Monday, February 21, 2005

When I was in the tenth grade my mother got me a subscription to Rolling Stone magazine. I hadn't ever seen a magazine that wasn't about news or sports. In the first issue that was delivered to my house was the first chapter of the Thompson book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas in honor of its 20th anniversary. The first paragraph gave me the feeling that I should hide this magazine. There's no way that my mom new what she had signed me up for was all I kept thinking as I read the list of drugs and paraphernalia. I had to get the book and did so within a week.

Few writers have had this effect on me. Steinbeck, Kerouac, Vonnegut, and Thompson. A feeling that I had never read anything like it. I didn't know that writing could be that way. Could invoke such feelings, could change the way I thought about something, to open my eyes. Sometime that same year another Thompson column came in my monthly Rolling Stone. Polo. Yup, Polo. Horses, mallets, a little white ball and a whole bunch or very rich, very white folks right? Hunter saw through that. Hunter showed the debauchery and lewdness that even the (or especially the) most reformed and refined clubs and cliques hold their own dark secrets.
Hunter showed me that. Hunter showed me that to learn about something the best way would be to submerse myself in it, be it politics, sports, guns, and even drug use.

Thank you Hunter. R.I.P.

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