Author Hunter S. Thompson Commits Suicide
Oh. God.
He was one of my heroes. Not the drugs, or the swearing, or the fact that he was a walking urban legend. He could write the most brilliant, the most incisive pieces when his mind was on it.
In my head, I always thought of him as "Uncle" Hunter.
That bastard Trudeau better mark this passing, or I swear I'll tear his guts out.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Sunrise
I'm not really sure what to write.
I don't think it was the colors, the pale peach smudge against all the blue and gray of dawn, the way the smudge brightened and infused the clouds with amber, rose and cinnamon while the blues and grays edged into purples of innumerable hues. Those colors have all been caught and discussed and captured. There are names for them. Naming them can't be the same as seeing them.
No, the magic in a sunrise is in the unfolding of it; the gradual way that things change. At first, I couldn't even tell where the sun was rising. Then the smudge, and the infusion. The sense of anticipation was slow but building; somewhere above the horizon, beyond the clouds, the sun was moving. There was a small, deep tangerine crescent glowing just above the water, then minutes of nothing.
Finally, a strangely regular gap in the cloud itself lit up with fire—a hole, then a slit, then a slash and then two slashes, widening, growing together until the first orange arc rose above the cloud. It moved so quickly! The anticipation wound out to its end, the sun's arc growing until it was a disk sitting on the cloud, reflected rippling on the lake. Then it hung there, as if it weren't going to move again. I knew it was continuing upward, but for a moment I couldn't believe it. The moment was a second, then two, then 10 and I held my breath, convinced that today the laws of physics were circumspect, that the sun was exhausted and would stop or, worse, sink back down.
Then it moved behind another cloud above it. I breathed again, and realized that I was, and had been, staring directly at the sun. I didn't care. I was cold. I turned around, took off my gloves and lit a cigarette. I walked home.
There don't seem to be any diners around here. There are cafes that open at 8:00 a.m., but no diners open at seven. I wanted very much to go to a diner, windows fogged with the scents of breakfasts cooked and consumed by the clanking, rustling, sighing life inside. I wanted to sit at the counter, smoke a cigarette, drink coffee and order eggs from a waitress in a starched, pin-striped uniform. Someone with henna-ed curls caught up in a hair-net. Someone with crow's feet and arched eyebrows. Someone who, casually, might call me "Hon" or "Shug." I wanted to mop up egg yolk with an English muffin, tuck a generous tip under my dirty plate, slide sideways off the bolted-down stool while I smiled, and waved, and said "Thank you."
I don't think it was the colors, the pale peach smudge against all the blue and gray of dawn, the way the smudge brightened and infused the clouds with amber, rose and cinnamon while the blues and grays edged into purples of innumerable hues. Those colors have all been caught and discussed and captured. There are names for them. Naming them can't be the same as seeing them.
No, the magic in a sunrise is in the unfolding of it; the gradual way that things change. At first, I couldn't even tell where the sun was rising. Then the smudge, and the infusion. The sense of anticipation was slow but building; somewhere above the horizon, beyond the clouds, the sun was moving. There was a small, deep tangerine crescent glowing just above the water, then minutes of nothing.
Finally, a strangely regular gap in the cloud itself lit up with fire—a hole, then a slit, then a slash and then two slashes, widening, growing together until the first orange arc rose above the cloud. It moved so quickly! The anticipation wound out to its end, the sun's arc growing until it was a disk sitting on the cloud, reflected rippling on the lake. Then it hung there, as if it weren't going to move again. I knew it was continuing upward, but for a moment I couldn't believe it. The moment was a second, then two, then 10 and I held my breath, convinced that today the laws of physics were circumspect, that the sun was exhausted and would stop or, worse, sink back down.
Then it moved behind another cloud above it. I breathed again, and realized that I was, and had been, staring directly at the sun. I didn't care. I was cold. I turned around, took off my gloves and lit a cigarette. I walked home.
There don't seem to be any diners around here. There are cafes that open at 8:00 a.m., but no diners open at seven. I wanted very much to go to a diner, windows fogged with the scents of breakfasts cooked and consumed by the clanking, rustling, sighing life inside. I wanted to sit at the counter, smoke a cigarette, drink coffee and order eggs from a waitress in a starched, pin-striped uniform. Someone with henna-ed curls caught up in a hair-net. Someone with crow's feet and arched eyebrows. Someone who, casually, might call me "Hon" or "Shug." I wanted to mop up egg yolk with an English muffin, tuck a generous tip under my dirty plate, slide sideways off the bolted-down stool while I smiled, and waved, and said "Thank you."
Sunrise, and I weed my DVDs...
So, here it is, oh-dark-thirty, and I'm still up. I've been reading a blog by a woman I knew years ago, drinking Earl Gray tea, and waiting for 6-o'clock, when I'm going to jump in the shower and then go watch the sunrise. I haven't left the apartment since Thursday. Can you tell I'm on vacation?
Earlier, I cleaned up a bit, talked to my brother down in Jacksonville, worked up some wicked arcane spell combos for D&D, and watched both Big Fish and From Hell. Funny thing, I used to like From Hell a lot; it had a good story, both Johnny Depp and Robbie Coltrane's characters were interesting as hell and Heather Graham...well, I fucking hate Heather Graham—she couldn't act her way out from under an awning—but even she wasn't painfully bad. Then I read Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell's original graphic novel, and the movie suddenly sucks ass. For one thing, Moore introduces the character of Sir William Gull before the murders begin and—get this—the entire story unfolds through his eyes. The reader gets to see exactly what motivates him. There's an entire chapter in which he travels London, telling Netley about the timelessness of the city and how its history is written in blood and atrocities and how he sees his "work" as the crowning achievement of this history. The story is painstakingly researched, and the artwork is both disturbingly detailed in its realism and hallucinatory in its evocativeness. The book is a masterpiece. And the movie...isn't even close.
So, there's a DVD I'll be trading in soon.
Big Fish, on the other hand, is always enjoyable. I've seen it twice, and I've cried twice. Sure, the story's kind of saccharine, but it's also original, imaginative in Tim Burton's lens and well-acted by...well, shit, everybody.
So, there's a DVD I'll be keeping.
I don't really know why I want to go out and brave this frigid weather to sit on a cold stone bench and watch the sun come up over Lake Michigan. I've been thinking of doing it ever since Monday morning, when I stayed up goofing off until 7:00 a.m. I think it's because I haven't ever done it, and I've lived in Milwaukee for over two years now. Honestly, I can't remember the last time I simply stayed up and watched the sunrise. It must've been a very long time ago.
I don't really know, though. And that's not too surprising, is it?
Earlier, I cleaned up a bit, talked to my brother down in Jacksonville, worked up some wicked arcane spell combos for D&D, and watched both Big Fish and From Hell. Funny thing, I used to like From Hell a lot; it had a good story, both Johnny Depp and Robbie Coltrane's characters were interesting as hell and Heather Graham...well, I fucking hate Heather Graham—she couldn't act her way out from under an awning—but even she wasn't painfully bad. Then I read Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell's original graphic novel, and the movie suddenly sucks ass. For one thing, Moore introduces the character of Sir William Gull before the murders begin and—get this—the entire story unfolds through his eyes. The reader gets to see exactly what motivates him. There's an entire chapter in which he travels London, telling Netley about the timelessness of the city and how its history is written in blood and atrocities and how he sees his "work" as the crowning achievement of this history. The story is painstakingly researched, and the artwork is both disturbingly detailed in its realism and hallucinatory in its evocativeness. The book is a masterpiece. And the movie...isn't even close.
So, there's a DVD I'll be trading in soon.
Big Fish, on the other hand, is always enjoyable. I've seen it twice, and I've cried twice. Sure, the story's kind of saccharine, but it's also original, imaginative in Tim Burton's lens and well-acted by...well, shit, everybody.
So, there's a DVD I'll be keeping.
I don't really know why I want to go out and brave this frigid weather to sit on a cold stone bench and watch the sun come up over Lake Michigan. I've been thinking of doing it ever since Monday morning, when I stayed up goofing off until 7:00 a.m. I think it's because I haven't ever done it, and I've lived in Milwaukee for over two years now. Honestly, I can't remember the last time I simply stayed up and watched the sunrise. It must've been a very long time ago.
I don't really know, though. And that's not too surprising, is it?
Friday, February 18, 2005
New specs!
Before:
After:
I prefer after.
By the way, is "specs" still a valid term for glasses? I think we should resurrect it, if it isn't.
After:
I prefer after.
By the way, is "specs" still a valid term for glasses? I think we should resurrect it, if it isn't.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Meet my new hero, Chris Teague!
Nude Club Hands Out Pencils, Sketch Pads
Strip clubs...whatever. I don't go to them because the beer is too expensive and I've got over a gig of porn here at home. So, why go out and be aroused by naked women dancing and, simultaneously, be depressed by the sight of lonely old guys shoving small bills into g-strings with trembling, lust-palsied hands when I can sit here being aroused by naked women having sex and, simultaneously, be depressed by the thought that I have both a lonely, forlorn existence and a small penis?
No contest: I stay home.
However, while I have no love for strip clubs, I have even less for Draconian rules against them. So, hats off to Chris Teague, who found that little loophole in the law and, simultaneously, filled it with culture and naked women.
That is some serious artistry there, folks.
Strip clubs...whatever. I don't go to them because the beer is too expensive and I've got over a gig of porn here at home. So, why go out and be aroused by naked women dancing and, simultaneously, be depressed by the sight of lonely old guys shoving small bills into g-strings with trembling, lust-palsied hands when I can sit here being aroused by naked women having sex and, simultaneously, be depressed by the thought that I have both a lonely, forlorn existence and a small penis?
No contest: I stay home.
However, while I have no love for strip clubs, I have even less for Draconian rules against them. So, hats off to Chris Teague, who found that little loophole in the law and, simultaneously, filled it with culture and naked women.
That is some serious artistry there, folks.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Well, so much for adulthood...
I don't know why I did it, but I did:
Yup, I bought a reprint of my absolute favorite Iron Maiden T-shirt. Twenty bucks, that I really can't afford, delivered right to my door from '80s Tees.
I've told various friends that I've turned my back on adulthood (why does that always sound like a-dullt-hood or a-dolt-hood to me?) or that I'm regressing to age 15. Honestly, I think that, as much as I meant them to be smart-ass comments, the sentiment might be true. I feel like I'm failing as a responsible adult and, quite honestly, I just don't care. I want very much to embrace the house/kids/car/401-k/medical insurance thing, but I don't even know how to begin.
Sorry, didn't mean to turn a lighthearted post into some kind of personal revelation-thing. I was really excited when I got the shirt; it literally made my day much, much better!
But I'm awfully tired. More tired than I think a 34-year-old should be, y'know?
Yup, I bought a reprint of my absolute favorite Iron Maiden T-shirt. Twenty bucks, that I really can't afford, delivered right to my door from '80s Tees.
I've told various friends that I've turned my back on adulthood (why does that always sound like a-dullt-hood or a-dolt-hood to me?) or that I'm regressing to age 15. Honestly, I think that, as much as I meant them to be smart-ass comments, the sentiment might be true. I feel like I'm failing as a responsible adult and, quite honestly, I just don't care. I want very much to embrace the house/kids/car/401-k/medical insurance thing, but I don't even know how to begin.
Sorry, didn't mean to turn a lighthearted post into some kind of personal revelation-thing. I was really excited when I got the shirt; it literally made my day much, much better!
But I'm awfully tired. More tired than I think a 34-year-old should be, y'know?
Monday, February 14, 2005
Now, I'm lonely and stuff...
...but this is just amazing:
St. Valentine's Day mass suicide pact fears
My favorite part? Right here:
Call me nuts, but I'm not about to get wrapped up in worrying about something so obviously contrived.
Oh, by the way, lonely desperate women out there? Drop by my apartment any time. I can't guarantee sex, but I will give you a snack and chat with you if you like. And rest assured, hanging naked by the neck from a beam will not be on the agenda.
St. Valentine's Day mass suicide pact fears
My favorite part? Right here:
"He invited them to engage in certain sexual acts with them, and then they were to hang themselves naked from a beam in his house. He was indicating in these chat groups that he had a beam and that it would hold multiple people."What. The. Fuck? I'm honestly saddened that people can get so lonely as to even entertain the notion of going to some complete stranger's house, having sex with this person, then dangling from a beam with a few other complete strangers. I mean, for fuck's sake people, it's a god-damned made up holiday! Thing was invented by some marketing genius at Hallmark who had too much red ink and tulle lying around after Christmas and realized that February was a long, depressing month that otherwise didn't lend itself to selling fucking cards. Seriously, I'm no expert in hagiography, but I'm reasonably sure that the Christian Saint Valentine did his best to distance himself from the Roman deity Cupid.
Call me nuts, but I'm not about to get wrapped up in worrying about something so obviously contrived.
Oh, by the way, lonely desperate women out there? Drop by my apartment any time. I can't guarantee sex, but I will give you a snack and chat with you if you like. And rest assured, hanging naked by the neck from a beam will not be on the agenda.
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