Tears and self-loathing

So apparently this movie I loved is unwatchable. And I no I don’t smoke pot.

No, for realsies.

I just have horrible taste. Which is not a crime, but there’s still time to amend the Constitution.

In my defense I first watched it in High School and I hear that that’s an impressionable age. It also inspired me to hop a flight to the see the fear and loathing myself when I finally lived long enough to drink beer legally and I had an amazing time.

But I loved this book, because it is every fever dream I’ve ever had smashed into a ball, which is then frozen and smashed by a robot Gallagher. So the “reality” of the situation and the reality of Thompson’s bad trips have as much roots in the truth as anyone trying to remember something that just happened. It’s just a little more unbelievable. Which makes the whole experience so much more provocative.

Isn’t Thompson’s first-hand account the reality? Who can dispute (besides logic, you joyless prick) the veracity of what has happened.

If anything the delving into one man’s psyche is something that can be appreciated. I couldn’t dream up lots of the deranged images that Steadman illustrated or the things that Thompson describes so the fact that these ideas and images exist in the mere ether of our reality is interesting. To me at least.

The possibilities of human thoughts seem to be endless after reading something like this instead of stuffy literature from the canon that college students are always forced to read. Plus this stuff really happened, which is cool.