The Library Diaries began as separate blog posts that paid homage to Hunter S. Thompson. I’ve recently decided to transfer them to one document, and make this a compendium. So, I will add each new Library Diary to the end of this working compendium, as an additional Volume, as if it were a living document. Enjoy.
The Library Diaries, Vol 1. Going Gonzo
January 18, 2014
I was wandering down the twisted stairwell with all the elegance of a poor fool high on hallucinogens.
I thought I was losing grip when I saw him. A skinny scoundrel, loitering on the bridge of campus… suckling on a bottle of orange juice. And when he spoke, I was taken aback, “Crazy night, huh?”
Taken aback because I finally understood the connection between next day drunkards scavenging for hydration and an exasperated mind that is thirsty for knowledge.
He looked through me over the lenses of his huge smudge stained sunglasses, “What’s your name?” I looked into the half eye I could see behind the smudge “Now let’s keep that a secret shall we?” Puzzled, he lowered his spectacles, “But I don’t even know your name.” With a crooked smile I replied, “Then you’ll keep it secret even better.”
I looked at his glazed eyes and asked, “Do you smell it? It’s the smell of losers. It’s also the smell of truth.” Puzzled, once again the drunkard scoundrel stared my way. Lowering my own unsmudged aviators “It’s like the most powerful drug in the history of narcotics. And the only mind altering narcotic I care to take is knowledge.”
And I realized, in a nation run by hypocrites and swine we are all screwed until we can get our acts together: even then perhaps we will never win, but maybe we won’t lose completely.
I thought of them all. Beasts of selfishness. The world belonging to the conceded. The great hypocrites. Undoubtedly the most dangerous creatures on earth. And I had been confused as one.
The time was Sunday morning. I was traveling to the library. He on one of his ceremonial post-Saturday night walks of shame. I felt filthy from the conversation. I thought of him, the poor fool, he would one day fade away from his drunkardness.
Then I finally thought about myself “One of God’s own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die” (Gonzo, 1971).
Oscar Wilde once said, “Nowadays, people know the price of everything, and the value of nothing.”
Who will ride the crazy roller coaster all the way till the end: the drunkard or the educated?
Library Diaries Vol. 2: Fear and Loathing on a Snow Day
February 5, 2015
My idea was to lock myself into the furthest corner of the house, accept the book and rip through my last cup of coffee like a bat out of hell. Anywhere else on a teacher’s snow day my life would be an arbitrary observer gig, I would be attending under false pretenses.
By this time, the entirety of my presence would be a sick ruse. This is mainly a matter of preserving a life-style. Because a forced life, one Gonzo would call a life with “teeth like baseballs and eyes like jellied fire” would be a pitiful lie, a show.
Ranchers will be ready at dawn, roosters will crow, a poor man will work, and I will read on a snow day.
Library Diaries, Vol. 3: Gonzo in a Snowstorm
March 5, 2015
The decision to flee came simultaneously with the devilish-way of the white substance that was falling from the grey tortured sky. To go outside would be to fight the strange madness that the tainted mistress, Mother Nature, has thrust upon us.
I’m certain, by now, that the people have rushed out in droves to gather their milk and their bread. The stores, at this time, are probably desolate.
With good interest in mind, the smart man would stay at home. Weather persons have advised us, like a Gonzo attorney, to slow down on the twisted, black ice, roads. I advise, like a person of experience, to stay off the doomed and cold white roads.
We’ve seen blizzards before, but the likes of this was fast and unforgiving. Flood, blizzard, ice, no power. Snowmaggedon.
Library Diaries, Vol. 4: A 26.2 Mile Joy Ride
May 27, 2015
Between the hot yellow line and the asphalt he asked me “just do me one last favor, hold with this crazy roller coaster till the end.”
I didn’t know what he meant, was it his spontaneity or the euphoria?
At one point I asked myself “Can this thing be squeezed out? Can the wretched warmth be battled and noxious soreness be conquered?”
The thought of failure arouses contempt in my heart, the thought of quitting is utterly erroneous.
It was a 26.2 mile joy ride, and we were at mile 20. Why would I do this? Because I’m a prototype like no other.
Jordan shoots baskets. Bocephus writes songs. Ali throws punches. Runners go running. Crazy runners run marathons.
Library Diaries, Vol. 5: Selfish Scoundrels vs. Prototypes of Goodness
May 30, 2015
Some scoundrels dance in the lighting at night yet act like hypocrites as they iron creases in their clothes the next morning. They are selfish beasts in the pale moonlight, dangerous conceded creatures. Monsters of selfishness that can cut like a knife. These people may not lose, but they won’t win completely.
Others fight the good fight. Those who deserve to win the competition. Prototypes of goodness that are fit for mass production. From the outside looking in they are as pure as from the inside looking out. They understand that being good is not as important as being kind. They may not win, but they will never lose completely.
Who will win the competition? What will the world become? Will the world be owned by the hypocritical corrupt swine? Or by the ones fighting the good fight?
But more importantly, which one are you?
Nice! Raising my stained hat to you …x
Good stuff. Your style matures.
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NEVER KNEW YOU WOULD HAVE SOME GONZO IN YOU WITH WHAT ALL THAT HAS BEEN PUT INTO YOUR BREEDING I GUESS IT IS NO SMALL WONDER DAD
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