bpgonzo:

“That’s why it’s hard to write
on mescaline, too, because
your mind is going four times
as fast as your hands can go,
and you get disorganized
and you can’t keep your mind
in phase with your fingers.
That’s why I have to get
increasingly faster typewriters.
Whatever they make, if it’s
faster, I’ll buy it.”

-Hunter S. Thompson
from “Songs of the Doomed”, “LSD-25: Res Ipsa Loquitor”, March 1990.

(Source: i-am-lono)

takenotes:

-Hunter S. Thompson quote of the day [Songs of the Doomed] 

mischmagco:

                                

Hunter S. Thompson’s The Silk Road, An Excerpt.

                                                                              
We were calling a cab in the Key West airport when I saw these two Fishhead boys grab my bags off the carousel. The skinny one was halfway to the parking lot with the big red, white, and blue seabag full of diving gear before I realized what was happening …. 

No, I thought. No, this can’t be true. Not right here in front of my eyes, in the blue-lit glare of the breezeway in this friendly little airport, with palm trees all around and Mother Ocean rolling up on the beach just a few hundred yards to the south.
It must be a setup, I thought; some nark in the pay of the White 
House’ that evil bastard Hamilton has been trying to bust me ever since I set him on fire in Orlando … and this was, after all, another election year. 

In the good old days I might have thought it was Gordon Liddy, just running one of his capers. But Gordon doesn’t work for the White House anymore, and Hamilton has other problems-like trying to reelect what Dick Goodwin calls “the only truly Republican president since Herbert Hoover” on the Democratic ticket. 

So, for the White House and even the DEA … and on a “need to be busted” basis, I figured my name was not even on the list for 1980. I was not even covering the campaign. 

I still had the phone in my hand when I saw the fat one. He came shuffling out of the darkness, where he’d obviously been standing lookout for his buddy; he glanced around to see that nobody was watching, then reached down and picked up my triple-locked 
leather satchel. 

Whoops, I thought, let’s have a word with these boys. They were locals — punks, maybe nineteen or twenty years old, and they did it so casually that I knew they had been here before. Semipro ‘luggage thieves, the lowest and cruelest kind of scum. I felt the phone pulling out of the wall as I suddenly moved toward the action. 

Cut the thumbs off these vultures, I thought. Carve on them. 

Then I remembered that my bone knife was in the red, white, and blue diving bag. All I had for leverage was this baby blue telephone receiver that I’d just ripped off the wall by the Travelers’ Aid counter. It was trailing about six feet of coiled blue rubber wire 
as I ran. 

”Goddamn you rotten bastards I’ll kill you goddamn brainless-“

This savage screaming confused me for a moment. Then I realized it was me. Was I moving faster than my own sounds? 

Maybe not. But pure rage is a serious fuel, and now I was moving at least like Dick Butkus on speed toward this poor doomed screwhead who had already staggered and fallen to one knee under the weight of my leather satchel. I was still about 100 feet away when he heard my screams and saw me coming. I knew I had the angle on him, even before he staggered … he was out in the open now and his face was stupid with terror. . 
“Eat shit and die!”

It was a thundering brutal scream, and for a moment I thought it was me again, still moving faster than sound …. ~ 

But this time the scream was really behind me. It was Skinner: 

He’d been raving, drooling drunk all the way from Aruba, but the sudden screech of battle had jerked him awake from his stupor and now he was right behind me, screaming as he ran. I pointed left toward the parking lot, at the skinny geek with my diving bag. I smelled the whiskey pumping up from Skinner’s lungs as he passed me and angled left to where I’d pointed .

(Source: )

bpgonzo:

“It’s a queer life, for sure, but right now it’s all I have. Last night, around midnight, I heard somebody scratching on the thatch and then a female voice whispered, “When the going gets weird, the Weird turn pro.” “That’s right!” I shouted. “I love you!” There was no reply. Only the sound of this vast and bottomless sea, which talks to me every night, and makes me smile in my sleep.”

-Hunter S. Thompson, from “Songs of the Doomed”, letter to Ralph Steadman, June 30, 1981

(Source: i-am-lono)