The Kitchen Readings Read Online Free
Author: Michael Cleverly
concept called quality of life.
Following his loss in November, I remember Hunter asking me about the informal power-up model of gang structure. It was as if he were taking mental notes. I had gone from deanâs list to dropout; but now Hunter told me that his foray into politics had exposed weaknesses in the comfortable oligarchy of Aspen. I was starting to feel my part in what Hunter foresaw. Despite the âCarpe Noctumâ existentialism and the denial of death and tomorrow, Hunter persuaded me and other supporters to view his loss on Election Day as the beginning, not the end, of âFreak Power.â
The curtain was rising on the Gonzo Years, the hyperbole and craziness, but the pendulum was creeping toward its position of natural repose, with the Docâs hand in touch. He was to become, for me, a polestar and a conscience. Thirty-five years later he was a sharp twig in my eye.
Cleverly Chats with the Doctor
Thereâs really no other way to put it. Facts are facts. Hunter mumbled. In short staccato bursts. The way they teach you to use a fully automatic weapon. A quick spray, then another, then another. Covering the field. His mind was so quick that he had his words processed and considered before he could get them out. When the rest of us speak before we think, it gets us in trouble. For Hunter it was just the opposite. He couldnât get the words out fast enough, and his pauses were semicolons, not commas. Besides, he didnât give a hoot and a holler what anyone thought anyway.
Our ability to comprehend Hunterâor notâwas our problem, not Hunterâs. I donât think that I ever witnessed himmake an effort to clarify himself. For some reason, none of this deterred TV hosts from courting him for their talk shows, or colleges from begging him to come lecture. Though these werenât Hunterâs favorite activities, it wasnât because he was worried about people not understanding himâlike I said, he really couldnât care less. What he didnât like was the structure of the things. In agreeing to them, he actually had to be somewhere at a certain time. You might say that tardiness was a shortcoming of Hunterâs. People constantly forgave him this small flaw, I think, because it was so remarkable that he showed up at all. I suspect that the reason that he showed up was because he had some sort of agreement with his publisherâyou know, the kind of agreement thatâs in writing, attended by lawyers, and signed with blood. That, plus I think the dough was pretty good on the lecture circuit. Money is always a wonderful motivator. Hunter tried to keep his lectures down to questions and answers; the way most people end their talks was how Hunter began his. He usually ended them by felonious assault with a handy fire extinguisher.
A few years ago I was sitting in a state of non-Zen nothingness and it occurred to me that at some unknown point I had become able to understand every word that Hunter said. How long had it been since I leaned closer in an effort to turn the sounds into words? I couldnât say. This epiphany kind of unnerved me. What did it mean? Was I spending too much time at Owl Farm? Was my earâbrain continuum evolving in some strange way? Was it the drugs? Nah. Couldnât be the drugs. I concluded that it didnât mean anything. I come to that conclusion a lot. Itâs safe.
Still, it did get me thinking, and took me back to the Jerome Bar years before, to what might have been my first one-on-one conversation with Doc, when we were just getting to know each other.
I walked into the place in mid-afternoon. Hunter was sitting at the bar having lunch. As usual he had ordered half the menu and was picking at the food. He had all the beverage bases covered as well: a Bloody Mary, a beer, a glass of water, and a tumbler of Chivas. Apparently some doofus had spotted Hunter just before I arrived. The doofus was dancing around the
Following his loss in November, I remember Hunter asking me about the informal power-up model of gang structure. It was as if he were taking mental notes. I had gone from deanâs list to dropout; but now Hunter told me that his foray into politics had exposed weaknesses in the comfortable oligarchy of Aspen. I was starting to feel my part in what Hunter foresaw. Despite the âCarpe Noctumâ existentialism and the denial of death and tomorrow, Hunter persuaded me and other supporters to view his loss on Election Day as the beginning, not the end, of âFreak Power.â
The curtain was rising on the Gonzo Years, the hyperbole and craziness, but the pendulum was creeping toward its position of natural repose, with the Docâs hand in touch. He was to become, for me, a polestar and a conscience. Thirty-five years later he was a sharp twig in my eye.
Cleverly Chats with the Doctor
Thereâs really no other way to put it. Facts are facts. Hunter mumbled. In short staccato bursts. The way they teach you to use a fully automatic weapon. A quick spray, then another, then another. Covering the field. His mind was so quick that he had his words processed and considered before he could get them out. When the rest of us speak before we think, it gets us in trouble. For Hunter it was just the opposite. He couldnât get the words out fast enough, and his pauses were semicolons, not commas. Besides, he didnât give a hoot and a holler what anyone thought anyway.
Our ability to comprehend Hunterâor notâwas our problem, not Hunterâs. I donât think that I ever witnessed himmake an effort to clarify himself. For some reason, none of this deterred TV hosts from courting him for their talk shows, or colleges from begging him to come lecture. Though these werenât Hunterâs favorite activities, it wasnât because he was worried about people not understanding himâlike I said, he really couldnât care less. What he didnât like was the structure of the things. In agreeing to them, he actually had to be somewhere at a certain time. You might say that tardiness was a shortcoming of Hunterâs. People constantly forgave him this small flaw, I think, because it was so remarkable that he showed up at all. I suspect that the reason that he showed up was because he had some sort of agreement with his publisherâyou know, the kind of agreement thatâs in writing, attended by lawyers, and signed with blood. That, plus I think the dough was pretty good on the lecture circuit. Money is always a wonderful motivator. Hunter tried to keep his lectures down to questions and answers; the way most people end their talks was how Hunter began his. He usually ended them by felonious assault with a handy fire extinguisher.
A few years ago I was sitting in a state of non-Zen nothingness and it occurred to me that at some unknown point I had become able to understand every word that Hunter said. How long had it been since I leaned closer in an effort to turn the sounds into words? I couldnât say. This epiphany kind of unnerved me. What did it mean? Was I spending too much time at Owl Farm? Was my earâbrain continuum evolving in some strange way? Was it the drugs? Nah. Couldnât be the drugs. I concluded that it didnât mean anything. I come to that conclusion a lot. Itâs safe.
Still, it did get me thinking, and took me back to the Jerome Bar years before, to what might have been my first one-on-one conversation with Doc, when we were just getting to know each other.
I walked into the place in mid-afternoon. Hunter was sitting at the bar having lunch. As usual he had ordered half the menu and was picking at the food. He had all the beverage bases covered as well: a Bloody Mary, a beer, a glass of water, and a tumbler of Chivas. Apparently some doofus had spotted Hunter just before I arrived. The doofus was dancing around the
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