No work of literature, other than A Streetcar Named Desire, announced with such unflinching tragedy the death of a culture. I am talking of the genteel Old South. However, somewhere deep in the Quarter, far from Bourbon Street and away from the behemoths gorged on cheap beer, tequila shots, and frozen pink abominations, there is this man. He is what once was; poet, philosopher, historian, and friend to the man at the bar.
As a reminder of what we’ve come to, read this Hunter Thompson classic.
Happy Kentucky Derby!
