In honor of Derby Day, from Hunter S. Thompson’s “The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved” (1970):
Steadman wanted to see some Kentucky Colonels, but he wasn’t sure what they looked like. I told him to go back to the clubhouse men’s rooms and look for men in white linen suits vomitting in the urinals. “They’ll usually have large brown whiskey stains on the front of their suits,” I said. “But watch the shoes, that’s the tip-oﬀ. Most of them manage to avoid vomitting on their own clothes, but they never miss their shoes.”
Every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time.
— “What Sarah Said”, Death Cab for Cutie
The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream.
This is the bar in North Beach where Kerouac hung out with Neal Cassady and other famous Beat poets when they were in San Francisco. I ordered none other than a “Jack Kerouac” off the menu, a mix of rum, tequila, orange/cranberry juice, lime and an olive.
When the shadow of the grasshopper falls across the trail of the field mouse on green and slimey grass as a red sun rises above the western horizon silhouetting a gaunt and tautly muscled indian warrior perched with bow and arrow cocked and aimed straight at you it’s time for another martini.
Photos cc by Jeremy Parnell.
That’s not Buddhism. That’s OCD!
— Karl Pilkington on the practice of Zen monks.
Read this article and had to share this quote:
“Life may be an elaborately constructed charade of ritual and self-delusion, haunted by a barren void that precludes the redemption of suffering,” Simmons said, “but we’re a retail chain that sells fresh coffee, apple fritters, and powdered sugar donuts.”
Jews don’t recognize Jesus. Protestants don’t recognize the Pope. Baptists don’t recognize each other in the liquor store.
— Plato and a Platypus Walk into a Bar