When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro...|
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
Gonzo Writers' LiveJournal:
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|Friday, December 18th, 2009|
brilliant beatboxing breakdowns
This post doesn't have anything to do with that. In fact this post has very little to do with almost anything, except to prove to gonzo_md
that some people still read this community.... well when anyone writes in it. so I leave you with this:
|Thursday, November 5th, 2009|
Thought some of you might be interested in my brand new site, http://www.robinjamesganderton.com
|Monday, October 12th, 2009|
Hello journalface, I need you. The BBC is running a "oh go on, tell us a story" competition thing here:http://www.bbc.co.uk/mystory/
and if yours is awesome enough then all sorts of good things happen. Mine's up there at the moment:http://www.bbc.co.uk/mystory/stories/achievement/147574/
and I'd be ever so grateful if you could vote "i like this"...even if you don’t like it, just tell a little white lie and click it anyway, no one will know you’re fibbing and you’ll make a complete stranger that you’ll probably never meet really really happy. Yay!
|Monday, January 26th, 2009|
A First Foray into the Gonzo Dream
This is my very first attempt at any writing worth it's shit so please tell me, brutally, if i sink the ship.
Aristocrats with Teeth
I’m not sure if it was the paintings or the people that got to me first. They both had shifty eyes so it was hard to tell. It was definitely the people that mad me snap though. It was the people that ruined everything.
This place has great Greek columns like some kind of temple where poor geeks stumble to their planned deaths and the subsequent heart feasting that follows. If I have any intention of making it out of this ritzy black tie soiree alive I sure as hell have to keep my footing. These columns were bad craziness. ( Read more...Collapse )
|Friday, June 13th, 2008|
today's bout with the idiocy of The System
Today I spent three and a half hours stuck in an office on Rainier Avenue listening to some woman speak about the wonderful realm of options that the unemployed public have at their disposal.
And yes, by "their," I mean "our." Because, yes, I'm still gainfully unemployed (for those who don't keep up here.)
OK. Let's get down to brass tacks. I'm going to be frank for a minute. (Don't worry, I'm still Mike.)
The whole scene was a horrendous waste of time. The "orientation," as it was being called, was for the sole purpose of eventually helping you find a job in your specific field, and with the state of the journalism and related job markets today, you can probably picture how fruitful the ending turned out to be for me. ( This was one of those times when I kept thinking, 'this would make a great LJ post...' Collapse )
|Wednesday, January 30th, 2008|
|Tuesday, January 22nd, 2008|
HUNTER'S HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR YEAR BOOK PICTURE
i begged my grandpa for his high school year book as it includes in his graduating class hst
they grew up a block from each other and werent best friends but definatly knew each other
my grandpa was captain of the football team and said he recalls hunter coming to most of the games
|Monday, January 7th, 2008|
I'm not exactly sure if this works here...but I think it does? Anyway. I'm pursuing journalism and have a penchant for accidentally having a writing style too indicative of Gonzoism. Let me know what you think about it, kay?
Current Mood: awake
|Sunday, January 6th, 2008|
If you guys like gonzo, you'll probably like bizarro too. It's everything weird, strange, surreal, absurd and indescribable and there is a literary bizarro uprising happening in the small press. Head on over to bizarrocentral.com, explore and join the revolution!
VIVA THOMPSON! Current Mood: thoughtful
|Friday, November 2nd, 2007|
Good evening dear friends,
As some of you may remember, when I was in Australia the first time round, I spent a considerable amount of time with an ADHD bi-polar Australian called Trev.
When I first met Trev he tried to sell me a car with no exhaust while doing BMX tricks and drinking beer. But it wasn't long before he took me under his wing and we became good friends and work colleagues, working in such places as the belly of a submarine, a decaying gold mine, and one of my favourites, a rug auction, to name but a few.
Well, a lot of people would hear about my tales with Trev and assume I'd gone mad with booze and made him up. But I can assure you, he is indeed real. In fact, he has his first book out on Amazon right now...why, it's just here in fact:http://www.amazon.com/Im-Midnight-Specialist-Account-Flavoured/dp/1419677284/ref=sr_1_1/102-0889991-2866567?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1194032437&sr=8-1
There's a number of reasons why you should buy this book. Here are a few of them:
I can guarantee it's like nothing you've ever read before,
It's all true,
I'm in it,
Trev is currently working on a remote drill rig where he does 170 hours a fortnight...and that shit is hard yo,
He has no sense of smell,
It's nearly Christmas,
16 US dollars actually works out to about 5 English pence,
He's shagged more girls than you've looked at,
Hopefully if he sells a lot someone will release his film as well,
and so on...oh, it's also got flavoured milk, UFOs, God, prison, drunks, guns, government agents, explosions, dirty girls, motorcycle accidents, love, death, frogs...
...and then there's Trev...
|Sunday, August 5th, 2007|
You may remember me talking about my dissertation a while back on this community. I haven't really been updating my journal recently but I've just come to say that I did quite well. I got a 65, which is a 2:1 so it was much better than I'd expected (which was a 2:2 at best). My first piece of true academic writing and it was about drugs, guns, politics, hallucinogenic experiences and swearing, but most importantly it was about the good doctor. I couldn't have enjoyed writing a dissertation more if I'd tried.
So thanks for the comments to my posts guys, you were a tremendous help. I did of course dedicate the whole thing to Hunter in my acknowledgements, who deserves nothing less. I only wish I could've scraped the extra five points and gotten a first to dedicate to him.
If you're interested in reading it at all just let me know. I'd love to see feedback about it. Some of the content may be reason for argument, but the dissertation is just my analysis of the entire Gonzo phenomenon and how I believe it left the planet along with its founder.
|Wednesday, August 1st, 2007|
Finally... The Gonzo Fest!
Plans have begun for a Hunter Thompson Festival to take place next Summer 2008 around the time of Hunters birthday. Further info can be found at the Gonzo Board:
There is also a myspace account:
The official website is www.gonzofest.net
|Thursday, July 19th, 2007|
Total coverage...yes...right...insane amounts of work. This is not something I'd advise your CHILDREN to read, ma'am.
Never in a million fucking years would I hail myself as one to carry the burden of an insane workload that should only be handled by crazed yaks in ancient Egypt, but yet, here I am, wandering and wondering...or is it wondering and wandering....right?! No, nono...there's going to be none of that here because we have ZERO TOLERANCE
now, and that's the Way It Is now, and if you don't like it, the FBI or the goddamned fuckheads in the Department of Homeland Insecurity will come to your house to roast your balls with a 10,000-volt taser, because you probably hate America and want al-Queda to overthrow the government and parade around the White House defiantly holding their cocks while waving them in a festive manner at Dick (AHAHA, "DICK") Cheney.
Right?! Right?! No, not
right, you see....I sit here grilling away and feeling my brain cells fly out of my ears while loud music blasts the unholy shit out of them and somehow I can still concentrate. Nevermind the fact that I have a gigantic deadline breathing down my neck, and his name is Tomorrow at Noon, and so far we're not getting along very well. The Seattle Times cracks the whip, and I do its bidding, for that
, my friends, is who I am. And this is the fifth story I'm churning out from them right now...well...actually, the more appropriate term at this rather frantic and frenzied time would be more akin to "avoiding" rather than "writing" in any particular sense.
This week has been a fucking roller-coaster, and if I don't somehow emerge alive from this hailstorm of journalistic fury, I will most certainly head up to the roof with an automatic weapon and fire it blindly into the air while screaming like a banshee about Peak Oil and Jihads and how bad the Dodgers sucks and why I can't find my fucking pants....
Maybe it's time I put the keyboard away for a while and took a walk, yes? Who knows, the fresh air might kill me at the rate I'm sucking down energy drinks and sweating over this final story in the week of a disturbed Times reporter....there is no real way to tell how I could react now, but rest assured I need to slay this bitch of bitches before it's too late.
|Sunday, June 10th, 2007|
a bit of advice?
Bride. Not a title I ever expected I'd carry since most of my titles keep me bound to work and odd research projects that make people sigh when I force them into so-called polite conversation. Still, the kind of love that made a man move 700 miles to live with me is the kind of love that makes me willing to take his last name.
The wedding is a weekend in his hometown with his ex-girlfriend-now-best-friend as my maid of honor. The theme, of course, is "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." Since I'd sooner shop for a coffin than a bridal gown, we're shopping for Hawaiian shirts and aviator sunglasses. Could you expect anything less from a couple who celebrated their engagement by getting matching Gonzo symbol tattoos? (Not that anyone gets it in this suburban sprawl prison we're stuck in for another year.)
But I'm a woman with mostly male (or lesbian) friends and taste that leans far more toward his button-down shirts with a pair of jeans than anything prissy or frilly. Who has the time, man? Shouldn't a writer care more about the topic at hand than whether her shoes match her bag?
I'd like to think our idea is original, that we're having the first "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" theme/Good Doctor tribute wedding in the world, but I'm not dumb -- our idea is a good one but surely one that's come to other fans/followers of The Good Doctor.
So, if any of you have, or have thought of, any ideas beyond the obvious, I'm open to suggestions. I don't know if Hunter had a favorite flower, but if he did and anyone knows it, I'd like to have it as part of my bouquet (since my idea of a bouquet of flyswatters has been vetoed). Also, if anyone knows where to get a replica of the Hawaiian shirt Duke is wearing in the movie poster, I'd really appreciate the link. After all, if a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing right.
|Tuesday, May 22nd, 2007|
all filler, no killer
Let's talk about the Cutty Sark! Ooooh, isn't it terrible!
Well, I was actually more concerned about the new law which enabled MPs to get out of freedom of information act.No but the Cutty Sark! It's a little bit charred! The nation mourns!
Sure, but a senior police officer has said he fears the spread of CCTV cameras in the UK is leading to "an Orwellian situation" which we're sleep walking into. Have you seen the new photos of the Cutty Sark? They say it was an act of arson! Cutty SarkCutty SarkCutty SarkCutty Sark!
Aren't you worried about the news that council staff, charity workers and doctors could be required by law
to tip off police about anyone they believe could
commit a violent crime one day? What's next, thought crimes?Oh you wanna play hardball huh? HAVE YOU SEEN MADELEINE MCCANN?!
well, no, of course not seeing i'm in bristol and she was taken in Portugal... oh you heartless MONSTER! where's your yellow ribbon, look into her eyes, share the families pain!
...you're all fucking idiots. in other news, we're having our 82nd lunchtime vigil for Alan Johnston in the BBC carpark, in the hopes that the people who have him walk past...here, sign the petition
|Monday, April 16th, 2007|
homeowner hell, vol. 1
In all this craziness of owning my own place to live and subsequently nearly being killed by a fridge and mocked to all HELL by a washer/dryer two nights ago, I realized last night that my experience with household appliances ranks somewhere between "clueless" and "caveman."
I had my defining moment of pure stupidity at around 8 p.m. when I came home from the store to launch myself into hardcore cleaning mode - this of course meant unpacking the hordes of boxes containing various piles of crap I never use, moving my TV to a place where it wouldn't serve as a doorstop, and putting away the dishes and glassware Wesa and I had wrapped in newspaper on Sunday whilst moving out of 525 Bellevue. I decided I wanted my home to look like an actual home, starting right then, and god dammit, I was hell-bent on getting it over with right then.
So, I thought I'd also use my brand-new dishwasher for the first time, you know, to clean the dishes without any mess. This sent such a giddy domestic orgasm down to my loins (yes, you're gonna have to deal with that mental picture) that I got too excited after meticulously unwrapping and loading all my dishes and proceeded to put liquid soap in the dishwasher.
10 minutes later, I gawked in sheer horror at the sight of the bottom of the dishwasher foaming up like Godzilla was trying to break out of it and raced to the counter to get paper towels. This of course sent me tripping over a small brown box full of magazines and almost into a full-dismount somersault in the process, but fortunately my kung fu training held up and I kept my balance. I grabbed an entire roll of paper towels and dashed back to the kitchen, where I turned off the demonic appliance and cursed the blasted thing to hell for mocking me and my newfound state of domestic tranquility.
"Why, WHY you bastard...why now..." I muttered as I soaked up the ocean of foam and soap that had spilled onto my brand new mahogany hardwood kitchen floor. Just then, it let out a strange belching noise and a high-pitched shriek as the motor shut down. "QUIET YOU APE!!" I screamed as I opened its door and tried to decide what the hell to do.
Fortunately, Wesa was already on her way over to drop off my new VNV Nation CD that her laptop almost devoured the night before, so I figured she'd know just what to do.
"Dude," she said as she saw the foam-party-in-Cancun-sized mess in my kitchen, "what the HELL did you do?"
I explained that I had put liquid soap in the dishwasher and before I even finished my sentence, she burst out into laughter for a fleeting moment and then held the rest back (which we all know is like trying to stop pooping when you've already started).
So, this morning upon waking up, the good news was the suds had died down thanks to the copious amount of water I doused it with before going to bed, but my floor will probably never forgive me.
And that GOD DAMNED dishwasher is still in my house while I'm working hard. That little bastard is unsupervised and no doubt just WAITING to embarrass me again the first chance it gets....
|Friday, April 6th, 2007|
It always bugged me how they caught the guy so easily. They never did. So now I give you living proof
that BTK is still at large.
The good thing about journalism is sometimes you never have to look further than your own typewriter for a good story. It can be right under you nose. This one came from here
|Friday, March 30th, 2007|
Best thing to happen to grocery shopping since food
So I was doing a pretty run of the mill grocery store shop for dinner ingredients the other night when I was given time to reflect on one of the truly brilliant advances of the modern age. I speak, of course, of the self service check out line at the grocery store. Now this goes by a different names depending on the store, but the BASIC premise is the same: You, the consumer. scan and bag your items in lieu of cashier involvement.
I know what you are wondering. Why did our narrator emphasize the word "basic" in such a manner? For the obvious reason that there is such a thing as the Advanced premise at work in the Self Service Check out. Specifically, stores that employ this system get to use mankind's natural passive-aggressive competitive tendencies to make the grocery shopping experience more efficient and even to make the line waiting process more tolerable for the customer.
Let us begin with the waiting process. In a conventional check out line if the cashier is slow, incompetent, clumsy or clueless the average customer will become aggitatged and impatient: "What the fuck is wrong with this kid."
Conversely, when on line at the Self Service Line, the other people using the check out are our fellow shoppers, our peers, our opponents. So now, instead of wondering what the fuck is wrong with someone, we are far more likely to laugh derisively and think something along the lines of: "Ha! I could destroy their best time!"
On a related note, self service lines always work on a queue system, where one line feeds into a pod of usually four check out stations. This means that all of your hopes and dreams for someday leaving the store and eating your purchases do not hang on the actions of one person (i.e. the kid of "What the fuck is wrong with . . ." fame), you can now watch the four shoppers (or as I like to call them Gladiatorial Consumers) scan and bag their little hearts out like a kind of horse race complete with the drama, heartbreak, pulse-pounding action and dramatic turns of fortune to be found in the real thing.
Consider if you will, two shoppers who begin simultaneously. One clearly laden with more items, but with a big heart and a steady hand (as well as a near mystical understanding for where on a given item the bar code is located) he holds his own. The Gladiatorial Consumer with fewer items actually has two items left as the more prolific purchaser finishes the scanning. But what this? Consumer One is using a credit card, not a debit card mind you, but the kind where they need to sign! Consumer Two scans her final items and breaks out the cash. Suddenly it looks like Consumer Two will use a more efficient payment method to win the day. But Alas! Her one bill is creased and she is having trouble getting it to take! Meanwhile the customer with the credit card has been instructed to take his card to the cashier for signature! Who will be the first to leave? Can Consumer Two get the machine to take her slightly creased bill, will Consumer One get the attention of the cashier helping the confused 87 year old at the other station? Which of these two stations will open up first?!?!?! Do you bear left or right? What's it going to be?
Thrilling shit for a simple trip to the store. And you, all the while, don't find yourself caring about how long you're waiting. It's the Drama that you care about. The Drama and yout sad, burning desire to show up these rank amateurs.
Finally, a station opens up. During the wait, you've already removed your bonus and debit cards from your wallet, and placed them in your breast pocket. You work the touch screen with nimble fingers, scanning that bonus card at full stride, and scanning your haul with mad ninja-like precision. You swipe your debit card, working the keypad and the touch screen simultaneously, trimming valuable seconds off your overall time, as you load your bags in the cart, grab your receipts and get the fuck out of dodge in under a minute.
Sure as hell beats explaining what endive is to some slack-jawed mouth breather who's just two days of traning past the smacking his head against the register until something happens stage of customer service. Current Mood: contemplative
|Wednesday, March 28th, 2007|
My kingdom for a steak...
All I wanted to do was cook a steak. But I’m not the best cook in the world so I need quiet, no distractions, no witnesses. I’ve come a long way mind, from the days of nearly getting an entire youth hostel evacuated by burning the shit out of an egg in the communal kitchen (I'd spent the whole day on acid though, so really it was my friends fault for not cooking for me, except they were Japanese and couldn’t understand what “drugs” were, let alone LSD).
So this evening I was set. A simple meal; steak, rice & sweet potato (I think some of you call these things Yams) and all was going well until I heard what sounded like scratching at my front door. I’m always quick to investigate noises coming from the front door as I live below an ex-heroin addict and I think we both know it’s only a matter of time before he gives up his IV cider dip and moves back to the brown.
But no, no crazed junkies were to be found. This was worse. A Jesus-freak was posting her propaganda through my door, trying to spread her lies into my humble home.
I quickly snatched the leaflet up (The Light Of Truth or some such bollocks) and opened the door to return said make-believe literature, except the old dear dishing out the fiction actually had quite a pace on her and was already halfway down my neighbours driveway. So I left the house and set off after her. Look, don’t get me wrong, I don’t really care what people choose to believe in, no matter how daft I might think it is. But I get enough lies when I step outside my front door in the morning as it is, so I object to it being shoved through my letterbox as well.
“Excuse me!” I called in my friendliest tone, “Excuse me!”
The little old lady turned around to reveal a face which looked like it had been twisted out of barbed wire,
“Hi, hello,” I said, still all smiles, “I don’t need this thanks.” And handed out the leaflet, but lady just looked at it and didn’t say a word. An awkward pause enveloped us before my brain helped move the situation along with,
“Yes…I’m an atheist you see.”
I hadn’t even gotten the “ist” part out when the lady spat on the ground and tore the piece of paper from me, giving me a nasty little paper cut between my thumb and forefinger,
“Well I hope you and Hitler are happy together.” She snarled and turned away, back to her leaflet carpet-bombing mission.
I stood there for a second, wanting to thank her for comparing me to someone who masterminded the killing of millions of people (I’m sure she was actually thinking of Stalin anyway) but I had a steak to cook, so I left her to it and rushed back.
Things weren’t good in the kitchen; the rice was boiling over, my potato was starting to shrivel up into rock-hard chucks of fat and my steak was billowing out smoke.
I started moving frantically through the kitchen, resembling something like Neo in ‘bullet time’, flipping steak, turning gas down, stirring rice, squeezing lime over gin & tonic, and it was nearly time to dish up when there was a knock on the front door.
“Oh tits to you.” I shouted. I switched everything off and ran to the front door, but that sent a cloud of smoke with me which set the fire-alarm off.
I opened the door and greeted a Tescos Delivery driver with a hail of high-pitched alarm beeps and burnt steak smoke.
“Tescos Delivery!” She sang at me with her arms full of my food shopping,
“Shit! Really? Now?! Ok, ok.” I looked back at the kitchen with a sinking feeling. It was supposed to’ve been so easy. All I wanted was a steak,
“Hoho, sounds like you’re as good a cook as me!” The lady chuckled as she set the shopping bags down,
“Yeah,” I replied distractedly, “This is what happens when the misses is out.”
Then before I knew it, she clubbed me around the face with my 6 pint bottle of semi-skimmed milk.
“What the fuck?!” I blurted,
“An atheist and a sexist pig, now there’s a surprise!” She hissed, and with that she lobbed the dented bottle of milk at my chest, hard, causing me to tumble back and bang my head on the wall behind.
Once I’d regained my balance and composure I stepped outside to see where the psycho delivery lady had gone with my food, but she was already climbing into her van. She pulled off with a screech of tires and plume of exhaust smoke, leaving me to stand in the middle of my garden, arms outstretched in a wtf-pose, watching my weeks worth of food shopping disappear down the road.
I was about to turn and go back into my deafening house when the little old religious lady with the barbwire face hobbled pasted. We looked at each other as she cocked her head to take in the tremendous noise-pollution my fire-alarm was dishing out,
“Sounds like someone’s already burning in hell!” She cackled. And with that she stuck her middle finger up at me in a violent, jerky motion before shuffling back down the street.
I didn’t finish eating my steak in the end. I managed to force myself to chew through half of its leatherly goodness before a string of fat got caught in my tongue-stud which resulted in half an hours worth of pain as I tried to de-tangle it.
|Tuesday, March 13th, 2007|
Abstract for my dissertation on Gonzo:
"Background: Hunter S Thompson’s death on February 20th, 2005 has left debate open as to whether or not his Gonzo journalism died with him, or if it can be continued by others.
Arguments: Thompson was the only journalist whose writing was coined as ‘Gonzo’ throughout his life. Gonzo is considered a branch of the New Journalism, and is linked by Tom Wolfe’s anthology The New Journalism. However, it is more than possible for journalists to emulate the style or make it their own. Matt Taibbi, for example, while writing without intention of mimicking Thompson, has been inadvertently dubbed a Gonzo journalist by contemporaries and fans alike.
Initial conclusions: Gonzo is not so much a style than the spirit of the writing itself. Only the worthy are successfully dubbed ‘Gonzo.’ Imitators quickly come and go, but a true Gonzoist succeeds in facilitating the evolution of the form. Mimicking Thompson with intent does not make one a Gonzo writer – creating your own mutant version with your voice as champion does."
Thoughts? Agreements? Hate-filled comments?