They let you read standing up at the laundry mat, right?

These NyQuil hangovers are a real bugger. Attempting to sweat it out at Durango Martial Arts this morning was a wash. No heat yet. After a scalding shower, I plopped down at the 8th Avenue laundry with HST's Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72. This book makes perfect sense to me--especially in light of our recent national popularity contest and, most importantly, without too much staring into the tumbling dryer. For any of this political mess to make some sort of sense, perhaps you have to do what I did recently: swear off TV news and stay out of the national papers as much as possible.
It's been more or less five years since my last bender. I miss beer a little, but mornings like these remind me of the hassle: trying to function without 2nd through 5th gear. Just first and reverse. Coffee helps. But, there's the sloshing through two inches of fresh snow to accomplish that. (It's not even Thanksgiving yet!)
However, there's still a little bit of a high you feel when still drunk on a Monday morning. A dirty little secret you're not trying that hard to keep. Cough medicine doesn't announce its presence as much as say, Coors or Jack even--but the giggles are never far away, are they?
Why is the print so small in this book, Hunter? Surely you didn't approve that? Ugh.
Why isn't this required reading for every registered voter every four years? And why aren't you still around, Dr.? I need you now more than ever. I know you would often write back--even to the hacks that called themselves "fans." I need the real dope--the goods--the lowdown on how to make it as a journalist. The New New New New Journalism. The Narrative. The Gonzo 2.0--come back!
Does my sobriety instantly disqualify me from ever arriving? I am left to sweat out the next four years without you. Sloshing through the muck here in Durango--woefully out of place. A sober square in hippy-land. Rejected query letters and months of angst. Yes, we can!?!?!! Obama=Bobby? Would I have even made it on the plane had I shucked out to D.C. for the scene? (I don't even own a dog--much less the requisite Doberman)
We may never be Iraq-free but at least I have NyQuil.