Today I ended up getting the one book I've been putting off and putting off from getting. The book Ralph Steadman ended up writing after the good Doctor punched his own ticket in 2005, called "The Joke's over" which is pretty much Ralph talking about his best friend and all the times they had together, and a lot of the copies of the faxes they had going back and forth to each other. (I have a strong feeling that Doc really didn't like using the phone that much and would rather type away at his typewriter instead, god knows he could talk almost as fast as he could write, probably.)
I started to flip through it once I bought it and I have to say, there are a lot of very interesting faxes that the Doctor of Journalism wrote to his dear friend, about stuffing a dead dog wrapped in a Santa Suit down the chimmey of the houses of one of the people he hates on X-mas Eve. Trust me on this one folks, some of this stuff, I don't have a twisted enough mind to think this crap up. Over all, the book is a gem in itself really, especally Ralph talking about him trying to get Hunter out of his hotel room one day and all that Hunter was doing on the other side was making weird groans and "loud cat wails." It's a book that no Thompson fan should be with out.
But after a while, I closed the book and I ended up getting this feeling in my stomach, it wasn't a bad feeling, but it wasn't a good feeling, it was just a weird feeling. It was like, I was reading about a man who I greatly admired and was a big fan of his work, and he's dead. He's really gone, I think it's been a while since I got the reality of him really being gone after two years since he did it.
I mean I remember reading some of his work in eariler 2004 and thinking, "Wow, this man is such a genius, he knows his work and he has such a way of writing things, I would give anything to write like that, to have that passion of writing in mine own." But now with him gone, I don't know, I don't think my writer's muse allows me to think like that anymore because everytime I do, I feel almost guilty in a way, knowing that he's gone. I don't know.
All I know is that his work will always live on, always. There will never be another man like HST, ever. He was one in a billion, and now... he's gone. He's probably looking down at us (or up, which ever view you perfer) watching humanity through his dark sunglasses, probably saying a witty comment or two about how all the goverment has gone to hell, taking a long drag on the cigarette in his mouth, downing some of the whiskey he has in a tall cup filled with ice, and then walking away, off to cause some chaos where ever it leads him.
*Raises glass*
I started to flip through it once I bought it and I have to say, there are a lot of very interesting faxes that the Doctor of Journalism wrote to his dear friend, about stuffing a dead dog wrapped in a Santa Suit down the chimmey of the houses of one of the people he hates on X-mas Eve. Trust me on this one folks, some of this stuff, I don't have a twisted enough mind to think this crap up. Over all, the book is a gem in itself really, especally Ralph talking about him trying to get Hunter out of his hotel room one day and all that Hunter was doing on the other side was making weird groans and "loud cat wails." It's a book that no Thompson fan should be with out.
But after a while, I closed the book and I ended up getting this feeling in my stomach, it wasn't a bad feeling, but it wasn't a good feeling, it was just a weird feeling. It was like, I was reading about a man who I greatly admired and was a big fan of his work, and he's dead. He's really gone, I think it's been a while since I got the reality of him really being gone after two years since he did it.
I mean I remember reading some of his work in eariler 2004 and thinking, "Wow, this man is such a genius, he knows his work and he has such a way of writing things, I would give anything to write like that, to have that passion of writing in mine own." But now with him gone, I don't know, I don't think my writer's muse allows me to think like that anymore because everytime I do, I feel almost guilty in a way, knowing that he's gone. I don't know.
All I know is that his work will always live on, always. There will never be another man like HST, ever. He was one in a billion, and now... he's gone. He's probably looking down at us (or up, which ever view you perfer) watching humanity through his dark sunglasses, probably saying a witty comment or two about how all the goverment has gone to hell, taking a long drag on the cigarette in his mouth, downing some of the whiskey he has in a tall cup filled with ice, and then walking away, off to cause some chaos where ever it leads him.
*Raises glass*










