Oregon Media Insiders

Again, there is nothing more flattering than being called out by the insufferable house windbag, Hunter Thompson. It's like having a drunk old queen throw a drink in your face. Now I know how Jacqueline Susanne felt when she was verbally castigated by that evil drunken minx Truman Capote. It’s so damned hurtful I can’t stop laughing. Perhaps our portentous Hunter could favor us by showering his/her legions of followers with a salacious roman à clef about those sanctimonious miscreants in the television news business in Portland. Now that would be fabulous and right up Hunter’s alley. And as we all know, Hunter loves to dish – and does it with a pseudo intellectual hipsters panache. It would seem as though Hunter reminds me of a vitriolic drag queen, drinking cheap gin and smoking a borrowed cigarette, all gossipy blather and no heart -- except for the cheap beaded number, the extra wide Jimmy Chou knockoffs and the irrepressible beehive with the plether handbag. Fierce!!! Nothing says refinement like Hunter Thompson holding court in Hunter's second hand finery. But in the end, sigh. When reading a Hunter Thompson entry, I feel like I’m at my grandma’s house, reading a collection of old Hedda Hopper columns or thumbing through the pages of Confidential Magazine – just slightly more theatrical with a dollop of whimsy -- but every bit as crass.