The Lion That Roared

“Our lives as we lead them are passed on to others, whether in physical or mental forms, tingeing all future lives together. This should be enough for one who lives for truth and service to his fellow passengers on the way.” -Luther Burbank

The unexpected death of the good Dr. Hunter S. Thompson hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks, laid me to waste; his decision to remove himself from our national register a rude, vicious slap upside my head, the one you don’t see coming.
A foggy, early morning revelation appeared like the four horsemen trumpeting, "Game Over!", and the announcement, not to mention the deed itself, came bearing the gift of more ragged emotion than I normally would’ve expected. Upon hearing the televised news while under cloak of degenerate behavior -reaming and screaming like a rabid weasel in the darkest of night before dawn- and over the course of the next gloom infested twenty-four hours, I was reduced to a sniveling pile of snot and tears. And this over a man I’d never met! But yet, I did meet the esteemed Dr. Thompson through his words. And it was his words that made all the difference.
Hunter’s jagged point of view, at first, a jolt of primal adrenaline that I didn’t get from anyone else whom I tried to read, who suffered under the pretense of being a writer, who collectively bored me beyond somnambulism. This man’s blood boiled and mine bubbled along with his as I read his furious prose, the holes in the damn breaking loose, the landscape on the other side soon to be forever rendered asunder.
While connecting with Hunter, reading, “The Great Shark Hunt” -the first book I’d ever purchased- his use of language made me literally laugh out loud at the sheer audaciousness of his uniquely twisted view -another first- but the more I absorbed his jabbering bulldog screed the more the importance of what he said sunk in; a big-time plus that his atypical delivery made his snarling, unwavering truth both informative as well as entertaining, something I missed in all the other literature I was subjected to during my internship of force fed dogma. And I listened. Rapturously. I hadn’t any choice under the spell of his rampant will. Subscribing to a whole new delivery, his words leapt from the page and demanded mine and other’s attention, pummeling us with fresh, unvarnished discovery, an Oz-like veil finally lifted for all who cared delve. From that moment of turning page after page of “The Great Shark Hunt”, I ventured out to the edge of that cliff with Hunter and fully immersed in the loony, two-bit, low rent shuffle of American ideals gone awry of which he was not loathe to challenge; both delighted and enlightened at his yammering and wailing at the vile circus that threatens to drain our will, pointing a finger and howling loud enough for the world to hear the injustices that plague our society. God love him for it! ...I know I did. Overnight, in the course of ingesting his violent collision of prose and reality I became a devotee’, gleefully devouring his words, his concepts, as he let his soul ratchet to a high pitched whine, duly exposing all that was wrong with the American dream. Unabashed, with sidearm purpose and epiphinal conviction, Hunter spoke loud and clear, teeth bared and arms flailing. No quarter given. No quarter asked. He was unrepentant. And I loved him more every day, each page turned.
The afternoon following his fatal pull of the trigger, my pervasive melancholy grew sullied with a boiling, indignant anger as I watched a bevy of stiff shirts -who simply weren’t worthy to swill his bodily excretions, hunched up and swollen with self importance as they were, gloating in their parasitical five seconds of fame by virtue of grasping his coattails while preening on every cable news program available- waxing, mincing, spewing their tepid consensus on the man; most noticeably staking a shallow, unknowing, condescending view of his lifestyle, and more alarmingly, his excesses. As if their highbrow sniffling view of him somehow denigrated his body of work! And I seethed. A wanton venom and an incredulous ire taking root, I watched the talking heads wallow in the politically correct mire, wishing I could eat the spleen of every jackleg I viewed, knowing in my heart of hearts that Hunter would’ve wanted me to pick up the gauntlet and rattle their complacent, empty cages in his honor, just for starters. Not that he gave a good hard fuck, as in the big scheme of things literary he didn’t, but in death, how dare they?!?! What did they hope to prove?! Hunter had taken the road less traveled and walked it like he talked it, lived it to his very last breath, and no one could ever take that away from him. Yet his limp wristed contemporaries openly questioned his legacy, his importance in the literary world! ...Drivel by any other name. Unimportant, pompous drivel to be sure. But hey, they were true to their tick like existence, and for them, I felt no pity, nor sorrow. Only disdain. Rancor. And a reason to throw this carefully executed solar plexus shot of which they’re deserving. I gnaw on their rancid bones and dare them to tell me, or anyone else, different. Fuck those cowards! Double clutch fuck them! How empty their existence.
Over the course of the next few days I’m sure the stiff shirts, and others like them, were most surprised by the international outpouring of kudos, as many who understood and respected his body of work defended his eccentricities by shining a light where it was needed, on the words and what they stood for, taking great pains to explain that without folks who dare, like Hunter, we’d live in a much different society, one that might not necessarily be the bastion of freedom it purports to be, and in turn bringing color to ones whose lives are only a murky shade of gray. And there were also others who pointed out that due to circumstances beyond his control, an environment that doesn’t necessarily champion freedom of speech, his glory days were, more or less, behind him. And his paranoia may have just ramped up to septic levels with all the skullduggery that exists in our society in this the new century; the media awash in outright lies; truth a forgotten and unnecessary staple. To be stripped of the ability to stand on the mountain, shout with an addled voice of truth and be taken seriously, as was his intent, has to extract a certain amount of sanity, and in the end, Hunter’s voice was reduced to scatological reports on the sports world laced with the occasional barb lobbed at the political iniquity which threatens to rob this country of our greatness. The pain must have been much to bear. Since reading the various reports from insiders, family members, and meaningful squires of the journalistic community, I’ve managed to piece together a psychological profile of the man, and on all above counts, I can rationalize and sympathize to a degree.
But I have a nagging problem with Hunter checking out as he did, and to be fair and balanced here, especially in the hail of afterglow, I must stand on my soapbox and get my licks in where I can. There is an underlying message that hasn’t been touched upon in the media, and my voice, even though shouting into the abyss, has validity, too.
Only under the most dire of circumstances do I condone suicide. Euthanasia, quite another animal. Not ever having suffered a terminal and incurable illness so serious I wanted to end my loss of quality of life, I cannot pass judgment on their choices. However, I can certainly understand it.
But when you have vitality flowing through your bones, despite what aches and pains you may have inherited, I cannot, regardless of excuse, condone suicide. The act is the most arrogant form of selfishness that exists in this realm. Unacceptable on any level.
I believe this life we’re given isn’t necessarily ours to take. We have a mission and a responsibility to it. We are but filters designed to help others along their way, too, sharing and giving all that flows through us; our existence a shining example of the divinity that is our destiny, should we be brave enough to accept the burden.
Who knows what Hunter would’ve have written before his untimely recuse from humanity? Would his words have made someone a better person? Helped someone along the way to look at a situation differently? Made them laugh? Made them cry? Made them think? What could he have said to his wife? His son? His grandchild? If he’d chosen to stick around would he have given any of his immediate family a cherished memory, a thought to ponder, a love that grows and soothes and strengthens? With every breath you take and thought you make there is the possibility of changing the course of someone’s life for the better. In an instant. And that is the divinity that shapes our ends. To think you have the right to quit when you want is the ultimate in arrogance. And for this, I can’t justify Hunter’s ends to his means. I think he wasted a precious part of himself, a preciousness that was a gift, and not his to squander. His was a full scale, full bore mission. He was chosen to serve the common good, common decency, even though there are many who would be quick to leap upon this proclamation as utter dribble. But I say to you who haven’t been to that mountain and walked with the kings, there are those with whom a dangle over the edge of the wedge, dipping their toes and creating ripples in the waters of insanity and destruction, produces moments of great clarity and wisdom. I know. I bear witness.
So, on that count, Hunter let me down, you down, and ultimately, himself.
However, it is not mine to cast final judgment on a man’s exit strategy. That job belongs to another. But I have my thoughts on it, and I’m not one to shrink in the heat of battle. On the contrary.
Words. Hunter gave us much to chew on. And his works will gain in appreciation the more we as a society stumble like wounded beasts into a hell on earth of lies and hypocrisy. His words will scald the minds of ones born unto a new generation. His works are venerable. His legacy will have the final say. Ones like him are far and few between. I am proud and consider myself lucky to have existed in his lifetime.
The fucker is gone though. And damn him for it, as I will never again read his insights, his tortured vision which gave me hope and belly laughs while he mercilessly railed at the gloom and doom, the hellish condition. I will never again break into a grin as I’m wrestled to the ground and roughed up by his new page.
Bastard.
But I have his words. They’re mine to keep. And until it’s my time to check out, that’s all that counts anymore. And due to those carefully constructed words, words that were his burden, his gift, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson’s fire will never die, his legacy intact.
Let’s raise a glass.
Selah.

Goo Goo Ga Ga - Carnavale, Austin Style

Now, first things first... I gotta give big props to a religion that says, "For the next few days, culminating at midnight on Fat Tuesday, you have our blessing to go hog fucking, bark at the moon wild! Verily I say unto you, get naked! Dance! Shimmy! Shake! Hunch! Grind! Drink! Eat! Drink more! And more! Let all dangle over the thin edge of the moral wedge!! Un nomini patri." I mean, how bad can a religion be which once a year allows its followers to come totally unhinged and debauch in the streets for all the world to see, and be completely forgiven, blessed with total absolution come Wednesday? Well, that’s another story altogether -I don’t dare open that alter boy can- but still, they at least allow their followers to release a whole bunch of pent up steam while enduring the rest of the year under the frocked papal thumb of guilt. Knowing how hard line many religions are, I say big time props go to the clerical powers that be who benevolently sponsor this holiday.
An age-old wisdom must’ve prevailed at the core of Carnavale’s origins. I can hear it now, the church elders agreeing, "Awww... shit... for once, let those poor bastards have cake... and pie, too!"
And from what I’ve seen in the past, having survived a few Mardis Gras’ myself, watched scads of newsreels over the years of Carnavale exploding in the streets of the mother country, Brazil, it would appear that parishioners and seculars alike rather look forward to this once a year occasion to allow their true ids to surface. With unchecked abandon they unscrew that tightly wound lid of their inflamed emotions and carnal desires and for a few days it’s Pandora’s box all over again -flying monkeys, caterwauling pigs, rum running dogs- but that’s the fun of it! And no one gives a good hot damn! I say, God bless ‘em! Les bon ton rouliers!! Repent when the dust settles and the ash is ceremoniously smudged on your forehead. Until then, dive in head hands and feet and get you some! Wallow all up in it! Root hog, root!
Throughout the year, the Austin experience is filled with celebrations of all type which ultimately make life here eminently more enriching and gratifying. But to allow this type of raucous celebration to take place within city limits, many many miles away from the polytheistic epicenter, shows just how too cool for school this town really is. During the course of the evening I suffered more than one sustained giggle watching slightly uncomfortable, pistol packin’ police officers trying their best to turn a blind yet bemused eye as exposed tetas and bombeezy booties throbbed and bobbed to the bewildering beat right under their very noses; and on more than one occasion, enduring arms slung around their uniformed waists, their epauletted shoulders, the party goers draped blissfully around their torsos while a barrage of flashbulbs shattered the intimacy to capture the surreal moment for posterity’s sake. Any other time of the year and these people would be arrested on the spot, don’t pass "Go", don’t get two hundred dollars neither! So, big props to the city of Austin for allowing its faithful denizens to unleash as is their want on this very special holiday. Viva libertad!
Realizing what I was about to get into, I took a page out of my "been there done that" book and snagged a cab to the Palmer Center to join in the festivities. In hindsight, intelligent move.
When I got out of my cab, the first thing I noticed was the tremendous rumble which emanated from the big upturned soup bowl that is The Palmer Center. The walls were heaving. The ground was quaking.
I was met outside the auditorium, on the sidewalk that rings the perimeter, by my trustworthy benefactor, Russ, editor of Austin Daze, where he’d been patiently awaiting my arrival, loyal chap that he is. After brief salutations and hosanna heys we strolled toward the vortex of activity while tired, scantily clad revelers filtered past us; decorated, festooned in every possible manner of outlandish mask, bead, bauble, sequin and feather, their candles temporarily spent, desperately seeking fresh air, needing a momentary break from the combustion manifesting inside.
As the doors swung open I was immediately seduced by a pounding incessant jungle rhythm which didn’t leave a single square inch of my body untouched; my feet twitching in time, my butt cheeks squeezing hard enough to crack a pecan, toes gnarled, knees waggling, arms pumping, tongue lolling, nostrils flaring, cross-eyed and soon-to-be painless, my body’s response to the tribal beats which assaulted my every sensory perception. There wasn’t any escape, nor did I want any! Bombarded and bamboozled says it best... The next thing I noticed -after almost suffering a potentially embarrassing pratfall- was a very slick concrete floor slathered in precious bodily secretions mixed with various spilled libations, creating a murky swamp on the coliseum floor, a virtual breeding ground for new microbial growth as well as fancy foot action. And the thought hit me then that for once, tonight, on this floor, white people could actually become a shadow of James Brown if only for a second, and they too, could be doin’ their thang like a sex machine! That in itself was glorious and sublime. When it comes to dancin’ white folks need all the help they can get. But I digress... Russ and I entered the inner sanctum of the arena and were pummeled by a blinding, pulsating light show that illuminated a writhing, hip shaking, groin rubbing spectacle the likes of which would’ve made Calligula salivate, but made me break out in an immediate ear to ear instead. My ass got real pointy-like. Russ didn’t look entirely unhappy either. Without another word said, we proceeded to disappear into the maw of the beast, swallowed whole, slaves to the rhythm; my flesh burning, my soul howling, my libido soon to be ratcheted up several notches.
Russ was determined to reach the front of the stage and midway there he and I got cut off by a cadre of hard core revelers who were oblivious to the world outside these circular walls, zoned instead on the feast before them, a laser-like focus on the sweaty mounds of flesh that swirled and bounced around them; pagans, wiccans, whirling dervishes, all bound by a communal trance on this ordained full moon.
For the next few hours I was tossed and swept away in a Felliniesque blizzard, led by voyeuristic instinct and various conga lines which I wasted no time in tagging along, giving me the opportunity to ogle even more captivating, enticing bodies of every size and dimension as the line snaked through the crowd that packed the coliseum floor; gobs of exposed flesh wiggling and shaking, barely garbed in the most inventive, beguiling costumes I’ve ever seen -Halloween paling in comparison- while a thunderous, bludgeoning, samba rhythm never relented, only serving to make every pelvic region under the dome gyrate to its every polyrhythmic nuance; a whirligig of sight and sound. In the immortal words of David Letterman, I was "hypmotized", baptized in the overflow.
And the hallucinogenic party raged on and on and on and on and on ... the squadron of drummers never tiring, bringing the gumbo of frenetic dancers to a boil.
Thankfully, your reporter, righteously lubed to a soft glow, and deservedly so, was still cognizant and willing when in the wee hours the barrage of samba drums grew silent and the overhead lights turned wicked night into sober dawn, the party thrumming to a buzzing, charitable close. And then -one can only imagine- even more mirth, merriment, and sexual acrobatics were on the agenda of many of the departing throng. After that irresistible buffet, how could it not?!
King Momo, who only minutes after being given the key to the Brazilian city which officially signaled the beginning of this year’s Carnavale, knowing that the masses of unbridled flesh were straining to unleash their power and glory, uttered a blazing, verbose oratory, ordering his quivering minions -who could barely contain their anticipation- to, "Have fun. Use condoms." And then all hell broke loose.
An aside here, so bear with me, but methinks a rather distinct possibility exists whereby many children are, more than likely, conceived during Carnavale, and if not conceived, then a helluva lot of practice to prepare for that day should it come. And as we all know, practice do make perfect.
Ah, the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh the flesh... pardon me, dear reader, I was momentarily back on the coliseum floor... time to reel in the technicolor snapshots from the evening which are forever mine, permanently etched in my libidinous memory.
As much as we might protest, eventually, every good thing does come to an end and end it does on Ash Wednesday when all Carnavale celebrants are expected to humbly, and with contrition, put their genitalia back under wraps, let the body cool down, the mind left to chill to a dull roar after the careening sensory overload. You can cross yourself more than once and say as many Hail Mary’s and light as many candles as you are able or need to, but don’t worry, fear not, you’ll be forgiven. What a concept, eh?! Ain’t it grand?! And should the cold turkey that follows be less than optimum, just remember, Carnavale is only a year away, a mere finger snap in the big tally of cosmic consciousness. Your body, your mind should be well recharged and more than ready when that day arrives, and barring an Earth ending cataclysm, it will. Then, as the next King gives the legions of eager participants the high sign, you can, once again, get your groove and your freak back on. Loosen up! Limber up! Bring on the samba! Hava nagela! Krishna krishna! Ungowa!!
But hell, don’t wait until the pontiffs give you their blessing. Like King Momo said, "Have fun". Every day should be a Carnavale of sorts.
One thing though... use condoms.
King Momo has spoken.
Y tan va.