Hunter S. Thompson -- RIP

I grew up in the Hunter S Thompson 60s wild time era. He affected writing permanently. His "gonzo" journaliism spawned a new way type of journalism that made the writer integral to the story. How could the writer not be part of the story? He lived on his own terms and it seems he died on them too. Amazing individual.

Fear and Loathing pretty much summed up his hedonistic life.

I always wanted to meet him. Guess I won't get the privilege.

The loss of Hunter S. Thompson will always unfortunately be measured against the insipid contemporary reflections on the American psyche. In these days of political extremism - when civil liberties are under threat, and contrary voices are ever-the-more dimmed – undaunted voices of honest criticism and social commentary are needed more than ever. To the end, Hunter S. Thompson not only gave us the most entertaining ongoing commentary of America’s political-social-economic experience, he steered us to the depth of America’s heart and soul. Ultimately, sounding a horn and shining a spotlight into the darkness where no one dared. The King is dead, long live the King.

My Close Encounter:
The Red Sox, Gonzo, and Book Soup

The rain fell upon the parched streets of Los Angeles on this October evening. The weather and the mood ugly. It had been 167 days since the last rainfall, just a drop in the bucket measuring back to the early dark days of the Bush regime. I had decided to forego Monday night football and baseball’s playoffs and make a pilgrimage to the West Hollywood Book Soup. Seeking inspiration, or at least clarity. I should have known better.
We dodged murderous commuters in Humvees and Kingcab trucks and parked the Saturn on the hill, just before Sunset. Blake, my son and copilot, pointed to the sidewalk and shouted as we turned toward the oddly available parking spot, “Hey, that’s Elvis Costello.” I agreed. Having recognized the eyewear and silhouette peripherally. Cool, I thought, a good omen. It was time to make it to the store and buy a couple of copies of Hey Rube. Secure our chance for a guaranteed ticket (numbers 194 and 195) and get our books signed by Hunter S. Thompson, in what I knew was a rare L.A. appearance. The flyer from Book Soup clearly stated, only 205 numbers were guaranteed, and Hunter would only sign Hey Rube (this, among a long list of stranger draconian stipulations) so we were happy, nothing to bitch about. It had been close, another drive around the block, and we would have been out of luck.
With two hours to kill, our spot assured, and some serious baseball on, we decided to bide our time across the street at the Red Rock, a restaurant-bar on Sunset Strip with a big-screen TV. Perfect, have a couple of beers; watch the rest of the Yankees and Red Sox game, then head over to a line growing in the light drizzle. We sat until a few minutes before 7 o’clock; the game went on and on. The Red Sox refused to die as it went into extra innings. It was time to leave, the signing was about to start.
Frustrated that we didn’t get to see the end of the game, we headed across the street, opposite the billboard advertising Brian Wilson’s Smile, and took our place in the sprawl of anxious fans. The legions seemed restless and became more confused and unruly by the minute. By 7:30, the line had not moved at all. People just milling about, paging through their books and passing time with their own tales of book signings and celebrity sightings. Idle chatter that seemed just a bit edgy. Others, however, whiled away the minutes nipping flasks and becoming boisterous with drink. Still a few, becoming sloppy drunk in serious imitation of their guru. Meanwhile, the front of the line remained the same. No movement. Just frustrated patrons fondling their books and speculating why things were barely moving.
We were tired of standing. Myself, restless with anticipation, shifting my weight from left to right, adjusting the shoulder strap on my bag. Then Blake, asking why he had to bear this burden of books and camera. It was all starting to seem like work. At least it wasn’t pouring rain. I glanced at my watch, wondering about the games. The last I heard the Yankees and Red Sox were in extra innings and the Astros and Cards tied. Worried about losing our place in line, we endured our sports-fix malcontent.
Then the streetlights at the corner blinked off and a new darkness drew everyone’s attention. It interrupted all the contemplation and distraction. I heard a screech of tires on the slick street. A young mod-type wearing a tweed coat and purple tee yelled back from a spot just up ahead, “It’s him!”
Heads turned, “Do you see it? The hat! He’s in there! That’s him!” It being the white cowboy Stetson that stuck out like a giant sour dill in a cheesecake. A white hat blinking, barely visible as the camera flashed. They were taking pictures, of us! Snapshots taken from a full-size, in your face, SUV. A black Cadillac Escalade, driven by, and loaded with young nubile nymphs. These smiling and now cooing bacchanals, a sort of snatch phalanx shielding its cargo.
God Damn it! What the Fuck! I swore in silent jealousy.
The monster Caddie paused before us, steps before the curb. It was when I heard some giggling, another camera flash and then brief silence, broken, by the wail of a banshee, a deep guttural wail, loud and clear, “BUSH IS GOING TO GET YOU ALL!”
These words reverberated then froze still in the cool California air. I heard them more than once. The SUV suddenly sped away and turned to park behind Book Soup. The event had begun.
That’s when things really started to get weird. Sights and sounds filtered through the misty rain.

Hey people! Check it out! There is no 1966 in the book! There is nooooo fucking 1966 in the book! Open it up, check it out! It’s the truth!
The book is 246 pages long. But that is beside the point.
This particularly wasted fucking Rube was waiting in line with his friends, Tecate and Jack Daniels.
And I broke ranks to walk up the street to a sidewalk bistro with a TV visible from the sidewalk. The Red Sox had won. It was after eight o’clock and there was still no movement in the line. I guessed that Gonzo was watching the game and things would finally begin now that it was over. I was partly right. The two of us moved forward stealthily, taking cuts in line, passing the drunken and stoned. We were closer to the front but unfortunately the front held as stubbornly as the Bush lies on the war. We stood poised in front of no man’s land when the Book Soup messengers started their routine.
A shell-shocked duo of lower-level employees appeared, charged with event spin. A kinda good cop, bad cop thing, good news-bad news, spiced with swirling crowd rumors that were now fueled with liquor and smoke.
“We need a single file line….and line up by numbers,” pronounced hopefully by the Ms. Sunny representing Book Soup. She was speaking through a megaphone. This was pure vaudeville. Course, chances of a single-file line by numbers with this mob was about as likely as getting a Humvee dealership in Amish country. Wasn’t going to happen.
Meanwhile, sirens were blaring on Sunset Boulevard, with a hook and ladder company and paramedics barreling through the intersection. This definitely wasn’t Woody Creek, first-rain fatalities were notorious on L.A. streets as the oil-soaked asphalt and pavement bled to the surface.
Eventually, the first of the line moved forward, about a half dozen entered the store. Soon afterwards, Book Soup’s version of Dr. Doom came out for an update. This time there was no megaphone. The diminutive meister of event relations with the spiked hair and beady eyes bellowed in a voice that belied his stature. “WE DON’T KNOW WHERE HE IS RIGHT NOW, HE’S LEFT THE ROOM, WE DON’T KNOW WHERE HE WENT!” “SOMETHING IS WRONG!”
Back at the front, conversations turned surly, mean-spirited. Only the first third of the crowd had heard the doomsayer. The drunken book-minion with the Broncos jersey, the one so obsessed with 1966, was trying to pick up on a slender, beautiful blue-eyed charmer dressed in black leather and wearing an over-sized foppy maroon hat. She was smoking a cigarette placed in a silver holder. It was not the authoress Patt Morrison, but it might as well have been. She smartly spurned his teetering advances (the Rube had nearly fallen numerous times and was now about to go head over heels into the brick planter she was sitting on the edge of) with a curt, “GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, ASSHOLE!”
Apparently the vibe was spreading. Across the street, in front of the Red Rock, two Rubes were pummeling each other with bad intent. Some people apparently were pissed the Red Sox had won.
Ms Calm appeared again to soothe the nervous. A megaphone squawked and burped just before the muffled sound of the hired Ms Soother, “We will not close the store until he leaves” “We are going to stay open as long as he is here to sign books” “He did not feel well and left to get some air for a bit, but he is now back in the signing room”
Finally, word from an actual signee. A punchy, shaggy, grey-haired dude, clutching his book, sighing, “Man….it was great…..I was there when he went out to have a smoke…..HE WAS SMOKIN A DOOBIE OUTSIDE!….He’s talking to everyone…..but ….but…..I don’t know….he doesn’t look good…I don’t think he’s going to make it…he looks sick….he can hardly sign…he’ll never sign all these books…they have to keep telling him to continue writing his name on the page…..he keeps stopping…he don’t look good!”
Well, so much for the staid literary world of high-browed authors with gold Cartier pens. What the hell, this wasn’t Mary Higgins Clark behind a table of books.
Another report, this time from a petite young Asian woman in an oversized Fear and Loathing sweatshirt, “I went out back….there’s a bunch of people there…they must be starting their post signing party early…I saw Benicio Del Toro….I swear he winked at me” “Yeah….sure,” was the incredulous reply from her friend, “you thought it so hard you willed it to happen…sure, he was looking right at you and he winked at you.” “I’ll bet Johnny Depp smiled and said hi too,” she laughed.
The stories were getting stranger and the mood even darker. It was ten o’ clock. We hadn’t moved at all. I wondered about what craziness could have taken place earlier, across the street at the Viper Club. Who knew. Something definitely was happening out back of Book Soup. Problem was, the front of the store was the same. No book patrons returning with signed books.
The first word of calamity came from the trickle of people quick-stepping it along a narrow path that led from behind Book Soup and along the news stand that fronted Sunset Boulevard. The news was disheartening, he left. “He’s gone” “Took off” “Drove out of the parking lot” “Gone.” Then came the official word, a confirmation from the young lady who was in charge of crowd stroking. “Mr. (now it was Mr.) Thompson has left, he got sick and could not continue, he has left the store, there will be no more books signed.”
“Fuck you bitch!” it was the Bronco guy’s friend, another sloppy drunken rube, yelling at the young lady who just called him a fag. “Fuck you, you ugly bitch!” were the parting shots of this gawky book lover in an overcoat as he slammed his bottle of Anchor Steam Beer to the pavement.
Nobody had yet cleaned up the vomit near the rear door of the signing room. Gonzo did in fact take ill and leave. I bemoaned this lost chance at a puke-stained scribbled signature on my copy of The Rube.
Considering the grueling length of the book-signing ordeal and the ultimate letdown, the response was pretty timid. There were a few cries of frustration and disappointment, “You Pussy! You Pussy!...no not you (as he looked at the Book Soup spokeswoman) Him! “Fuckin Pussy! This was said just before this Hunter Thompson aficionado teetered forward, only to be caught by Dr. Doom escaping contact with the hard cement. Another whimpering, “ They send you? You? Low-level employees out to give us this information?”
Doom replied weakly, “Hey, this was after all Hunter Thompson….I mean, come on.” The line for refunds started up and seemed to be moving briskly.
We left with our books and a story worthy of the Gonzo journalist. As we drove home, I couldn’t help to think about the words I’d heard from the back of the SUV.
Over the years I had met a President and his wife, a 60’s music icon and a two-time heavyweight champion of the world, enduring long lines with book and camera in hand, for a once in a lifetime chance to meet history and leave, with a signed book and a photograph as proof. I should have known meeting George Foreman, Brian Wilson, and the Carters would not prep me for a close encounter with Hunter S. Thompson. Not in these ominous times. This was not your typical book signing, it was more like waiting for Jim Morrison to jump from the roof of the Roxy theater or for Janis Joplin to fall from the stage. It was an event of ignoble excess befitting the infamous Gonzo journalist. The mystery of gigonzo proportion is, of course – exactly how the hell does the pied piper of extreme indulgence continue his journey of fear and loathing?
I guess it doesn’t matter. The truth is Hunter Thompson speaks with the same clarity today (strangely as an ESPN columnist), about the same echoes of doom and darkness that haunt America.
I should have known. A book signing with Hunter S. Thompson is not for the faint of heart, it is a bloodsport. I left with a sense of doom. I felt like a rube. Driving home with a parking ticket fluttering on the windshield wiper, going home only to be awakened in the middle of the night by my son, who was chasing a bat around the living room. It was not a dream. It was real, fear and loathing lives!