Mandag med motkultur

I år fyller en av bøkene til alles favoritt-journalist og bøttehatt-entusiast, Hunter S. Thompson, 50 år. Jubilanten Fear and Loathing on the Campain Trail 72′ ble en viktig bauta i gonzo-journalistikken Thompson førte. Stilen er kalt forfriskende og er uten tvil forførende, mens andre avskriver det som enkel rølpejournalistikk. Uansett huskes han som et viktig tidsvitne med dype røtter både inn i politikken og undergrunnen, noe som gjorde han unikt rustet til å sette ord de helsprøe 60 -og 70-årene. Han fikk likevel større anerkjennelse for hans finger på undergrunnspulsen, enn som politisk observatør. Undergrunnen er nok alltid mer koketterende.

Jeg ønsker å sjenke dere noen visdomsord fra dette unikumet formet av hippietidens gullår. Slik starter man uken riktig. Litt inspo fra en fandenivoldsk faen med aviators og hawaii-skjorte. Putt litt Chivas i kaffen og nyt.

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming «Wow! What a Ride!

A man who procrastinates in his choosing will inevitably have his choice made for him by circumstance.

So we shall let the reader answer this question for himself: who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed?

Life has become immeasurably better since I have been forced to stop taking it seriously.

Like most others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top. At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles – a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other – that kept me going.

No sympathy for the devil; keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride…and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well…maybe chalk it up to forced consciousness expansion: Tune in, freak out, get beaten.

Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant coffee, to unemployment insurance and library cards, to absinthe and good-hearted landlords, to music and warm bodies and contraceptives… and to the «good life», whatever it is and wherever it happens to be.

Some may never live, but the crazy never die.