Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Hunter S. Thompson
Is it reasonable, acceptable, or even expected to write R.I.P. after the name of a person who railed against the currents as hard as Hunter and for as long? A man who abhorred the peace and quiet of a settled and comfortable life, opting to play the only role he could play and staying on stage for far longer than his promised 15-minutes of Warholian fame?
Like most devotees I came to his work via Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas while a freshman in college. It remains one of my favorite and most recommended books, one that I was referencing to friends on Saturday, one day before Hunter took his own life. I recall saying that I didn't trust a pristine copy of Fear and Loathing--that any copy you get should be tattered, stained, charred at the edges, and covered with remnants of spilled beers and bongs. It was indeed the fantasy handbook for the adventurous psychedelic travellers that I and all of my friends were in those days, and Thompson was our omnipresent if not somewhat reluctant guide.
Still, I think his absolute best work was one of his earliest, Hell's Angels. In it he exposes the way which popular culture both demonizes and mythologizes the famous outlaw motorcycle gang. Hunter was along for the whole ride, including the meetings of the Angels and Ken Kesey's Merry Pranksters made famous in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, scenes which he paints much better and more vividly than Tom Wolfe ever could. In the end he goes a little too far with a few of the Angels, who have taken to their new personas as media bad boys by demanding cash, drugs, and motorcycle parts before granting interviews, and he is stomped by them. His club buddies can't go against the gang credo by helping him out, and he ends the tale estranged from his one-time story.
"Why do my literary heroes keep killing themselves?", my wife asked me yesterday, referring to both Hunter and Spalding Gray, who not so long ago took a long walk off of a relatively short ferryboat.
I wish I had an answer.
Is it reasonable, acceptable, or even expected to write R.I.P. after the name of a person who railed against the currents as hard as Hunter and for as long? A man who abhorred the peace and quiet of a settled and comfortable life, opting to play the only role he could play and staying on stage for far longer than his promised 15-minutes of Warholian fame?
Like most devotees I came to his work via Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas while a freshman in college. It remains one of my favorite and most recommended books, one that I was referencing to friends on Saturday, one day before Hunter took his own life. I recall saying that I didn't trust a pristine copy of Fear and Loathing--that any copy you get should be tattered, stained, charred at the edges, and covered with remnants of spilled beers and bongs. It was indeed the fantasy handbook for the adventurous psychedelic travellers that I and all of my friends were in those days, and Thompson was our omnipresent if not somewhat reluctant guide.
Still, I think his absolute best work was one of his earliest, Hell's Angels. In it he exposes the way which popular culture both demonizes and mythologizes the famous outlaw motorcycle gang. Hunter was along for the whole ride, including the meetings of the Angels and Ken Kesey's Merry Pranksters made famous in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, scenes which he paints much better and more vividly than Tom Wolfe ever could. In the end he goes a little too far with a few of the Angels, who have taken to their new personas as media bad boys by demanding cash, drugs, and motorcycle parts before granting interviews, and he is stomped by them. His club buddies can't go against the gang credo by helping him out, and he ends the tale estranged from his one-time story.
"Why do my literary heroes keep killing themselves?", my wife asked me yesterday, referring to both Hunter and Spalding Gray, who not so long ago took a long walk off of a relatively short ferryboat.
I wish I had an answer.
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