Hunter Thompson killed himself. Pretty shitty way to start the week, huh? I'm not an idol worshipper, not a person who has a lot of heroes. But for good or bad, Thompson was one of my heroes. If you haven't read his work before, you owe it to yourself to do it now - it's an awesome legacy he left for us to remember him by.
New Orleans writer Poppy Brite met Thompson recently when he was in town, and she said:
"I wish I was surprised, but when we met HST last month, something was obviously, physically very wrong. He wasn't drunk or otherwise intoxicated, but he couldn't stand up by himself. He had to lean on other people, or prop himself up on the clothes counters at Perlis. Though his mind seemed as sharp as ever (and I believe it was sharp, always, incredibly so, through all the bourbon and mescaline and adrenochrome and other things none of us has even heard of), he was completely dependent on others for his basic physical well-being. I can't imagine anyone used to fighting and scamming and shooting his way through life wanting to live like that. I didn't like to say anything at the time, but I tell you this now in hopes of letting at least a few people know that he most certainly did not take the easy way out."
This doesn't surprise me. Somewhere yesterday I read where someone had said "he wasn't going to age gracefully." True. We can't - and probably won't - know what motivated him. But on this, I think, we have to trust that he made the right decision.
From James Likeks:
"...don’t forget that there was a reason he had a reputation. Read 'Hell's Angels.' That was a man who could hit the keys right."
And that's how he'd want to be remembered. And for all the dope, of course. Next time you have a drink or take a hit or lick a toad, think of him - he would have liked that.
What's been up with me, you ask? Huh. Well, when you last heard from me it was Christmas-ish, wasn't it? We went to Memphis for the holiday. We were going to leave one night, but we ended up leaving the next day because a vicious winter storm went through Memphis and the collected Family was strongly advising that we give it an extra day. This was very smart.
The last fifty miles of Mississippi were crusted with ice and snow. Cars were bumper to bumper going ten miles an hour and still there were cars off the road every twenty-five yards. Not cars from the night before, either. These cars were still idling, nose-down in the ditch, and full of people yammering on their cell phones for immediate assistance that was certainly not coming. They'd just gone off the road moments before we got there. Nerve-wracking. The whole time we were there the temperature never got up to thirty degrees so there was much slipping and sliding. I finally busted my ass on the curb outside a friend's house. It was fabulous. A winter wonderland.
And it snowed in New Orleans, too! Christmas day, no less. You could still see it when we got back to town in shady spots and under bushes - snow in New Orleans, looking as out of place as a flamingo in Maine.
New Year's? We opened a bottle of champagne after the boy went to bed. Sonya had two sips from her glass and promptly passed out on the couch. I finished off the bottle and had an aching head the next day. Amatuer night.
There was Mardi Gras! Big discovery of the season: John loves parades. By Fat Tuesday he was holding out his hands and hooting when a float came by, then squirming to get down on the sidewalk in time for the marching bands so he could dance to the music. Jen and James and Kieran were in town for the festivities and we had an awesome time. Mardi Gras with kids is different than without, but still very good. It's even more about the parades and the eating, but you still get to drink beer AND you're in bed at a decent hour. Not a bad combo.
I did get to spend Endymion Saturday over the grill at Siobhan and Cordelia's house, which was more fun than I thought possible. I was right next to the keg, too - bonus! So I cooked and drank beer and wrangled my little boy and even saw a little bit of the parade. We were on the route, but that did nothing but confirm my opinion of the Endymion crowd: they only go to one parade and they must have every bead that comes off of every float or they have been robbed! Robbed, I say! I had a blast cooking all day, though - by the grill was definitely the hip place to be. Around eight that night I sat down in the backyard and ate two hot dogs and a big pile of potato salad with a big cup of beer. The crowd out front was screaming for beads and the marching bands were pounding away. I stank of charcoal smoke. It was a great little moment.
And that was just a couple of weeks ago. Anything else interesting? Uh...last week John had a fever in the middle of the night, accompanied by much screaming. This found the family driving along Jefferson Highway at three in the morning, listening to classical music as John drifted to sleep. We had to turn around in Kenner - the fog was so thick I was afraid we'd hit another car or a boat or something. Diagnosis: ear infection.
Oh! And the boy goes to sleep on his own now! I put him in his bed, ten minutes later he's asleep. Isn't that cool and very grown-up? And he eats everything in sight. Last night I came in with a bag of chicken from Popeye's.
"Yummy yummy yummy!" he said, doing a little dance and trying to climb into his highchair. Yummy? I guess he picked that up at school.
