Suffocating Laughs Are Hard To Come By

The Decemberists - Castaways and Cutouts

You know the kind of laughs that make you stop breathing? Aren't they great? Agree!

I think, during the winter, the best way to find them is by driving around with a few friends in a chevy caprice and hitting snow piles at a respectable speed. Ahh, and that's exactly what I did tonight. It's a great thing that small towns have such a lack of law enforcement.

I'm almost ashamed to say this but, fellow bloggers, I have been seeing someone else. Don't worry, I ended it before it got too serious. I had a rough week long affair with Myspace.Com. After much thought, I concluded Myspace.Com just doesn't offer what Blogger.Com does. I have, just recently, terminated my Myspace.Com account and no longer have any association with it. Forgive Me?

Also, I'm going to add a new feature to all my posts. I will list what music I am listening to at the top of the page. I'm sure other people do this as well.

Megan, Where's Jandek???

Since I don't think my computer is going to be ready today or tomorrow, I've been writing new reviews to send to Mike at Rockpile. Hopefully he'll like them and decide to publish my reviews from then on and send me free stuff. There's other places I plan to submit too. But, I'm going to go one at a time to see if I can handle writing for more than two publications.

After a little convincing, my editor at The Voice agreed to give me 150 words for Hunter S. Thompson to be published in the end-of-the-year issue. I was able to edit it down to about 300 words. I'm sure she'll touch it up and then give it to her editor, Erin, and Erin will shit on it but, whatever. Read It Here, Shit-Free.

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At the conclusion of every year we see so many new faces in the media, rising actors turning into big screen celebrities, aspiring musicians turning into rock n’ roll icons, and first year professional athletes turning into the big game champions. But, such year-end highlights can never shine brighter than the afterglow of those whose gleaming lambencies have burnt out, never to burn again.

Original Gonzo journalist, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, committed suicide this pass February at his home, Owl Farm, in Woody Creek, Colorado. Having survived 67 years till then, the doctor had reaped a reputation for looking at alcohol and drugs with big eyes and writing his books and articles with highbrow wit. Thompson inhaled words and exhaled his literary craft onto the pages of such books as Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Hell’s Angels, and Fear and Loathing: On The Campaign Trail ’72.

Thompson had a lively love for firearms, constantly shooting guns at his home. Using a .45 caliber pistol, on February 20th, 2005, Thompson took his life. According to the sheriff’s report when Thompson’s body was found, he was sitting in a chair located in the kitchen of his home, with a typewriter before him, which contained a solo piece of paper that held the word “counselor” in the center.

The following is a note Hunter had written in black marker for his wife, Anita, days before his suicide. He had titled it, “Football Season Is Over.”

"No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax this won't hurt."