Don't take any guff from those swine
After taking my three-year-old neice for the night Friday (a more effective means of birth control escapes me), my man and I decided to dedicate Saturday night to ice cold beer in frosty mugs, pizza and movies. With interludes of sex and sleep, we continued into Sunday afternoon: Godfather I and II back to back- but with bowls of spaghetti as the nutritional accompaniment, naturally. Afterward, another interlude (not sleep), I let my man choose from three of the library of movies in my collection which he had never seen. They included: Wild at Heart, Sunset Boulevard or Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. He decided to hop in the back seat of the convertable with Gonzo and Raoul to go for a ride. May I take a moment; it is another effective deterrant for me- this time, drugs.... Gotta lay off the adrenochrome. Anyway, skip ahead to this morning, after another duel interlude (yes, life is good), my honey gets up to start his morning ritual- namely breakfast and ESPN highlights. I turn on the weather, hoping for an excuse to not leave bed, when he walks back into the room, "You ready for this? ESPN just reported that Hunter S. Thompson is dead. Apparent suicide." Gunshot wound to the head, I thought, he wouldn't take any other way out, "Did they say how?" "No, just an autopsy to follow."
Flipping through the channels brought me news of how to protect your kids from internet prowlers, the latest diet fad and traffic reports. Not a peep about Uncle Duke. Did they not know- or think the morning demographic would care? To me, his writing embodied everything I aspire to: sharp, funny, irreverent, poignant, embellished and thrilling. I hope he found some peace this existance couldn't offer.