Owl Farm Blog

Along with waking up to the fantastic news that Ralph STEADman and Anna will be coming this summer, I spent a beautiful day with Jennifer and Wayne watching some footage of Hunter that I had never seen before. Being there in that room, while Hunter wrote an espn column, I forgot that Wayne had filmed that (by the way, he had been filming Hunter on a regular basis for about 20 years. Hunter trusted Wayne enormously and it shows, because, thanks to their relationship, there is mind-blowing moments captured by Wayne that have never seen the light of day, except to Hunter and a few of us.

We sat around with what started out as a full box of tissue and cried and laughed at the beautiful man that Hunter was, and continues to be in his work. Wayne Ewing was a blessing in Hunter’s life, along with Hunter’s other treasured friends. And I hope you will be able to see some of the footage that we saw today – click here.

But, as yesterday’s mystery (sort of) poet/musician reminded me in yesterday’s lyrics, we ain’t gonna grieve no more (or only in private) and celebrate Hunter for the snow-leopard he was. 

And yes, it was indeed Dylan’s lyrics. Jim Caruso wrote" Those lyrics are by Mr. Robert Allen Zimmerman! No one else has such poetic power…" Hecotr Gomez wrote:DYLAN! lol, just got online and read your post on Owl Farm Blog. I’ve also been reading your previous posts on the BP oil spill in the Gulf. Any word on organized protests, send info. and I’ll join ya. My beautiful South Padre Island is quite a ways off from the spill and most of the local news tells us the currents won’t bring any oil our way, although I think they’re assuming the best case scenario which of course has been anything but so far. I otherwise hope you’re enjoying your summer as am I with a baby boy on his way due August–William Hunter. After William Faulkner, my wife’s favorite writer, and Hunter after my favorite…well, let’s see where did I get that name again 😉 Con Amor y Paz Hector."

So, best wishes to Hector and his wife with William Hunter on the way, and to Jimmy Caruso for inspiring me to get back in touch every day with those who love Hunter.

happy memory day!
with love,   Anita Thompson

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it’s late. going to bed. but wanted to leave you with a few lyrics.

Well, I ain’t a gonna grieve no more, no more/Ain’t a gonna grieve no more, no more/Ain’t a goonna grieve no more./ … We’re gonna notify your next of kin,/You’re gonna raise the roof until the house falls in./ If you get knocked down get up again,/ We ain’t gonna grieve no more./…We’ll sing this song all night long,/ Sing it to my baby from midnight on./ She’ll sing it to you when I’m dead and gone,/Ain’t a-gonna grieve no more.

Tell me, tell me. who wrote these lines? tell me in the morning. lots of love to you on Memorial day. Remember…. Your friend, Anita Thompson

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Hello. (I’m on my mac again with no links and bizarre layout. sorry).. Instead of gluing ourselves to the TV and video of the gushing Oil Disaster, several of us went up to Maroon Bells today for a hike and picnic. The impending Doom from the Gulf made us realize just how lucky we are, for now. Going to the Gulf coast and making ourselves useful is the next logical step. But not sure of exactly how to proceed or where to go. Not sure if it helped or not, I opened Generation of Swine and opened it to one of Hunter’s travel/hotel pages. . . Here is a passage from Hunter’s “Generation of Swine” where he explains how often he wrote from hotel rooms crazy travel but still needed to find inspiration. When you’re on the road, the books that you might really want, like H.L. Mencken, or Mark Twain. Sometimes Maria or David McCumber would “pull a rabbit like Nathanael West’s “Cool Million” out of his hat…” . . . “But not often. Fast and total recall of things like page 101 from “Snowblind” or Marlowe’s final judgment to Lord Jim , or what Richard Nixon said to Henry Kissinger when they were both on their knees in front of Abe Lincoln’s portrait in the White House on some crazed Thursday night in July of 1974 are just about impossible to locate after midnight on the road, or even at noon. . It simply takes too much time, and if they’ve been sending bottles of Chivas up to your room for the past three days, they get nervous when you start demanding things they’ve never heard of. . .That is when I start bouncing around the room and ripping drawers out of the nightstand and bed boxes and those flimsy little desks with bent green blotters that they provide for traveling salesmen — looking for a Gideon Bible, which I know will be there somewhere, and with any luck at all it will be a King James Version, and the Book of Revelation will be intact at the end. . If there is a God, I want to thank Him for the Gideons, whoever they are. I have dealt with some of his other messengers and found them utterly useless. But not the Gideons… — Hunter S. Thompson, “Generation of Swine.” Goodnight! your friend back at home with a full library, including a Gideon Bible somewhere, but not at the coast yet. Anita Thompson ”

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Hello. Yes, today was a much better day at Owl Farm — worked in the garden (i planted more marigolds, geraniums, hollyhocks, did some overdue paperwork and correspondence too. Of course we’re still gloomy and sick about the Gulf Crisis. But finally, a flash of hope came over us when  President Obama did show up (for the second time) to Louisiana and gave the authorities  in charge of clean-up a direct line to his office in the event that the chain of command fails again. I doubt he gave them a false phone number. Only the coming months will tell us exactly who and what is working. As Hunter always said, It’s the Recovery that Matters.

 

If you haven’t read them already, The Wall Street Journal is publishing some very good investigative pieces and history on the BP actions and diversions.

Before some words from Bob Dylan, check out the link from Gonzo Foundation Board member and good friend of the family, Jim Caruso. He has an inspiring blog:

To read Bob Dylan’s greatest works, you need to read his lyrics and hear his songs,

obviously. But Chronicles does indeed offer refreshing insights.

 

The following passage is after he was trying to get out of the rat race. It was difficult for him to go anywhere with his family. He had been in a motorcycle accident and been hurt, but he recovered.  Having children changed his life and segregated him from just about everybody and everything that was going on.

 

Even the horrifying news items of the day, the murders of the Kennedy’s, King, Malcolm X were to him, not so much leaders being shot down, but rather as fathers whose families
had been left wounded. He was determined to raise his children with the ideals of what he loved most about America — the country of freedom and equality.

 

…I had a wife and children whom I loved more than anything else in the world. I was trying to provide for them, keep out of trouble, but the big bugs in the press kept promoting me as the mouthpiece, spokesman, or even conscience of a generation. That was funny. All I’d ever done was sing songs that were dead straight and expressed powerful new realities. I had very little in common with and knew even less about a generation that I was supposed to be the voice of. I’d left my hometown only ten years earlier, wasn’t vociferating the opinions of anybody. My destiny lay down the road with whatever life invented, had nothing to do with representing any kind of civilization. Being true to yourself, that was the thing. I was more a cowpuncher than a Pied Piper.

 

People think that fame and riches translate to power, that it brings glory and honor and happiness. Maybe it does, but sometimes it doesn’t. I found myself stuck in Woodstock, vulnerable and with a family to protect. If you looked in the press, though, you saw me being portrayed as anything but that. I was surprising how thick the smoke had become. It seems likethe world has always needed a scapegoat — someone to lead the charge against the Roman Empire. But American wasn’t the Roman Empire and someone else would have to step up and volunteer. I really  was never any more than what I was — a folk musician who gazed into the gray mist with tear-blinded eyes and made up songs that floated in a luminous haze. "

 

Bob Dylan, Chronicles

 

Indeed.

From Woody Creek,

Anita Thompson

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It was an heart-wrenching moment today when Wolf Blitzer asked Admiral Thad Allen on the air as he read a fresh NYTimes article about the Top Kill operation being suspended to hear the Admiral say he hadn’t heard that because he had been out of cell phone range. The President was asked about the resignation or perhaps firing of the head of M.M.S and he had no answer because he had just heard about it this morning. Fear is in the air and on the air and in the water, in the marshes and probably every kitchen table now. People ask me what Hunter would be writing now about the Gulf Oil hemorrhage. I don’t know. But we do know what he wrote about 9/11 and lack of information:

 

The towers are gone now, reduced to bloody rubble, along with all hopes for Peace in Our Time, in the U.S. or any other country. Make no mistake about it: we are at War now — with somebody — and we will stay at war with that strange and mysterious Enemy for the rest of our lives…."

 — Hunter S. Thompson, Hey Rube

 

You don’t need any history lessons from me, but anyone who has been even remotely paying attention to the warning signs from experts on climate change can grasp that during a global social and economic crisis knows that one thing we don’t want is war with the Planet. Bill Clinton said something interesting to Walter Isaacson several years ago at the Aspen Institute. He said something like "Terrorism will not change life as we know it, but environmental change will change your life in a big way."

 

Somebody asked why on earth BP is drilling so close to American shores with no back up plan might be answered with something as simple as the regulations were lax and easy. Who knows. We do know that older, more advanced Norway engineers have regulations such as the requirement that expensive but logical protections be in place including relief wells in place in case of a burst of the main line. Hmmm. I’m no expert, so I sit glued to the TV and online newspaper reporting of what looks like a long, devastating summer.

 

We will see what happens tomorrow when the President shows up in the Gulf to make a statement. What will he say? What will he do? God only knows.

 

Since I’m on this gloomy riff as it is, after clicking over to Fox news, seeing a creepy Glenn Beck trying to give a history lesson about the federal government, I couldn’t help remembering a passage from one of Hunter’s favorite books, "How the Irish Saved Civilization," by Thomas Cahill. He acknowledges all the different theories of the reason for the collapse of the Roman Empire.

 

"These earlier interpreters — first the pagan critics of Christianity, then Augustine, Petrarch, Machiavelli, and Gibbon — have defined the limits of all interpretation: Rome fell because of inner weakness [decadence, gluttony, etc] either social or spiritual; or Rome fell because of outer pressure — the barbarian hordes.  What we can say with confidence is that Rome fell gradually and that Romans for many decades scarcely noticed what was happening."

 — Thomas Cahill, "How the Irish Saved Civilization."

 

Ah, I’m being dramatic perhaps. But one can’t watch this and not feel responsible at least on a collective level for this happening on our watch.

 

 But I do take some hope from James Carville and Doug Brinkley and many others who say (or hope) that things will change in the Gulf when the President actually sees the sludge and devastation. We shall see.

 

Tomorrow a brighter post and wisdom from Bob Dylan.

 

Your gloomy friend in Woody Creek,

Anita Thompson

 

 

 

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Hello there. Today has been an interesting day. After several weeks of discussions about where I should move the Gonzo office to, I’m happy to say that the office will be back home at the Woody Creek Community Center. Thanks Rob Pew! It’s a wonderful place and guests at the Community Center are family. The question was about another office that was near the river. But, I decided that we can always get our river fix after yoga class and at the Maroon Bells!

That is a good problem to have: how to get find time to spend time in Colorado’s clean rivers. But watching CNN, and reading the papers reminds me once again how far away we are from the crisis in the gulf. But distance is only physical. Presidential historian Douglas Brinkley and James Carville, American political consultant, and attorney, have been teaming up to send the message that we shouldn’t be assuming that BP is on our side. Of course there are many theories on the table. But I do agree with my friends Doug and James.

Anyway, let’s go a different direction and read a bit of what I’m reading now: Bob Dylan’s “Chronicles.” (yes, I’m behind on my stack of good books to read!)

Here’s a quote from page 51:

“I can’t say when it occurred to me to write my own songs. I couldn’t have come up with anything comparable or halfway close to the fold song lyrics I was singing to define the way I felt about the world. I guess it happens to you by degrees. You just don’t wake up one day and decide that you need to write songs, especially if you’re a singer who has plenty of them and you’re learning more every day. Opportunities may come along for you to convert something — something that exists into something that didn’t yet. That might be the beginning of it. Sometimes you just want to do things your way, want to see for yourself what lies behind the misty curtains. It’s not like you see songs approaching and invite them in. It’s not that easy.”
– Bob Dylan, “Chronicles”

Okay, that’s it for now.

Your friend with her nose in Chronicles,
Anita Thompson

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Happy Birthday to you,

Happy Birthday to you

Happy Biiiirthday Dear Peeeeter,

Happy Birthday tooo youuuuuu.

You’re a wonderrrful brother,

you’re a fantastic dad,

You’re a great Gonzo Store manager and etc,

Thank you for everything you  doooooo!

Happpy Birthday to you!

 

with love, your sister,

Anita

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Hello. I almost forgot to post today, wilted as I was after a day of gardening, window washing and electricians fixing the outlet that had burn marks on it for the last several months.  My new fiduciary responsibilities clicked in as I happily  clicked on the TV to Anderson Cooper’s "360" talk show style edition about the male brain and infidelity (among other things about BP with Doug Brinkley). Infidelity doesn’t excite me all that much, but the studies of the human brain does, which is the focus of tonight’s show.

 

Yes, so I ran to my computer to check in with you before the clock strikes midnight. So, at this 11th hour, the show’s topic reminded me of my dear friend Robert Chalmers, who Hunter adored. To be clear, it reminded me not so much of Robert, but of his book, "East Of Nowhere." There are two people on the planet who are so wicked smart, that they chose "The French Influence on Oscar Wilde" as their Ph.D. dissertations: Shelby Sadler, dear friend and one of Hunter’s editors, and Robert Chalmers, also a friend and fellow journalist who was a welcome addition to Hunter’s Owl Farm when Ralph Steadman introduced the two men years ago.

 

Before the clock strikes midnight here, I will post a tease to Robert’s book, "East Of Nowhere." And check in with you tomorrow or Monday.

 

When he looked back on that morning, as he did, time after time, he could never understand how he’d forgotten to be discreet. Adultery had become a discipline to Miller, in the pursuit of which he’d learned — like a seasoned assassin, or a bomb disposal expert — that brief moments of precious intensity were best secured through scrupulous attention to detail and diligent forward planning, and that impulse was his enemy.

 

That Wednesday, though, some new instinct settled on him. It happened abruptly, in the way that a man might walk along the same clifftop path every morning for twenty years then, one day, for no reason, glance down into the void and step off.

 

It happened — every time he thought of it, the memory horrified him more — in the office. And not just in the office, but in Bowker’s Cupboard. He’d worked with Charlotte, his temporary assistant, for two weeks without really noticing her at all. But that morning, just before seven, as he settled behind his desk, sifting through a pile of irregular expenses claims, she was stretching up to reach some box files on the far side of the room, with her back to him. He watched her. It was the first of May, and she was wearing a beige cotton jacket and a cornflower-blue skirt that finished just above her knee.

 

He stopped scrutinizing journalists’ invoices for first class flights, luxury hotels and other privileges he had prohibited on the morning he took over as editor, and instead found himself staring absentmindedly at her calves…

— Robert Chalmers, East of Nowhere

 

Okay, it goes on in scrumptious detail. Hope you get the book. I gotta run (well, more like swagger bc of my big blue and white striped slippers) back to see Anderson Cooper interview the researchers of the human brain.

 

Toodaloo. your faithful friend in Woody Creek,

Anita Thompson

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hello. How wonderful it is to have my desktop back in the office! There shouldn’t be any weird formatting issues other than my penchant for grammaticos and misspellings whcih I work to avoid. But you all know me well enough that you can read Anitaese.

 

Today, Heidi Zuckerman Jacobson, Director and Chief Curator of The Aspen Art Museum, opened an informal walking tour of some of the interesting art exhibits that will remain in town as part of the community.  Alexandra Peers writes in the New York Observer  that:

 Few cities have the combination of manageable size and cultural ambition necessary to turn the whole town into a sculpture garden. This summer, that’s just what Aspen is attempting, as works from some notable contemporary artists are sprinkled throughout downtown as part of the Aspen Art Museum’s “Restless Empathy” show. It opens Thursday, May 20, and runs through the summer….

The works aren’t just sculptures plunked down in midtown; they’re intended to integrate with Aspen. So memorial benches by Lars Ramberg salute local Woody Creek legend Hunter S. Thompson. Quotes from the writer will add up to a larger text that “upends the sentimentality associated with memorializing,” according to the artist.

The exhibition aims to create “a space for the unexpected experience,” said museum director and chief curator Heidi Zuckerman Jacobson…

Draw a crazy picture,
Write a nutty poem,
Sing a mumble-gumble song,
Whistle through your comb.
Do a loony-goony dance
‘Cross the kitchen floor,
Put something silly in the world
That ain’t been there before

— Shel Silverstein.

Okay, thanks for checking in. Lots of love to you.

Your friend,

Anita Thompson

 

 

 

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Hello there. Here I am, back at Owl Farm after an outing to Glenwood Springs with my friend Cameron to fix a broken brake light on my car. My friend at the Audi dealership was kind to fix it in two seconds flat (or so) which left us with extra time to peruse a wonderful book of Ginsberg’s letters, (Published by Da Capo — yes, same publisher who published my edition of Hunter’s interviews.) This book, edited by Bill Morgan, is a great book titled “The Letters of Allen Ginsberg” Here is a clip from a letter Allen wrote to the New York Times on February 17, 1959. (same mac formatting, sorry for the inconvenieance!) Scathing media attacks continued to plague Ginsberg and the Beats. Morgan notes that sometimes Ginsberg would fire off a letter in hopes of reaching a sympathetic ear. ………………………………………….. “Sirs: Your account of our incarnation in Chicago was cheap kicks for you who have sold your pens for Money and have no Fate left but idiot mockery of the Muse that must work in poverty in an America already doomed by materialism. You suppressed knowledge that the Chicago Review’s winter issue was censored by the University of Chicago; that the editors had resigned to publish the material under the name Big Table; that we offered our bodies and Poetry to raise money to help publish the magazine, and left Chicago in the penury in which we had come. You quoted what was charming in our speech out of context; you ignored the main event, the reading at the Sherman Hotel which was a religious intellectual exposition of poetry’s Truth; you perverted the beauty of Orlovsky’s tears; you spat on the appearance of the Soul of Poetry in America at a time when America needs that soul most; you brainwashed your millions of readers. You are an instrument of the Devil and crucify America with your lies; you are the war-creating Whore of Babylon and would be damned were you not mercifully destined to be swallowed by Oblivion with all created things. ALLEN GINSBERG PETER ORLOVSKY GREGORY CORSO in respect to Shelley New York City…… yep. I wonder if he reached a sympathetic ear. We miss Allen Ginsberg. your friend, Anita p.s. if you’re wondering what “penury” means, which I had to look up, surprisingly, since it turns out It feels as if I’ve lived this word: “n 1. extreme poverty, 2: extreme frugality. (of course, poverty is RELATIVE… especially considering that my big problem today was a forced upgrade to a new cell phone which is completely useless since I have no idea how to use it. Poor poor pitiful… never mind.)

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One of our heroes, Amy Goodman, reported today that among the 38 that were killed by the Thai Government was a Canadian reporter. Amy Goodman, who started her career (I remember reading in one of her books) almost being shot at a protest in South America years ago, held a very good debate between two sides of the argument. Her story is here.  The protesters are mostly rural and urban poor who are part of a group called the UDD, the United Front for Democracy Against Dictatorship, more commonly known as the Red Shirts. She hosted a debate between Giles Ji Ungpakorn, a Thai dissident living in exile in Britain who supports the Red Shirt movement; and Philip Cunningham, a freelance journalist who has covered Asia for over twenty years. I’ve gotta run. It’s pouring spring rain, but Athena hasn’t been out all day as I ran errands. Until tomorrow, your friend, Anita Thompson

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 It was just after Doug Brinkley started giving TV viewers the facts about British Petroleum’s lies regarding the oil disaster in the Gulf of Mexico that journalists, in general, stopped simply reprinting the press released issued by BP, and started doing some investigating on their own. What they have found is ugly, but at least their efforts do let us know what to expect. Armageddon?  Perhaps not, but if there is some justice, it will be a small a Armageddon for BP.

Not that the self censorship of news organizations has gotten much better since 9/11, but this at least offers us some hope that journalists are daring to investigate, rather than republish the standard press releases in the future.

Let’s look at a peer country’s status of journalist’s situation: Russia. It appears that they are not simply rewriting press releases. Please read NYTimes article by Clifford J. Levy to see how Mikhail Beketov, Mikhail Beketov had been warned, but would not stop writing — About dubious land deals, crooked loans, under-the-table hush money. All evidence, he argued in his newspaper, of rampant corruption in this Moscow suburb.

It goes on to tell of other men and women who are dead or beaten or simply arrested for investing to find the truth. What do the Police do? They are more lax on the investigation side, as it were…

 1. Igor Belousov, Editor of Khimki, Our Home

ARRESTED, FEBRUARY 2010

Arrested on charges of selling cocaine, based on no physical evidence. Accused of libel in civil and criminal cases.

2. Andrei Khmelevsky, Reporter at Bell Tower

BEATEN, October 2009

Beaten at his home. Received a concussion, numerous bruises and lacerations.

UNSOLVED

3. Pyotr Lipatov, Editor of Consensus and Truth

BEATEN, March 2009

Beaten by plainclothes police officers after a protest. Received a concussion. Also separately accused of criminal extremism by prosecutors.

UNPROSECUTED

4. Maksim Zolotarev, Editor of The Talk of the Southern Moscow Suburbs

ATTACKED, March 2009

Attacked by three people. Received numerous injuries.

UNSOLVED

5. Yuri Grachev, Editor of Solnechnogorsk Forum

BEATEN, February 2009

Beaten and found with a broken nose, a concussion and cuts. Only Documents were stolen. (not his wallet)

UNSOLVED

6. Mikhail Beketov, Editor of Khimki Truth

NEARLY KILLED, November 2008

Beating resulted in brain damage and amputation of a leg and fingers. Also separately accused of criminal libel by prosecutors.

UNSOLVED

You get the picture.

your friend,

Anita Thompson

 

 

 

 

 

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Well shucks. Two days in a row. How ’bout that. OWl Farm was in great spirits today. Siameses Caesar and Pele and German Shepherd Athena, and Peacocks Oscar, Bosie, Sammy all were in the new sun today.  Teh grass is green, the daffodils are blooming and I fired up the John Deere yesterday. all is well.

Anyway, today’s mention is inspired from a book I’ve loved for many years, You’re Too Kind: A brief History of Flattery. By Richard Stengel. Great, funny book.

Didn’t know it, but Shakespeare mocked the conventions of courtly flattery by making fun of the famous love aching troubadours of the 12th century french love poets who passed down to us cheezy but effective love sentiments that you read in Hallmark Cards today. What they didn’t understand, or didn’t need, was GREAT flattery (because often they were more in love with love, or the abstract, rather than an actual woman.) Good flattery is general; great flattery is specific.

Hence, Shakespeare’s having a laugh at the troubadores, at their expense and our gain… Sonnet 130:

 

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
   As any she belied with false compare.

Ah, yes. Thank you Shakespeare. You make us laugh and love at the same time — often,  we find ourselves scratching our heads. So, when writing love letters to your lovers, be specific. or not….

your friend in Woody Creek,

Anita Thompson

 p.s. I thank Jim Caruso for dedicating his first post to me on cut the leash blog.  Many many thanks Jim. And thanks too, to Seth Godin

 

 

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Hello there. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? The snows have gone…and come back this week with a vengance, which is a good thing. They brought with them a new friend and an old concept and old friends. Ah. During my cacooning at Owl Farm this winter, I’ve been in close contact with George Stranahan and Hal Haddon who hooked me up with Jim Caruso of Flying Dog glory. We have teamed up and put Jim on the Board of Directors of the Gonzo Foundation. Yes, we are partners and friends and Ralph Steadman is our angel with a pen, and Sam from Fulcrum pulbishing for our next book project.

Becuase of the strictest confidentiality agreement ever agreed to, I’m not at liberty to tell you all the plans that Jim and his people at Flying Dog, along with the Gonzo family that stretches far and wide and me have come up with for the summer schedule at GF. But I believe I may mention what a perfect note Ralph sent after a few days of daytime and evening meetings. As many ideas were flowing and some crossed off, some TK, I’d like to share a part of Ralph’s note:

…about the meetings you have been having these past couple of days/nights?  I have just been to our local school to draw with the kids and draw them a picture of a man pouring hot- NOT boiling!! – custard over the battlements onto a marauding invader. They all did their own castles – a GOLD Castle, a RAINBOW Castle, a BLACK castle and lots of other castles.  [It was quite charming and I have an awfully good  hunch that they will ask him back.]

What a lousy future we are offering these little critters. Maybe some of them will be Accountants and Bankers but we should not condemn them with our attitudes and pollution.

This should be part of the HST legacy- the Foundation.

Compassion and Freedom from religious constraint should be paramount.  We must live on equal terms. We must be allowed to believe in whatever the damn well we want to believe in- OR NOT!!!

We must only believe in being HUMAN!  That is our basic fault….

Ah yes. That is our basic fault. So being human, I had forgetten one of my most basic surviving guides that I started when I was 25. A few months before I met Hunter, actually. It’s a tiny little empty book, (now many books) that I would write one thing per day that I was thankful for. Don’t underestimate how powerful it is, And how powerful it can be when one forgets to be grateful on a daily basis. NO, this aint rocket science, but it does fulfill my pomise to a dear friend and coach that before anything else, I will get out of this cacoon, and at least write one thing per day on my blog.

It’s supposed to be short. Looking through my little books that I’ve been writing for over 12 years, I see things like, rasberry mochas, my family, my cat missy, my other cat Dede, my friend Shelby, Julie, Jackie, my dog Athena,  and of course Hunter, thankful for not being late to work (when I worked at a coffee shop). So today, I am simply thankful for Jim Caruso and Ralph Steadman George Stranahan and Stacey Hadash for sharing their art and advice with me and prodding us all to be the best we can be. And that ain’t no cliche.  I love you guys. Long live Gonzo.

Your friend at Owl Farm,

Anita Thompson

After three

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