...I didn't feel tragic at all, but only weary, and sort of comfortably detached.

In time for Presidents' Day Hunter Thompson has left us.

I opened the only book of his that I own, his novel The Rum Diary and just opened it to the middle and read the first passage I found and that was the heading for this entry.

"...because down in my gut I wanted nothing more than a clean bed and a bright room and something solid to call my own at least until I got tired of it. There was an awful suspicion in my mind that I'd finally gone over the hump, and the worst thing about it was that I didn't feel tragic at all, but only weary, and sort of comfortably detached." (121)

Hell's Angels changed me. Who of the living occidental boys is still with us? Who of acumen and vitriol?

Into an age darkening, the call is out for some who will point their fingers at the heart of our malaise, to channel the shit and razors of our epoch and articulate them into speech.

Who of these living is left?

Lights are going out. Americans wanted.


Image from BoingBoing.