CAPS!

well Feb 20th is not only my birthday but also sadly the day Hunter S Thompson killed himself. Ralph Steadman had some interesting words to say about everything.

[url]http://www.flyingdogblog.com/2009/02/20/ralph-steadman-and-george-stranahan-remember-hunter/[/url]

[IMG]http://www.flyingdogales.com/elist/assets/AOW20090220_ralphhunter.jpg[/IMG]

Remembering Hunter

Today marks the four-year anniversary of Hunter S. Thompson’s death. One of the most iconic figures from the last 50 years, Hunter S. Thompson is closely tied to Flying Dog Brewery. Of course, he convinced his friend and Gonzo co-conspirator Ralph Steadman to illustrate our labels. But he also gave us a quote that graces most every label of beer that we produce: Good people drink good beer.

Not a day goes by that we don’t think about Hunter and the indelible mark he left on society. And although it bums us out that he isn’t with us today, Hunter S. Thompson’s spirit lives on in the form of his writings and films. This week, during Conan O’Brien’s last shows in the “Late Night” time slot, Conan has been revisiting clips from the last fifteen years. Tuesday’s show featured a segment shot on location in Upstate New York with Hunter and Conan. Watch them drink whiskey and shoot guns, in typical Dr. Gonzo style:

As is the Flying Dog tradition on this day, we’ve asked those who knew him to write a little something about Dr. Gonzo. Flying Dog Brewery founder George Stranahan and Gonzo Artist Ralph Steadman sent in some stories about Hunter.

We encourage you to toast Hunter S. Thompson tonight with a glass of the beer that was inspired by him, Gonzo Imperial Porter. We certainly will be.

George Stranahan Remembers Hunter

It’s the beginning of my fifth year without Hunter, and I’m feeling like a five year old trying to understand the mysteries and predicaments of the human condition.

The peacock’s shriek was unmistakable. It came at first light and it was close, right over my head, on the roof. To call Hunter at first light was an adventure that had to be taken. He was awake and “still up,” drunk and crazed. “Goddamn birds got outta their cage last night.” He assigned some specific blame here, he himself was blameless. “Two of ‘em were found in Little Woody eaten by coyotes. That’s the last one you’ve got there, I’ll be right up.”

And he was. Shorts, sneakers, Tilly hat and with badminton net in hand. My house is two stories, so the peacock was twenty feet up and so was Hunter, hunched over, tiptoeing along the very edge and coaxing, “you wretched c… sucking bitch sit still for one more second…” I was terrified at his unsteadiness and wondered who do I call for a fallen and almost certainly dead Hunter found at first light on my porch?

With a lurch and a stagger Hunter tossed the badminton net right over the bird, clutched it to his breast and collapsed away from danger. I was learning that he had an extraordinary sense of his own capacities either drunk or sober.

[IMG]http://www.georgestranahan.com/[/IMG]

Ralph Steadman Remembers Hunter

Hunter began to speak of images that disturbed his peace of mind. ‘Ralph, I have this horrible image of me strapped inside a wheelchair- and I’m in an Old People’s Home. I look around the room and old people are looking straight at me from their own wheelchairs, lined up against the wall as though they are waiting their turn to go- or maybe to flee!  I scan the room dolefully- then- out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of a wizened ole crone. She has an evil leer across her wrinkled face and she is crawling across the floor-slowly- towards me. She is cackling to herself and I know, Ralph, what she is going to do- and I am helpless! Yes, Ralph!  She is going to fondle my balls!!’

He told me that story just like that as an example of why he was suffering ‘the Death of FUN’. Unimaginable torture!!

What I do every year is take a large sheet of paper, a bottle of ink and a brush, look up at the moon – even if there isn’t one – then I whack it with the biggest blot I can make, date it and time- and then I sign it and toast his memory in a bottle of beer. I find it the most satisfying thing to do and it frees the frustration and sense of loss.

thats not bad for a quadraped. you gotta check your mirrors!

Like you couldn’t look outside and tell yourself, but the February rodent weather prognosticators have weighed in and are predicting six more weeks of winter.

This morning we’ve heard from Nova Scotia’s Shubnedacadie Sam, who couldn’t help but notice his shadow, emerging from his pen at 7 a.m. to the sound of bagpipes and a town crier and hopes the groundhog would be a harbinger for warmer days. It was not to be.

“He saw his shadow and went back in,” said Jacqueline Parker, a spokesperson with the Nova Scotia provincial government. “It’s six more weeks of winter.

Then Punxsutawney Phil’s handlers dragged the groundhog meterologist out of his Pennsylvania burrow during a ceremony on Gobbler’s Knob, where he also saw more winter on the way.

Phil’s prediction was read by Mike Johnson, vice president of the town’s Inner Circle, from a scroll that said: “The bright sky above me shows my shadow before me, and six more weeks of winter it will be.”

Town authorities say Phil is always correct about the duration of winter but according to the U.S. National Climate Prediction Center, Phil and other U.S. and Canadian groundhogs get it right about 39% of the time

Ontario’s Wiarton Willie then weighed in: “The sun has peaked, my shadow I see, six more weeks of winter it will be.”

In New York City, another groundhog called Staten Island Chuck failed to see his shadow when he was lured from his cage by Mayor Michael Bloomberg, predicting that spring was near.

According to folklore, if a groundhog sees his shadow on Groundhog Day — Feb. 2, he’ll go back to his burrow, predicting six more weeks of winter. If he doesn’t, there will be an early spring.

The belief that hibernating creatures can predict the arrival of spring was brought to North America by German immigrants in the 18th century.

Some other furry forecasters include Saskatchewan’s Snewsie, who is not technically a groundhog, but a gopher from Moose Jaw, and Watson Willow from Watson, Sask. Other groundhog prognosticators include Balzac Billy in Balzac, Alta., and Manitoba’s Merv in Oak Hammond Marsh, Man.

Woodchucks, what do they know anyway?
– With files from Canwest News Service and Reuters

Photo: Official groundhog handlers Ben Hughes (L) and John Griffiths (R) look at weather prognosticating groundhog Punxsutawney Phil makes his annual prediction on Gobbler’s Knob in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, Feb. 2, 2009. Phil saw his shadow, predicting six more weeks of winter. (Reuters/Jason Cohn)

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yup yup.

Damn Rights.

riverbed

I have been listening to this Buck 65 album straight through almost once a day recently and the “Riverbed” songs, or poems or whatnot are seriously interesting with some nice. here is what i could find of them on the web.

“Riverbed 1″

i take my orders from the street lights, wind at my shoulder

the afternoon is grey and the air is getting colder

i’m old fashioned and on foot, passionate and fascinated

wide eyed awake and ready for anything

navigating side walks, dry docks and back alleys always

in and out of elevators and hallways

i’m out for a walk and following the human currents

i’m in no hurry i need no reassurance

curfews and purfumes; excuses and costumes

customs, corrections, fuss or directions

even the leaves have taken on lives

deprived of their privacy, purpose and property

probably runaways, they play catch

with stray cats that stay at the girl’s school,

the city’s a whirlpool,

there’s too much going on, there’s too much garbage,

too much to choose from, too much carnage

there’s not enough quiet to think straight, it’s not a stunt

maybe i will make my way back to the waterfront

this is where the people are slightly unsavoury

with no time, possessions, labor or slavery

neighbors without names neglected and hip-checked,

stripped down to nothing, fallen and ship wrecked

completely uncalled for, way out of line

stranded, branded, weathered and abandoned

these are the counter clock wise, the despised

with swollen noses and tears in their eyes

and tears in their clothes and time on their hands

they sleep walk

full of that cheap wine and cheap talk

everything gets washed away here at the pier

the best you can do is to play it by ear

wishes sink to the bottom and doubts float

i’m afraid of the water and i live in this houseboat

i take my orders from the street lights, wind at my shoulder

the afternoon is grey and the air is getting colder

i’m old fashioned and on foot, passionate and fascinated

wide eyed awake and ready for anything

navigating side walks, dry docks and back alleys always

in and out of elevators and hallways

i’m out for a walk and following the human currents

i’m in no hurry i need no reassurance

curfews and purfumes; excuses and costumes

customs, corrections, fuss or directions

even the leaves have taken on lives

deprived of their privacy, purpose and property

probably runaways, they play catch

with stray cats that stay at the girl’s school,

the city’s a whirlpool,

there’s too much going on, there’s too much garbage,

too much to choose from, too much carnage

there’s not enough quiet to think straight, it’s not a stunt

maybe i will make my way back to the waterfront

this is where the people are slightly unsavoury

with no time, possessions, labor or slavery

neighbors without names neglected and hip-checked,

stripped down to nothing, fallen and ship wrecked

completely uncalled for, way out of line

stranded, branded, weathered and abandoned

these are the counter clock wise, the despised

with swollen noses and tears in their eyes

and tears in their clothes and time on their hands

they sleep walk

full of that cheap wine and cheap talk

everything gets washed away here at the pier

“Riverbed 2″

— couldn’t find this one —-

“Riverbed 3″

There’s people living in the neighboring barges
Guilty of assorted compliments and charges
Like the one eyed cyclist who never wears socks
He covers his mouth with his hand when he talks
His name is Rene, they say he is a communist
There is something about his demeanor that’s ominous
Gord with his card tricks escaped from the row
His mouth is always in the shape of an O

His brother is locked up and he awaits his release
He talks about politics and hates the police
Linda doesn’t have long to live probably
She’s wiccan and used to read palms for a hobby
She came to visit one night and just sat there
And laughed the whole time, her clothes covered in cat hair
Aubrey wears two watches at once and a bow tie
He is missing a thumb and nobody knows why
He’s not the best ventriloquist in the world, but he wants to be
He’s an excellent dancer and smokes reefer constantly
Big, fat Nigel works as a florist
He’s openly gay and looks like a tourist
He’s very polite with a good sense of humor
He’s heir to a fortune or at least that’s the rumor
Washed up and wounded, we are the recycled
Earthy, thirsty, sleazy and seaworthy
At the foot of the trees the tramps drink and they day dream
They use the fountain to stay clean, they’re not as bad as they may seem
Each day they reenact the ritual of abandon
They sit there and serenade people at random
As the thought of a job and a bedroom refrigerates
They drift on alcoholic wings in figure-eights
Wine and water, regarded as stupid weirdos
More wine and water, they feel like superheroes
One once was a boxer whose ego remains bandaged
He once took a beating that left him with brain damage
One plays a horn and was born with a wooden leg
He plays on some days cause he feels that he shouldn’t beg
One worked in the factory before it closed down
He’s fine if there’s plenty of wine to go around
Sunken and drunken, frustrated and lonely
These people don’t die, they evaporate slowly
No matter how desperate, no matter how lawless
They rely on the river for some kind of solace
It sings to the softly and lulls them to sleep heavily
It’s soothing and every bit heavenly
Each morning before they get into the booze, as they say
They usually give me the news of the day
And if it were up to them to shout the decision
An aurora borealis and all men out of prison

“River Bed 5″

My dear so and so is very far away.
The stone in your stomach, there’s no way to start the day.
I pray to the waves, and utter my wishes,
I’d rather have spirals and butterfly kisses.
My wings for a morning, to swim in her breeze,
To walk across deserts with similar ease,
I’d surrender my fortune, and burn the last chapter,
Swallow the future and deal with the past after.
Ache is inside me, it burns for her edges,
It lingers,
I long for her lips and her fingers,
Her voice on my skin, the hush of her lullaby
My blood starts to rush and shooting stars multiply.
Bottomless kisses,
I wanna unfold her,
Sleep tangled up with her head on my shoulder,
She holds my breath, I swallow her fire,
The slower she goes, I’ll follow her higher,
We navigate each other’s lengths, we parachute in waterfall,
We hold ourselves open and restrain ourselves not at all,
I torture myself with runaway intentions,
No sound, no light, time starts to slow down,
The storm washes over me, she takes me apart.
She masters my body, and breaks my heart,
I cover the clocks and try to remember to forget,
To forgive
To forsake
And to forfeit.

“Riverbed 6″

a deaf violinist, plays on the docks

he’s missing a tooth and he stands on a box

his gestures are feverish, his cheeks wet with tears,

he sleeps in his jacket, or so it appears

he plays from the late afternoon through the evening

and bows with his hat in his hand before leaving

he plays for the angels themselves, i’m convinced of it

because no music at all comes out of his instrament

“the houseboat must have travelled during the night
seemingly strange, outside the climate and scenery changed
the dawn was accelerated by the sound of fighting
a woman screaming and choking, it was frightening
i ran on deck, filled with dread as well as anger
to see a woman grasping for the chain of the anchor
the situation was depressing and stressful
she tried to drown herself in the river, but was unsuccessful
scrambling to figure out what to do first
the more she wanted to live again, the screaming grew worse
i pulled up the chain with the help of a drunken tramp
she was soaking, hiccuping, spitting and choking
the tramp shouted orders to those standing around
telling them what they should do for the drowned
the woman was broken from what she had been through
i offered her clothing for her to change into”

according to the DNA tests of what some hunters found thought to be the famed “bigfoot” they only found DNA from a possum, I’m not sure if that means it was just faked or what. think for yourself and not for others.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20080815/us_nm/bigfoot_dc

PALO ALTO, California (Reuters) – Bigfoot remains as elusive as ever.

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Results from tests on genetic material from alleged remains of one of the mythical half-ape and half-human creatures, made public at a news conference on Friday held after the claimed discovery swept the Internet, failed to prove its existence.