RIP HST
Author Hunter S. Thompson took his own life yesterday. His chaotic form of journalism is admired by many and reminds me of the poem The Jabberwocky. His writing gives readers a queasy understanding of the revalations of a journalist on a 7-day acid bender . Some of you may not know Thompson was a motorcycle fan and wrote a disturbing piece on the Ducati called Song of the Sausage Creature, it's quite good. RIP HST.
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We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of uppers, downers, laughers, screamers... Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can. The only thing that really worried me was the ether. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge, and I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon.
-hunter.
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