Sunday, September 19, 2010


The world around me, people, their bullshit, their coolness, and how it all zips up together is endlessly fascinating and entertaining to me and I'm pretty sure I've said that a thousand different ways.

But during the 2004 election, when John Kerry stood like a shivering puppy while George W. Bush wiped the floor with him, the air started hissing out of my balloon. And then, like an exclamation point at the end of a very depressing sentence, Hunter S. Thompson committed suicide at the age of 67. 17 Years Past 50. His suicide note said that was 17 years more than he needed or wanted. Relax. This won't hurt a bit.

He only meant that last line for himself.

For me, that day meant that the age of the easy answer is over. All we have now is the choice to confront that like we have some kind of backbone (which is kind of what used to rock about being American) or become shadow effects littering our own dusty sidewalks.

Some days I'm sure the backbone guy will win. Then, on other, much more realistic days, I just see a windmill.