And no Vincent Black Shadow Either
There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . . And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . . So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.
Obviously, if you find yourself ever writing in the style of Hunter S. Thompson, especially the more misogynistic side while indulging in the excesses of 90s hyper-capitalist Russia, you should stop and think again, instead of making a career out of it. Also, you’re likely to miss the sentimental core of his work as shown above; at the end, beneath all the cynicism and the epic amounts of drugs, he was another hippie1.
But anyway, don’t emulate HST2. I say that as somebody who has a folder in the other room that at the very least has an embarrassing ‘review’ of Glastonbury 1999 that is dripping in ‘Fear & Loathing’.
Anyhow, that has been ‘your leftist journalist darlings are problematic’. As for me, still a few Things That I Can’t Talk About Yet. Which makes for a rather boring weekly update, I’m afraid. Maybe next week will be more exciting?