Rolling stones...

I live in the neighborhood where the now dead-former-famous-author Hunter S. Thompson grew up. He blew his brains all over the wall of his home out west a few years ago. I met him here in his hometown when a childhood friend asked me to help him and the students at University of Louisville pay tribute to Mr.H.S.Thompson for his lifetime of achievement. Many a famous personality were there to honor him; Johnny Depp and a host of celebrities from stage and screen. My friend had asked me to come and show the college students how to set up, display and coordinate the novelties for the event; t-shirts, cigarette holders, etc. Somehow I was hoodwinked into staying backstage to help my friend with security and keep the throngs from the room backstage where Hunter, Johnny and the other tributaries were gathered during the event. My boyhood friend was a martial arts student, his instructor and he were shorthanded so they asked me to guard the door. My buddy took his job seriously and was dressed dapper for this honorable event. I, on the other hand, was wearing a smiley faced do-rag and matching t-shirt with brand new white painter's overalls. I was a younger man then and being in my prime I was just a bit scary, like a wrestler filling the bottom of the roster. I had read some of Hunter S. Thompson's writing, seen Johnny Depp's movies and enjoyed the music of his minstrel guest but I apparently was not sufficiently star struck; I enthusiastically watched the door to the room they were partying in during the show but wanted more to get home to my Queen and my son. I was having too much fun screening who came in an out of that door. Even the celebrities got the hand, the smiley face and the insane bouncer glare which I gave just for the fun of it; Hunter and Johnny too. Though Mr.Depp appreciated my lighthearted demeanor the inebriated Thompson was no fan of my playful airs. At the end of the night when my buddy pleaded with me to ride along in the too-long limousine to keep the group safe from who knows what I had words with the drunken Hunter S. who was not to be upstaged by a kid in painter's whites and yellow smiling shirt. Thankfully I was relieved of my obligation to spend the rest of the evening in the presence of greatness. I am no writer but I know when it comes to a verbal tit-for-tat with Hunter who had imbibed in one too many cocktails I hit my mark.
Yesterday I was riding with an old friend whose mother was a librarian who worked with Hunter S. Thompson's mother at the Louisville Public Library. As we passed the mural painted on the side of a restaurant and bar named The Monkey Wrench just a few blocks down from the last place that the author lived before he left the city for fame and fortune. The caption under his likeness says, "Hunter's Louisville". I smiled at my own macabre joke I made up when I heard he committed suicide...Do you know what the famous writer Hunter S. Thompson is called now?... Wall Art.
That, of coarse, was not what I intended to write when I wrote this post's title but it seems to fit and I should go back to sleep. Remember to go walking ,at the very least, so you can keep healthy.
Have a nice day:)