Saturday, February 14, 2009
If some strange, theoretical alien historians were to write the history of planet Earth, they would say that it all peaked out by 1970.
The generation that produced Jim Morrison made the final decision to destroy the Earth, by omission. Go figure.
I was a child in 1970. I would've been 11 at Woodstock. I didn't know what was going on. But I did.
Hunter Thompson was there. He saw it all. He knew. He put a bullet in his brain in 2005.
It could have all changed, but it didn't. It could have all been avoided, but it wasn't. We're living in the Aftermath.
Jim Morrison died in a hotel room in Paris in 1970 of a heroin overdose. Jim wasn't a junkie; he was a drunk. There's a big difference, no matter what the 12-step zombies tell you. Pamela Morrison fought a legal battle for five years for his estate; she won. She was dead within two weeks.
I'm not telling you to follow Jim's path, or Hunter's. It would mean nothing. You're too late.
If you're alive in 2009, and you're old enough to remember the Real Times, you know you're living in the Endgame. Unless you're seriously deluded enough that you're still part of the problem.
If you're under 40, you were born into a meaningless world. I'm sorry; I didn't do it. This is the Aftermath. I can tell you how to address it. I can't change it.