Ok, this is what I was working on.
There is blood on these walls, and some of it is mine. Last night I sliced off the tips of two fingers and bled so profusely in the elevator that they had to take it out of service.
"Doomed Love at the Taco Stand" by Hunter S. Thompson
Originally published in a Time magazine that I picked up in my orthopedist's office in 1996, this piece coincided with the swirl of interest generated by the approaching release of the feature film adaptation of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." My knowledge of the Good Doctor lives somewhere between "having read too much" and "not having read enough" and I especially liked this piece of reporting (perhaps...as there always seems to be a "perhaps" when he reports) for 1) it's near-perfect title and 2) Thompson's near-perfect and generous use of words like "savage," "beast," and "brute." During the 12 years that have transpired since the last time I read it this is what I remembered: the pine needles, the dog attack. His natural girlish charm. Wondering if a word of it was true or supposed to make any sense.
I had a hard time for a long time reconciling Thompson's writing with his infamous living until I saw him on TV for the first time. Reading him I could only think that his work was buoyed by a healthy amount of unhealthy posturing, when I witnessed him living and breathing through the television screen I realized I hadn't granted him the insanity that really possessed him, I'd imagined him too much like me and not enough a preposterous legend.
Also, his voice reminds me of my Uncle Earl Bob's. Physically they aren't so far apart, either.