"Who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed?" - HST

As it is customary every year in February, it's time to mention the Good Doctor again. This marks the third year anniversary of his unfortunate, albeit self-inflicted, death.

Yes...football season is over. And what a season it was. Finally the underdog had its day. Even the Good Doctor would probably have something to say about the New York Giants cold cocking and whooping the New England Patriots like Ike Turner used to beat Tina.

But Ike is dead now and so is the doctor and even though people remember Ike for being an asshole, people remember Thompson for who he was, what he left behind and whom he inspired.

He gave us gonzo journalism, which over the years has been changing and morphing. To some it's about covering politics with a wicked eye. Rolling Stone's Matt Taibbi tries to do it on the campaign trail. Talking about the media and its goons as if he wasn't one himself. What would Thompson say about Clinton and Obama? Would he make allusions to being on the rag? Or, like comic D.L. Hughley said, would the First Lady ask for a "hot comb" and nobody would know what the fuck that is?

The whole generation now is preoccupied with cell phones and celebrities, coming up with shit like Brit-Brit and how she likes to show her snatch. We've got eye drops for chronic eye dryness that inform us that it wasn't tested on people with herpes of the eyes. We've got McDonald's selling salads and pharmaceutical companies mixing drugs for cholesterol AND high blood pressure. Writers finally showed Hollywood how if they don't give a fuck about them, they won't give a fuck about Hollywood.

And Angelina Jolie is pregnant!

But gonzo, always, I felt, was a state of mind. An attitude with a label. A certain way of looking at the world. Be it cynical, or heartfelt, angry or sad. It wasn't something that you could emulate, but rather, it was something that you had to learn through your own life. Thompson dared use to go to the edge, spit in the abyss and then go back and say that you did. Most fall off when they see the edge. But some don't. Some stay. Some do come back with that youthful glee and say, "You should have seen it, man."

Thompson had a love and hate relationship with deadlines. And I missed mine. He died on Feb. 20, 2005.

"But what now? What comes next?" - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Like the cling clang King of the rim ram room

By the time the credits started rolling after "Leaving Las Vegas," I started to think about love. That powerful emotion and how devoid of it I am.

Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened to my love life? I mean, it didn't just evaporate. Sure, there were a few bangs here and there, but come on, nothing is more depressing than this.

This.

This lonely shell. Valentine's Day has come and gone and all I got to show for is an empty bottle of booze. Fuck.

"Get out," my friends tell me. "Go outside," they say. Yeah, what, clubbing?

But it did get me pondering on love. All my friends are falling into it faster than Flash. Cheap comparison, to be sure. One guy is getting married. One guy is recuperating from disaster and healing through love. One guy is enjoying his weekends doing...yeah who?

And then there's me. Not gay. LOL. Haven't found the right one, or at least, Miss right now.

So I opened a bottle of Wild Turkey and watched "Leaving Las Vegas." Why didn't Elisabeth Shue win that Oscar? Speaking of which, what the fuck happened to Elisabeth Shue? Geez. Girl had it.

Like Mira Sorvino. WTF happened to her?

Love to me is one of those things that just sort of happens. It happens to everyone. You will be smoking a cigarette, make some dumb comment to a girl that is passing by and like Madden says, boom, you're buying IKEA bed sheets and silk white ties. And going karaokeing when nobody else is going.

Fuck!

While I'm not fond of karaoke, I can see the connection. Doing something together. I miss that. I miss picnicks and walks in the Forest Preserve. I miss flashlight knocks on the window from cops who are asking "What are you doing?" and I miss steamed up windshields and late night sandwiches.

But most of all, here's what I miss: Doing it together. Not in the literal sense, but in the figurative one.

Sure I'll have another shot. It's time to put on Smooth Criminal.

Noir

My life has degenerated into a slow, reflective and jazzy sort of a life. Always pondering my situation. Where do I work? Why do I work there? Why am I a reporter? Why do I drink? Why don't I have a woman? Why does Valentine's Day suck so much? Why does chocolate taste like shit? Why do my flowers always wilt?

* * *

I get off work at 5 p.m. and exit through the door with my friend reporter/kindred spirit/about-to-be-married man/co-worker. He needs to stop at the convenience store next door to buy some candy. I guess his blood sugar was down. I light up a Camel and stand at the intersection of Gale Street and Milwaukee Avenue, looking passively at the hordes of crowds that have decided to populate this area at this particular hour; running red lights; walking when the "Don't Walk" sign is on; fucking with traffic.

And it's Thursday. Pay day.

Then a little Asian teenager gets almost plowed by some driver in a hurry because she stepped out onto the busy street with that dumb high school sort of excitement, causing the man to break abruptly, tires squeeling like pigs, swerving to the left, missing her by inches.

"Holy Shit!" me and the other reporter utter.

We wait to see what happens. The driver, a very sordid sort of man gets out, yelling at the hapless girl, telling her that he almost killed her. He almost did. And cops are right behind, but they do nothing, but pull into a McDonald's parking lot.

"Fuck," I say.

That kind of a hit would get us both soaked in crimson.

My friend agreed.

Would we cover the event?

Yes.

But it would be overtime.

Major shit.

But the girl didn't die. She just felt stupid in front of her friends, especially when the driver of the mini-van came out and yelled at her, telling her that she was almost killed.

But it didn't bleed so it didn't lede.

* * *

At this point I needed a drink. A stiff one, too.

And I thought about death.

And money.

I thought about how many times I came face to face with death. And how sad yet liberating it was. I heard the serpent rattle its tail.

But listening to some poor rendition of Jessica Rabbit's number of "Why don't you do right," got me in the noir mood.

And I started drinking bourbon.

It was Valentine's Day. I hated this day ever since I was single and had trouble with love.

I didn't want to think about the past loves since it depressed me. I was alone. Sitting here singing "Get out of here, get me some money too."

Why don't I do right like some other men do?