Todd Terwilliger

For reasons I can’t fathom, I never read Hunter S. Thompson. Any of it. I don’t know why. I just never got around to it. Even after I saw, and instantly adored, Terry Gilliam’s big screen version of Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, I still did not rouse myself to pick up a copy of that or any other of the author’s work. Well, finally, after watching two Thompson documentaries over last weekend (Gonzo and Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride), I find myself staring at a shiny new copy of the Modern Library’s volume of Fear & Loathing.

For some reason, this brings to mind the cold hard fact that there are so many authors whom I have not read enough of, including Herman Melville, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Hemingway. I read a lot. A lot. But I tend to stick to a few genres: science-fiction, fantasy, history, and a smattering of science. When I think of classic books, I tend to go back to the pre-Melville 19th century and before. I gave turn-of-the-last-century and more recent authors, with a couple of exceptions, short shrift.

I don’t know why I have but I have. Perhaps some day I can fund a personal therapist to chalk it all up to deep-seated fecal fantasy issues. I’ll be looking forward to that. In the meantime, I’ll give Fear & Loathing a spin. That and dream of playing with poo. I love poo, poopy poopy poo.

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