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To be honest, I didn't know who Hunter S. Thompson was until after he killed himself. It was a miserable year in college. Bush had slithered his way into the White House for the second time and winter at Carleton seemed even more bitter than usual. Our anger had given way to numb depression as we shuffled about our lives. Not that I was alive then, but I couldn't shake the feeling that we had lost something over the past 40 years. In the '60s and '70s, Hunter S. Thompson embodied the kind of restless anger the country needed during the Bush years. What happened?

This is one of those rare mornings where The New York Times' homepage isn't dominated by a picture of Obama or McCain. So I figured I might as well bring the election back into forefront...of this blog about books...oy. The real reason I'm posting this can be found after the poem.