whatever sunglasses. WEARING SUNGLASSES. Look!” He commanded. And pointed to the sky. “A little to the left.”

With my eyes I followed his gesture. He held his hands palm open toward the western horizon & nodded just slightly toward the south.

I stared. Drooled. And just about shit my pants.

“A little to the left??” I asked amazedly.

It was little to the left. Unmifrikkinstakably.

“A little to the left.” Superstar Brown assured me.

I attentively wiped some drool off my chin. Blinked. Blinked. Blinked again. Plainly I could not believe my eyes.

Superstar Brown beamed; pleased to no end.

“You see him!” My friend triumphantly exclaimed.

I nodded alertly.

“Wearing sunglasses.” I declared.

The sun had begun to set. It made the clouds all crimson & electrically groovy. We were on planet Earth.

Planet Earth is awesome dudes. Too bad we’re about to smolder it & her inhabitants like the ass hit of $20 rock in Superstar Brown’s crack pipe. Shit we may nuke Iran tonight. Or else we’d have to invade them the old fashioned way. You know, with troops.

The United States of America plans to invade Iran.

Begs the question:

With what Army?


So instead we nuke ’em. Nuke ’em tonight? Maybe even!

We might nuke Iran tonight.

When I grew up Ronald Reagan was president. As a child I feared him tremendously. I thought he would start a nuclear war. Maybe that very night! I attempted to wrap my formative brain around the notion. Find some way to make it OK. There was none. Sweatily anxiety-barbed chills crawled out of the marrow in my spine. I could not sleep.

Then my mom would have a terrifically awful time of it when she had to wake me up for school in the morning. We’d get in huge fights because I wanted to stay in bed. I would throw temper tantrums. My mom would tremble tearfully and often had full blown on-the-spot nervous breakdowns.

And sometimes I would want there to be nuclear war before school started the next day. Because I rarely did my homework. And if there was nuclear war I would not have to go to school & get scolded.

Guess there’s always an Upside.

But mostly I’ve spent my life in revulsion of the nuclear obliteration possibility.

Until very recently.

We all saw it. A little to the left? Not sure what it meant exactly. Left of what? Dunno. The middle of the sky maybe? Maybe. But no matter. What counts is the sunglasses.

I saw them. Saw what Superstar Brown meant. 15 years later I am still plumb giddy — I mean pleased as a dosed bowl of punch — about it.

It was Jerry Garcia. Well it was a cloud. But a cloud which I recognized immediately as Jerry. As though the cloud were sculpted to his likeness. I mean this cloud looked so much like Jerry Garcia it must have been. A work of art! Truly.

Me & Superstar Brown high-5’d elatedly.

Mo-frikkin SUNGLASSSES — wearing ’em!!

I was stunned. Stunned as if the sky suddenly turned yellow & the sun went electrical blue. It was strange but I coped; with the aid of a few billion rawly rip-blasted lung loads of laughter.

Is it a Drug Hallucination if everyone sees the same thing?

There’s no such thing as hallucinations; just things seen more readily when you’re tripping.

Hunter S. Thompson wrote that shortly before he died allegedly.

Certainly one may not refute the good doctor’s logic. What is a hallucination? Something you see. Like green leafs on a tree. Which actually are not green. Rather, tree leaves reflect waves of sunlight which travel within a particular range of velocities; velocities that in turn are absorbed by our eyeballs; velocities which sing to the tune of green. Put simply: green is not a color. It is a speed.

There’s no such thing as green. But some greens — like an alien’s phantom green hue — are seen more readily when you’re tripping.

I am madly tempted to twist this argument in high gear all the way around the steered-with one knee Bend — and propose thus: There Is No Such Thing As Reality.

No such thing as Reality. Then what is there?


In all actuality Reality is a farce. Because by its nature Reality is something we are stuck with. It can not be altered and it automatically sucks.

The Reality is that you have to buy the ticket if you want to take the ride.

Actually we can ride for free.

Ride is a Verb. Actuality is a noun. Reality is a noun. Actualize is a verb. Ride is a noun. Ride & Actuality can morph from noun to verb & Go. Ride. Actualize. Go.

Reality makes no such adjustment on its own behalf. Reality does not become a verb. Reality does not exist because it does not have the power to Go.

Jerry Garcia was actually up there in the sky above Spaceout Mountain the one time we all got faced on Alien Turdz. That is to say that we all saw him. First Superstar Brown. Then he showed me.

“Motherfucker’s wearing SUNGLASSES!!” I shouted ecstatically.

“I was not shitting you.” Superstar Brown said.


It was different from seeing Jerry Garcia play his guitar onstage. In part because he had no hands. Just his head. From the chin up. I swear it was Jerry. I swear! Plus I never heard Superstar Brown say it was Jerry. All I knew was something a little to the left & sunglasses. But the second I saw that fucker I knew exactly what Superstar Brown wanted me to see. Or should I say who he wanted me to see. Jerry I tell you! Or perhaps it was actually a cloud that turned into some dude who coincidentally looked just like Jerry Garcia.

Maybe whoever it was did it just to fuck with us because he knew we were tripping on shrooms.

Either way the cloud, in all verifiable actuality, was very cool — cool like a ZZ Top song — because it sported a spiffy pair of sunglasses.

This I know beyond certainty: Jerry was alive that day; he did not die until several months after we all saw him up in the sky.

It was the last time Superstar Brown saw the beloved Fat Man.

And you know what? Even if we made it all up — it still qualifies as a bona fide Jerry Garcia actualization.

Actual is conceptually very nifty.

What is a cloud in actuality?

Clouded actuality.

In actuality what is a cloud?

Awesome. Like an open container of billion proof make believe. Clouds are awesome dudes.

YEAH! Can ya smoke ’em?

If you chow down enough Alien Turdz I bet you — you can probably pull a cloud clear down from the Blue & smoke the fucker for breakfast. That’s why Alien Turdz — which actually are a kind of mushroom that grows on Pluto only — are way bitch ass awesome too.

Mushrooms from Pluto & clouds on planet Earth. Man. Clouds. Mushrooms. 2 of the finest things in the cosmos don’t you think? You do! Smoking clouds for breakfast after you chow Alien Turdz is cooler than an alien chick with 3 phantom green boobs.

Mushrooms. Clouds. WooHOO!!

Mushrooms. Clouds? Mushroom clouds. Hey…that’s what happens when you’re nuked!!

Mushroom clouds the size of the Empire State Building. Right? Mushrooms. Clouds. Both good. Mushroom clouds: HUGE! Sounds to me like more of a good thing!!

Hey. Ya know? They also say drugs are like these terrible things. We know that’s an obscene lie. So when They say nuclear fallout is a terrible thing — why the fuck should we believe Them?

Now all of the sudden I can’t stop thinking about how super excellent it’ll be to get obliterated atomically!!

Clouds. Mushrooms. Brilliant.

And that is why I support Iran’s pursuit of nuclear weapon technology.

So they can Bring It On motherfuckers!

I mean we could nuke Iran tonight. We will maybe. But if they can’t nuke us back well come on Georgie: What’s in it for me??

Yeah — and one more thing! Missile defense? But…what if it works? Say you shoot an incoming nuke out of the sky.

How will I get My Rocks Off then you bastards?

I tell you it’s a trampling violation of my damn Civil Liberties.

Which proves my point once again: You got to fight for your right to Party.

Who Shot Hunter S. Thompson?

I don’t know.

But I don’t buy the Aspen sheriff’s on-scene determination of No Foul Play.

There are, in the words of widow Anita, “Too many unanswered questions.”

Of course Anita is biased. As, unabashedly, am I.

The allegedly deceased is our Hero.

What I admire most about Dr. Thompson is his deliberately risky & good – deleriously good – message to the Youth:

Bet smartly on yourself. When you lose — bet again.

Bet until you Win.

Perhaps taking his own life was a smart bet on himself. A bullet in one’s own brain is an act of ultimate surety. And not wildly out of character for the dude who scribbled Kill the Head & the Body Will Die in his notebook, a quarter-century earlier, for reasons he couldn’t – or simply did not care to – recall.

Is winning just another word for nothing left to lose?

Suicide for Hunter may genuinely have been the act of a man who sought the Ultimate High. Or else – long years after his drug tolerance had outgrown every available buzz – he splatted his brains like electric Silly Putty across the rug just to get high at all. Why not? Cheap thrills!

The act of a daredevil?


On a different day maybe.

On a different day I may be proud of him for it. Cheap thrills? Why not!

But not that day. Not right that second.

Fuck nope.

Something about it ain’t right.

Many theorize that the Good Doctor was done in by the Government because he’d set out to prove that 911 was an inside job.

Not so.


The government didn’t do it.

The slumlords did.

And Hunter S. Thompson learned decades ago that slumlords make lousy enemies.

Like my personal Lighthouse that I could see from anywhere in the world – no matter where I was, or how weird & crazy & dangerous it got, everything would be okay if I could just make it Home.


Hunter Thompson — who once dedicated a novel To Richard Millhouse Nixon: who never let me down. — loved his enemies; loved how his enemies made him feel about himself. Hunter S. Thompson’s enemies made him feel right. The more wrong they were the more right he felt. But only up to a point.

Right up to the point where they evicted him from his home. That was too wrong; too wrong to go home & get paid to write about.

Landlords — especially the kind who blow up World Trade Centers for money — are unworthy enemies.

Look: Hunter S. Thompson said Richard Nixon fucks pigs. Did he have proof? No. He needed none; as per the central thrust of Gonzo Journalism, to wit:

You can’t always find 2 Reliable Sources to verify what you know is true.

Thus his claim – that Richard Nixon was a pig fucker – needn’t be backed up with the Facts.

Why reiterate the obvious?

It would serve only to insult his reader’s intelligence. Like if the New York Times ran a headline that read:


Well No Shit Sherlocks.

What – did ya all of the sudden hire some actual reporters to work there?

Fat chance.

This headline would be more like it:


Now that is news.

The front-page story, were there one, would detail the mechanism – congressional subpoenas perhaps — by which the newspaper was forced to report facts long known true by the vast bulk of Earth’s inhabitants.

George W. Bush does not fuck pigs.

Richard Nixon was a crook & a cheap gin shot & I despised everything he stood for — but if he were running for president this year against the evil Bush-Cheney gang, I would happily vote for him; and he would Win.

>>HST November 2004

The truth is uglier.

Bush’s inner circle has a thing for homosexual prostitutes. Not a Sin, not in my book — but nevertheless an infamously caught red-handed Fact. Less known, but no less factual, is Hunter S. Thompson’s work — at the time of his death — on a piece which, if completed, would thread the Gay Hooker Connection to the Republican party in detail all the way back to the Nixon days.

Such an article would lead any respectable journalist inevitably to the blindingly too-obvious-to bother to prove conclusion, that — in accordance with his own much-touted Christian adherence — George W. Bush sucks a pig’s dick for jollies.

One is forced to admit his point: I don’t see anywhere in the bible that expressly forbids it.

The potentially resultant headlines seem likely cause enough to get a man “suicided” by his own Government — as Hunter S. Thompson famously predicted he would be.

This explains some things; sheds light on unanswered questions. Like: Why did the good Doctor choose to blow out his brains in the midst of an otherwise productive telephone conversation with his loving wife — while his son & daughter-in-law played with his beloved young grandson in the next room?

A classless & unconscionable amateur act; my hero would never do such a thing!

Unless he had a good reason.

Perhaps Thompson indeed fired the gun on himself. The proposition in no way rules out the Foul Play angle. Suppose he was forced by rouge players to forfeit his own life — or forfeit the lives of his family?

In that case his gruesome timing makes perfect sense — because it was so wrong — as a way to tip folks off to the inescapable fact that something about it weren’t right.

Dear Drugs: THANK YOU!! for a real good time..


Without illegal drugs, my life, up till & including tonight, would have sucked toast. Way bogus. I mean bad; a total waste of time.

It would have all been so stupid!!

Shit yes. I have problems. My life has been hard. But when I’ve needed them drugs have been there for me. When I had nowhere else to turn it was drugs that saved the day.

Even when my life sucks directly because of drugs it still beats the sad crap out of how bad life would suck with no drugs at all. I will go so far as to say I feel certain I would’ve killed myself long ago if the drugs weren’t on my side.

Why? Because drugs gave me something to live for. A reason to stay awake for another day & night when the sun comes up each morning. Yeah & you know what?

Drugs give me Hope!

Mostly they’ve helped me celebrate life with people I love. I am going to die one day. When I do I’ll look back over this 1 & 3/4 decades-long drug binge and congratulate myself for a job smashingly well done. Yeppers kiddoz! My first hit of weed was the smartest choice I ever made. Until I finally got to check out some of that L$D!!

And when you go without food — due to smoldering abject poverty — for a day or few you will thank Adolph Hitler, Sweet Mother Earth and maybe even Jesus — that evil cocksucker — for all the amphetamines.

So thanks again drugs. Just sorry you had to wear off so soon. Ya’ll come back now y’hear!

Ok. Off to sleep.


HST & the Gay Hooker Connection

Came across this fairly well done mini-documentary (19 minutes) about Hunter S. Thompson’s alleged suicide. Of particular interest, to me, is the revelation that the good Doctor was working on a piece about ‘Jeff Gannon’ & the Gay Hooker Connection…

Click for video

Happy Winter Solstice.

Good Times ~ Bad Times.

My friend Andrea, some readers remember, made me puke my last 3 addaBoyz up in the toilet at a party a while back. Inadvertantly — she told a Puke Story that was so god-awfully funny that I puked myself. Who could hold it against her? Still, by well into the next day, I couldn’t stop thinking about those dang three pills. So I blogged a post about it. To remember them by; to assuage my grief.

Not just for the 3 speed pills. For all the drugs anywhere that have died horribly in piles of vomit before their Time.

*bows head in silence*

Andrea read it & thought it was a Hoot. Better yet, she promised to replace the pills — and made good on it today.

Wow. I hurled those pills out of my own damn mouth and blamed her for Fun & Convienence. And she replaced them??

I’m not Worthy!

Andrea is part-owner of the Weathervane Music Hall. If you’re ever in Brattleboro stop by for tunes & a drink…

~~ ~

I’ll pop those pills. Freaking gleefully! Truth be told I already did. I say this: If you don’t have four walls & a roof of your own a few good milligramz of addaBoyz & a blog are about the next best thing.

~ ~~

House Democrats voted today to ignore speaker-elect Nancy Pelosi’s plea to elect ardently anti-war Rep. John Murtha as Majority Leader of their party.

The Speaker traditionally remains neutral — to appear above the fray — in party leadership elections. Pelosi broke rank with tradition and jumped In for all the right reasons.

Props to Nancy — she got Chick Balls.

Democrats have an anti-war electorate to thank for the congressional majorities they enjoy. So Pelosi vowed to do everything possible to stop that war. Murtha, a career Marine who voted initially to use military force in Iraq, strategically catylized the Democratic party — at the start of ’06 campaign season — to stand unified for Redeployment.

‘I think they [Al Queda et al] are trying to get this administration to stay.’ Murtha conjectured boldly, ‘I think they want us there. Because we have united the Iraqis against us. We’re spending all this money and diverting our resources away from the war on terrorism because we’re involved in a civil war in Iraq.’

Democrats today had the chance to thank their voters and one of their own for making Election ’06 a wildly improbable raw-knuckle Stunner. Instead they rebuked both; a depressing answer to the question: Who has the Power?

By appearances the Power is not with Democrats who favor speedy troop withdrawls.

RIP: the Good Mood that lingered since we Thumped Republicans last week.


The weather in Vermont feels sinister these days. Piss warm when it ain’t supposed to be. We’re bearing down on Thanksgiving with mercury holdin steady, day & night, somewhere between 65 & 70 Fahrenheit degrees. In other words the temperature tonight would be vaguely cool — not quite even chilly — in mid-July.

With the right kind of ears you can just about hear the ominous gurgle of ice cap melt-off streams.

They say Change is Good. Humans have enjoyed a stable climate for all our existence. But what the hell good has it done? They’ve been coming after us with their Armaments ever since we learned to protect ourselves from the Elements…

…So I’ll take a flying for the fuck of it Leap & figure the Change is Good theorem applies to Climate Change too.

~ ~~

Dig: Hunter S. Thompsons’s circa 1972 description of California in the late 1960’s:

And that, I think, was the Handle — that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old & Evil. Not in any mean or military sense — we didn’t need that. There was no point in fighting — on our side or theirs. Our energy would simply prevail.

We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a High & Beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the High Water Mark — the place where the Wave finally broke and rolled back.

Nothing Lasts Forever. It’s incontestably the truth. The good times always die on their way up because they’re too good to ever come Down.

On the bright side: as go the Good Times so bad times must go, too. All waves roll both ways.

The best music is bittersweet.

Gonzo Fantasy

I was duped.

Click for music

Somewhere in the desert between Barstow & Vegas at the Edge of my adolescence — I was Plumb Lied To.

To wit:

Moments later, my attorney slipped into a drug coma and almost ran a red light on Main Street before I could gain control of the Shark and take the wheel myself. Feeling fine. Extremely sharp.

Total Control Now.

Ahh yes. This is what it is all about. Two Good Old Boys in a fire-apple red convertable on a Saturday Night in Las Vegas. STONED. Ripped. Twisted.

Good People.

Hunter S. Thompson wrote that. He was drinking heavily & for long with his friend Oscar at the Polo Lounge in Beverly Hills, one Friday afternoon back in ’71, when a uniformed dwarf cautiously approached their table with a pink telephone on a tray.

“This must be the call you’ve been waiting for this whole time.” said the Dwark.

Indeed. I gobbled the story down like a trunk-load of drugs. Better than drugs! Like a trunk-load of gonzoi doparhythm.

Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas — and Hunter himself — taught me how I alone happen to know precisely what the fuck I am doing. He made me want to bet smartly on me.

Dared me to bet my own life, even.

The call was from Sports Illustrated. That’s verifiably true. They hired Thompson to write a 250-word caption blurb about the Fabulous Mint 4oo motorcycle race in Las Vegas. They would leave at once. And expenses — rented hot-rod, sound-proof sweet, VIP parking — be damned.

The sporting editors also coughed up $300 cash which Doctor & Attorney famously spent on the following:

Two bags of grass. 75 pellets of mescaline. 5 sheets of high-power blotter acid…

I don’t have a copy of the Good Book with me. Am I getting this right? There was a salt shaker half-filled with cocaine, I recall. Plus a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers & laughers. And also a quart of rum. A quart of tequila. A pint of raw ether and a case of Budweiser…

They blew out of LA at dawn, purports the story, and were somewhere around Barstow when the drugs began to take hold. Then they drove around Vegas until their stash was gone. Wrote a couple Rolling Stone articles about it. Random House bought and published the articles as a book.

And that’s the story about how Hunter S. Thompson hit the Big Time — back when any jerk with a typewriter & a headfull of mescaline could do it that way.

But it doesn’t explain why I cried so when I saw the Good Doc’s obituary. I mean I wept wildly. There’s one quality in writers I admire above all; words that bring good folks together as friends.

And Hunter above ’em all was — is, truly — like a cosmically old Friend to me. One I’d long hoped to meet.

You know why I cried? Because I never got a chance to thank my old friend. To say:

I’m proud to call you my Hero.

Oh & yo Doc, one more thing — you are a pansy-eyed Amature Twerp and if you shot yourself — for real –well then I say you eat douches.

Dig this: A 1971 letter — published in 2000, 15 years after I first read Vegas — from Hunter to his Random House editor, Jim Silberman, in response to Jim’s peculiarly keen observation:

What depresses me is your statement that it was “absolutely clear” to you that Raoul Duke & his attorney “were not on drugs [in Las Vegas].” Because my conception of that piece was to write a thing that would tell what it was like to do a magazine assignment with a head full of weird drugs. I didn’t really make up anything — but I did, at times, bring situations & feelings I remember from other scenes to the reality at hand. I might even claim, for that matter, that this was done by consciously tripping the fabled “LSD recall and/or Flashback Mechanism.


So…the trunk of the Great Red Shark actually didn’t look like a mobile police narcotics lab?

So Hunter Thompson drove sober.


His acid-crazed attorney didn’t want to be electrocuted to death in the bath when the White Rabbit peaked?

Nah — the Samoan just threw a little hissy-fit when he lost his rubber ducky under the tub.

Thompson’s mind didn’t recoil in horror then at the sight of his body parking the Shark — floor-mats soaked in ether — on the sidewalk in front of Circus Circus?

Well. Yes he did park on the sidewalk. But it was an emergency; his attorney spotted an old lady with no one to help her cross the street!

Why not? By his own admission every word in the book was bogus. A fraud on its face. But he was on someone else’s corporate tab. So of course it had to be done.
All this begs the Question: did he — or did he not — drag that fence 30 feet across the Las Vegas Airport runway so his Attorney wouldn’t miss his flight?

Either way I tell you what Buster — don’t FUCK with the Drug Coma on Main Street!

That one is sacred. Let me have my jollies. Don’t mess with a man’s Gonzo Fantasy.

We’re all friends here :)

At the age of 15 I believed every word written in Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas. Down to the last drop of human adrenalcreme!


Children are capable, of course, of literary belief, when the storymaker’s art is good enough to produce it. That state of mind has been called the “willing suspension of disbelief.” But this does not seem to me to be a good description of what happens. What really happens is the storymaker proves a successful “subcreator.” He makes a Secondary World which your mind can enter. Inside it, what he relates is “true;” it accords with the laws of that world. You therefore believe it while you are, as it were, inside.

JRR Tolkien

Weird: 15 years after I first read Vegas — and a half decade since it’s been revealed fictional — I don’t believe any less in the truth twoard which Hunter strove. If anything…way more.
I also believe Gandalf smote that Balrog on the snowy mountain and survived. Remember when they found Gandalf with Treebeard? I felt joy. Why? Gandalf is my friend. Must be, since I think it totally rocks, still, the way he didn’t die.

And what of DR. HST? Credit Where Due:

Hunter S. Thompson was a Fantasy man. Surely as Gandalf rode Shadofax fast the Good Doctor wrote some curiously potent fantasy. Most remarkable were his repeated, admirable attempts — sheriff’s race; Rock & Roll vote; unique friendship with and all powerful early endorsement of President Carter — to spike the punch-bowl of Reality.

He duped me in the best possible way. I never doubted a word he wrote. Yet he made it all up. Or did he? Honestly — why would he leave drug infested LA for an all-expense paid Vegas weekend without a trunk full of goodies?

Some suggest Hunter’s work is G-Rated fiction; a Secondary World subcreated from his own, far more depraved Reality…

Did he sample human adrenalcreme? I sure don’t know — and I never will. I’ll wonder though. But always get my best Hoot when I don’t know.

But this is a different subject, & there’s no point in trying to come to grips with it here. What I’m talking about, in essense, is the mechanical Reality of Gonzo Journalism…or Total Subjectivity, as opposed to the bogus demands of Objectivity.
>>HST re: Vegas 1971

To help grasp the Gonzo concept I offer the most succinct yet thorough description Hunter wrote on his self-invented style:

You Cannot Always Find Two “Reliable Sources” to Verify What You Know is True. And that is where I parted company with those bastards a long time ago..

I propose a hybrid genre; one I’ve barely touched on here. What I’m into in essense is Gonzo Fantasy. A kind of neuromolecular Make-Believe; an alternate to the bogus-load o’ bull we’re duped to believe is Reality.

Keep it unreal!

My brain doesn’t work right today. Plain don’t.

Can’t write for shit. Plumb can’t.

I offer 2 compelling alternatives to the crappy bull you’re accustomed to reading around here:

Please read Ishtar’s chilling first-hand account of the day Civil War struck Iraq.

If you need a laugh to cheer you up after — you may — dig this: