Last night was for you, Hunter S. Thompson. . .
We did what you'd expect us to do when you ended it all. We gathered up the filth and the swine, the perpetrators of the greased palm and the sweaty handshake. The miserable freaks who wander up and down Hollywood Boulevard looking for their chance to make it in this town. The lost, the lonely, the wicked... we gathered them all up and sent them to your little Colorado retreat. The change in weather should invigorate their senses, and let's face it, if you had to see them all the time, you'd have probably killed yourself sooner.
It's very interesting, feeling the ideas pour in to your skull in the middle of the night. Electric pulses that start out in synapses, firing down nerves and sparking what could only be described as a Thursday night vacation. I found myself sitting in the corner of a bar called The Mint, a place that the man sitting next to me accurately summed up as "the anteroom between Heaven and Hell," and I'm not sure either of us knew which side we were leaning towards. The bar was covered in green lights, predictably because that's what color your fucking bar is when the name swinging outside is The Mint. Saturate those lights in Dewar's and weed and they whisk your brain off to France, pouring absinthe with Hemingway and certainly not listening to this Mormonized version of Fiona Apple strumming her guitar on the stage. She certainly played her little heart out, even if she wasn't much capable of actual grace or technical skill. The longer she played, the longer it would take to get to some clown named Tyler Hilton, who wrote a song that ran behind the gibberish that is One Tree Hill*, so I clapped. You'd have thrown explosives at this girl, Hunter, and likely left her and most of the bar a bloody mess.
Anyway, since there was no absinthe to be had, and certainly no solace in the music, I decided to get on an innocuous looking bus, marked "L.A. Barhopper" on the side. Frankly, it could have said anything on the side, including "Los Angeles Department of Corrections," and I'd have been tempted to get on. There was alcohol on the bus, Hunter. And women! It was like college, except everyone had grown up and found direction and meaning, and then promptly lost, er, set them aside temporarily.
There's more, of course, with psilocybin chocolates, furniture that pulses in the dark, a short stay in a "hospital" run by gothic nurses, an Irish bartender who has an unhealthy obsession with Stax Records and Otis Redding, one of the guys on our bus FREESTYLING on the stage with a band (and joined by a member of Parliament Funkadelic), and the strange feeling of a woman running her fingers through your hair while she kisses her boyfriend...
*Haven't seen it
We did what you'd expect us to do when you ended it all. We gathered up the filth and the swine, the perpetrators of the greased palm and the sweaty handshake. The miserable freaks who wander up and down Hollywood Boulevard looking for their chance to make it in this town. The lost, the lonely, the wicked... we gathered them all up and sent them to your little Colorado retreat. The change in weather should invigorate their senses, and let's face it, if you had to see them all the time, you'd have probably killed yourself sooner.
It's very interesting, feeling the ideas pour in to your skull in the middle of the night. Electric pulses that start out in synapses, firing down nerves and sparking what could only be described as a Thursday night vacation. I found myself sitting in the corner of a bar called The Mint, a place that the man sitting next to me accurately summed up as "the anteroom between Heaven and Hell," and I'm not sure either of us knew which side we were leaning towards. The bar was covered in green lights, predictably because that's what color your fucking bar is when the name swinging outside is The Mint. Saturate those lights in Dewar's and weed and they whisk your brain off to France, pouring absinthe with Hemingway and certainly not listening to this Mormonized version of Fiona Apple strumming her guitar on the stage. She certainly played her little heart out, even if she wasn't much capable of actual grace or technical skill. The longer she played, the longer it would take to get to some clown named Tyler Hilton, who wrote a song that ran behind the gibberish that is One Tree Hill*, so I clapped. You'd have thrown explosives at this girl, Hunter, and likely left her and most of the bar a bloody mess.
Anyway, since there was no absinthe to be had, and certainly no solace in the music, I decided to get on an innocuous looking bus, marked "L.A. Barhopper" on the side. Frankly, it could have said anything on the side, including "Los Angeles Department of Corrections," and I'd have been tempted to get on. There was alcohol on the bus, Hunter. And women! It was like college, except everyone had grown up and found direction and meaning, and then promptly lost, er, set them aside temporarily.
There's more, of course, with psilocybin chocolates, furniture that pulses in the dark, a short stay in a "hospital" run by gothic nurses, an Irish bartender who has an unhealthy obsession with Stax Records and Otis Redding, one of the guys on our bus FREESTYLING on the stage with a band (and joined by a member of Parliament Funkadelic), and the strange feeling of a woman running her fingers through your hair while she kisses her boyfriend...
*Haven't seen it
lara6666:
Damn do you look like Bono in some of your pics!! 