MY DRIVEN AND DOOMED LOVE FOR HUNTER THOMPSON
An Ill-thought Out Intellectual and Sexual Odyssey
Hunter Thompson shoved me aside in the midst of a seething crowd, and said "Get out of the way, kid. You are impeding progress."
My plan was to trip him and while he lay stunned on the ground, beat on his chest in a faux resuscitation effort. I would be wailing and hysterical, but he would take notice when I helped him to his feet.
The good doctor was an intellectual, but that was not enough to enslave me. I loved his style: Slash and burn. Manic high. Hyperbole for no good reason. Inventive streams of cursing and clean, clear thinking on paper about dirty bastards.
My goal was to write like Hunter Thompson;Cut loose witha stream of juxtaposed invective in the middle of something expository and calm, the way a painter slashes red onto his innocent little pastel.
The man spent every waking and semi-comatose hour tracking evil mudsuckers to the ground, and I wanted to be his sidekick: Tonto to the Lone Ranger, his Robin to Batman, his Ouspensky to Gurchieff,his Peter Boganovich to Orson Welles.
I was fifteen and planned to lay seige to this man.
(Page1 of a novel in progress)
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