I don't have to finish the quote. It's not that important. And it seems almost trite in these dire and unsettling times. What really was Hunter S Thompson's legacy? Did he even have one? Did he even mean to leave one? Does anyone even give a shit? All of these are valid questions, and I have no intention of answering any of them. So quit asking.
The problem with trying to "sum up" a person "in a nutshell" is that it is impossible. Especially for people as mult-faceted as HST and myself. Even the most trivial figure in history, the yeoman farmer who did nothing all his life, except plow the fields, fix the fence, and maybe birth a few calves, had, when you really look at it, a deeply philosophical life, that cannot be summed up in the way that I just have. And the real tragedy is, no one will ever, ever know the full extent of a person. Ever. I don't care if you're married to them for 70+ years. There's just no way to know a person's inner most self without being that person. You try to put it down on paper. You try to write some insignificant weblog about it. No one's going to read it, except a few people that you know who drop in once a week and make a comment or two. You can spill your deepest ponderings out onto this digital diary, and the most you'll ever get is a cursory glance through it from most people, and maybe a thorough read through by your closest friends. If it's interesting enough, you might have a better shot at it.
My guess is, that most people who write blogs, don't write the most interesting things about themselves, though. They write about the trivial and mundane activities that they go through from day to day. They don't write about what's really going on during those trivial events. Of course, one has to admit that there probably are a lot of people that are genuinely boring. But I'm not ready to admit that this is true of more than the smallest, most insignificant minority.
I have been disillusioned before.
When the going gets wierd, the wierd go out for ice cream.
When the going gets wierd, the wierd throw a barbecue, where all the women dress like Nancy Reagan, and the men wear bondage gear.
When the wierd gets going, there's no stopping it for all tea in France. It's only going to get wierder from here on out, and if you doubt me, remember that Pat Robertson is still a man of a certain amount of influence in this world. Fuck you Pat Robertson.