>you will never be just outside Barstow, when the drugs begin to take hold
Big fan of Thompson, just finished reading kingdom of fear, pretty good biography, gonzo is such a unique style. The dense politics were a bit much especially for an Australian but I still could appreciate it however
i wrote this piece for a
>write in the style of an author and others try to guess who it is
>what do you guys think?
I came out of the hotel room at dawn, completely alert although not completely sane.
"Jesus!" I cried, at the servant pushing a trolley of used plates and silverware, "What are you still doing here?"
His only response was a pair of tired eyes and a phony expression that I assume was intended to be surprise. Oh well, he's done for now.
I wandered downstairs to the hotel lobby, and then to the bar, and eventually found the restaurant. Several tables are occupied by geriatric couples, and it is several moments after I sit down and look over the menu that I remember I am in Florida.
"Jesus!" I shout again, this time at the waitress who cautiously approached me to take my order but stopped about two yards away. "What day is it?" I ask, at a volume altogether too loud for a sleepy hotel restaurant at 6:30am in Florida. I realize I'm too loud and proceed in a more conversational tone.
"What day is it ma'am?" I ask again.
She ignores my question and answers with one of her own, "What'll you have sir?" she drawls, lazily.
Suddenly I remember why I came to the hotel restaurant; I /am/ hungry. I decide on two grapefruits, halved; 4 fried eggs; 4 slices of bacon, crispy; a turkey club sandwich, with extra tomatoes; a glass of orange juice; a glass of milk; two espressos; a bloody mary; a margarita; copies of the wall street journal, new york times, san francisco chronicle, and the local paper; and if she, the waitress, would please tune the television to ESPN. She rolls her eyes and walks away without speaking.
A few minutes later she brings my papers, but doesn't change the TV station. I look down to open up my first paper to find out how quickly my country is going to hell, and notice my appearance. I understand why the waitress stayed back. Aside from my hat and sunglasses, I'm wearing a torn hawaiian shirt with meat juice stains all over the chest, like i lost a fight against a steak dinner, and for pants a pair of jogging shorts with a gun belt hung over top, only instead of a pistol holster there is a sheath holding a large polished hunting knife. The pistol is in my briefcase.
Long way to go, bud.
Go back to the beginning, writing 101, and learn what "show, don't tell" means.
Also, your dialogue tags are fucking cringeworthy. Get rid of those and that'll improve it dramatically on its own.
Yeah, that figures. Although I wouldn't rule out his penchant for playing the super masculine man, I could see him catching up to the political and social landscape and calling Bernie a Cuck in a column while siding with anti-war, pro-gun Trump.
>Where have all the HST/Hemingway/London types gone? The hard-drinking, sport-loving, masculine leftists.
Cheer up, we'll have a new '20s soon enough. :^)
And just like that I want Hunter S Thompson to write a Star Wars EU novel. I'll never get it, I probably would never have gotten it even if he were still alive, but now I want it. And I'll never get it.