Banky For President

Much like movies about Vegas, I am also pre-disposed to love movies about Ol’ Hunter. Why? Because I love him. I’m talking big heavy man-crush here folks. Maybe not enough to go gay for him but he could have probably got to second base with me.

But when I start to examine his life, I realize one thing. I love the idea of Hunter more than the man himself. I mean when it comes down to it, he was a severely depressed individual. He admired and respected you as long as you weren’t successful. Because once you were successful, he didn’t think you needed him anymore.

And he turned on you.

I’ve had a few saboteurs in my life. Some one who likes me as long as I’m stuck in loservile. The minute I gain any kind of success, its called fleeting or I’m accused of somehow cheating to get where I’m at. We all know those people. Well Hunter made it a career.

But he did it as the most prolific and amazing writer of the late 20th Century. He had a command of the english language nonpareil. Reading Hunter is best likened to listening to a symphony . . . albeit one conducted by Johnny Rotten, with every note quite deliberate.

He was witness to amazing times. The Hells Angels years, Chicago ‘68, San Francisco ‘67, the campaign trail ‘72, the Fear and Loathing years made Hunter and in turn, he helped make them. My personal favorite works are his letters. He even turned writing letters into an art form.

Ultimately, he collapsed under his own weight. Not only could he not live up to the shadow he cast for himself, but he also decided that he couldn’t live in world, he actually saw as being doomed. And, finally, that doom became personal for him. So he left.

The idea of Hunter continues to haunt me. Be uncompromising, Banky. Say what you think, Banky. Show no fear, Banky.

But ultimately, its about coming to terms with why I compromise and feel fear, before I decide to shun it.

Wanna know one of my deepest darkest secrets?

I wish I was a writer.

That’s why I blog I suppose. Much like bass guitar players are frustrated guitarists (All apologies, Dennis), bloggers are the Web equivalent. Posers, imposters, wannabes, the lot of us.

It doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate good writing when we see it or hear it. I remember reading Hunter S. Thompson for the first time. The words dripped off the page like recently thawed Goldschlager. I’ve never been turned on by a writer like the way I was that day, but it made me appreciate all writers and writing in a way I never had before. For the first time, since I heard Stairway to Heaven or saw Star Wars, I realized that life is more than what you did yesterday or what your doing today. It’s about what you can do with your tomorrow. And so I started writing and trying to find insight in my screwed-up existence.

It happened to me again yesterday. And in this desert, commonly referred to as the Writer’s strike, I turned to Showtime On-Demand and gave a half hour of my life to Californication.

I really wanted to hate it. I already watch too much television. But a buddy of mine told me it had replaced his Sopranos obsession, so I gave it a shot. If I liked it, maybe I would want to write about it.

I was hoping to blog more anyway.