So, we went to the Book Barn.
If you're not lucky enough to live near the little village of Niantic, CT, you're missing something very special. The Book Barn is a series of three bookstores, but nothing like a standard Barnes & Noble. No, the main site is a string of little cabins, all containing thousands of books, broken out by category. There are also two smaller locations in a separate part of Niantic.
When you first arrive in the rather small parking lot on the main campus, you walk past the greeter, almost like you're entering an amusement park. Once past, you're greeted by flower gardens, and cats. Lots of cats. If you're allergic, you might want to factor this in. The owners love their cats. They even know where each cat (and there are about a dozen) resides. Thus, you'll see "Jake's chair", and a label written in 1st person, from Jake, asking the customers to not pet me and to basically leave me alone, because that's what I want.
But it's not the cats that you're there to see. You want to browse each cabin. We were there when it was beginning to rain. It eventually started pouring. Walking around, under an umbrella, hopping from cabin to cabin like a bee going from flower to flower, inhaling the scent of all roses, day lilies, hydrangeas, annuals, and the like. Then stepping into a cabin, shaking the umbrella dry, and inhaling the books.
It was an intoxicatingly fun day. It was here where I came across The Great Shark Hunt, a collection of essays and other outpourings from the king of gonzo journalism, Hunter S. Thompson. A man who shared a monogram with our 33rd president. And heartland roots. And absolutely nothing else that I can think of.
I love Thompson. It doesn't make much sense to me. The guy was over the top and, to steal the perfect adjective that my girlfriend used, a nihilist. He probably wasn't a warm, compassionate kind of guy. He loved guns, drugs, alcohol, and most symbols of excess. He was an incredibly troubled soul, eventually committing suicide at the age of 67.
But I love how he writes. He's the ultimate cynic. But he's an equal opportunity cynic. As far as I can tell, he had no agenda. He wasn't on the right or the left. He wrote in the present tense, a bit random, and full of primal language and ugly thoughts that we all think at times but rarely verbalize. Or write. Thompson did that and more.
Here's a brief passage about the year 1973. It was the height of the Watergate scandal, and Nixon was still in office. In looking back on the consensus opinion that 1973 was an amazing year, "This is probably true. I remember thinking that way, myself, back on those hot summer mornings when John Dean's face lit my tube day after day...incredible. Here was this crafty little ferret going down the pipe right in front of our eyes, and taking the President of the United States along with him."
Thompson was friends with various actors and rock stars. In particular, Warren Zevon, who is to rock what Thompson is to writing. Zevon is more muted, and was as much a composer as a lyricist. Thompson didn't have to write a tight lyric. He could just write unhinged, searing, and brilliant prose.
I never shared Thompson's penchant for excess. I'd be curious to know if he could write that well if he toned down his behavior. I suspect he couldn't. If Thompson got his mojo from "being" gonzo, so that he could write gonzo, that's not me either.
I wonder if there's a way to write that well and live a reasonably healthy lifestyle. Great art is often made by people who live in excess in some way. I'm past any desire for excess. These days, I'm more concerned with trying to understand centeredness, peace, and silence. With a million miles to go.
Maybe the trick is to hang around inspiring book stores. If I keep hanging around the Book Barn, who knows what I'll find.
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