This Hunter Thompson obsession is almost done with, I swear… just another week, maybe two. I just need to get my momentum back. It’s all a question of the right techniques, the right medicines, the right atmospheric conditions… the time is at hand, but it’s not here quite yet.

In the meantime, I honored the holiday today by having an HST-style breakfast, except without the nudity and the cocaine. In case you’re not familiar with the Doctor’s Philosophy of Breakfast, here it is in a nutshell:


Breakfast is the only meal of the day that I tend to view with the same kind of traditionalized reverence that most people associate with Lunch and Dinner.

I like to eat breakfast alone, and almost never before noon; anybody with a terminally jangled lifestyle needs at least one psychic anchor every twenty-four hours, and mine is breakfast. In Hong Kong, Dallas or at home — and regardless of whether or not I have been to bed — breakfast is a personal ritual that can only be properly observed alone, and in a spirit of genuine excess. The food factor should always be massive: four Bloody Marys, two grapefruits, a pot of coffee, Rangoon crepes, a half-pound of either sausage, bacon, or corned beef hash with diced chiles, a Spanish omelette or eggs Benedict, a quart of milk, a chopped lemon for random seasoning, and something like a slice of Key lime pie, two margaritas, and six lines of the best cocaine for dessert.... Right, and there should also be two or three newspapers, all mail and messages, a telephone, a notebook for planning the next twenty-four hours and at least one source of good music.... All of which should be dealt with outside, in the warmth of a hot sun, and preferably stone naked.