I didn't learn of Hunter S. Thompson's death by suicide until nearly 3:00 this afternoon. We were in Monterey the past two days and paying no attention to the TV or USA Today. Sometime yesterday, February 20, Hunter put a loaded weapon to his head and pulled the trigger. At the time Hunter made the decision and carried out the act, we were in the Monterey Bay Aquarium or walking on Cannery Row or maybe watching Meet the Parents in the hotel. Out in Colorado, Hunter loaded the gun and put it to his head and pulled the trigger.
And another icon is gone. I came to HST late, as I've come to most things in my life, but when I found him I went whole hog, read his ouvre, including his fabulous collection of letters, The Proud Highway. Of all HST's work, I think his letters to colleagues, friends, enemies, lovers and employers are his best stuff. The letters, which begin when HST was quite young and run into the early 60's, are lively, intelligent, insightful, hilarious, obnoxious, and disrespectful by turns.
Don't get me wrong. I enjoy Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas and the Gonzo Papers as much as the next HST fan does, but the letters really appeal to my literary tastes. HST wrote the best fucking letters! Even on mundane subjects like a shoddy gunsight, he was electric.
I'm on my way to a serious beer buzz here. I never met Hunter Thompson, of course, yet of all the famous people I can think of, I feel -- from reading many of his published works -- like I know him. He would probably laugh at that statement.
Why did he do it? That's the hundred thousand dollar question. He had a new young wife, Anita, an outlet on ESPN, fame, and presumably, wealth. He could do what he wanted when he wanted. He successfully avoided the great American yoke of a full-time JOB. He made money as a writer and speaker. He was a living icon.
Maybe that was it. Maybe, like Hemingway, HST was depressed at the erosion of his gifts, physical as well as imaginative. He did nearly all of his brightest work in his twenties and middle thirties and then lived on his fame and reputation.
Regardless, I always felt that Hunter was a champion of the underdog, a champion of clear-eyed thinking, particularly about America. Who saw the grotesque contradictions in the American Dream better than Hunter?
Needless to say, I'm sad tonight, as I'm sure thousands of HST fans are. In an age of professional falsehood, Hunter was someone true and real.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Tequila Sunset
I feel a cold coming on, one of those nasty bouts that get deep in your chest and makes you cough up chunks of mucus for weeks. I just dropped a DimeTapp cold & allergy pill. It was a chalky yellow color. I’m now drinking, slowly, a shot of Patron tequila. I believe in the mystical and other healing powers of this agave potion. My mouth is burning, frankly, and I can feel a burn and sourness in the pit of my stomach. I’ve made barely a dent in the shot. My son is watching Jimmy Nuetron on Nickelodeon. He should be in the shower and getting ready for bed. It’s Monday.
I’ve got my iPod on and Bob Dylan is singing in my ear. The album is Oh, Mercy, from 1989? or something like that. Old but up until two or three years ago, new to me. I’ve come very late to Bob Dylan. Oh, I heard the name growing up, probably heard a lot of the songs, too, but without attending to them or having them make a big impact. What the hell was I doing when I should have been reading liner notes in classic albums? Where was I?
I have a terrible ear for music. It takes me a long time to recognize a song I’ve heard a hundred times. I have zero rhythm. I took guitar lessons for a few months, practiced as much as I could, and wasn’t much farther ahead than I was when I started. Musically retarded, that’s me.
I’m thinking of the book I’m reading called “An Actor Prepares” by Stanislavsky, the famous Russian acting coach. I don’t pretend to know more about acting than I do music, which is probably why this book caught my eye. I hear actors on TV talking about their craft, how they have to immerse themselves in becoming someone else. They talk a lot about process, like they’re talking about psycho-therapy. But maybe that’s not so far off. An actor has to enter another person’s psyche, not just his epoch and manner of dress and custom. The actor asks, “If I were in this situation, what would I do, how would feel, what would my reaction be?” And so on. Anyway, I’d listen to all these actors and still come away with questions. Another reason to read Stanislavsky.
Drinking water now, cold and healthy. Flush the toxins from the body. Hey, I never claimed to be Charles Bukowski. I can’t drink that much. Four beers is a big night for me. I take prescribed medications and vitamins now. The creep of middle age. I wonder how Hunter S. Thompson managed to survive, even thrive, after 30-odd years of recreational drug use. Man, he must have walked a helluva fine line, up to the edge of addiction, up to the edge of a major life fuck-up, only to back away just in time. Like those fellows on the nature channel that go snake hunting for kicks. Crazy bastards. “Hello kids, this is Jeff Corwin and today I’m standing in this swamp in South Carolina, looking for the venomous and aggressive Eastern Cottonmouth.” Hunter made a big name and rep for himself with the book Hell’s Angels and Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, but it has been a good many years since he produced anything new. His ESPN columns are like watching a man imitate himself. Hunter goes close to the line where his stuff sounds…sounds what? Shit, I totally spaced there, have no idea what I was about to write. The DimeTapp and tequila must be kicking in, mixing and mingling in my bloodstream. I’ve got a dull headache and feel a need to sneeze. I switched from Dylan to Springsteen. Rocking well at this moment. I wish I could say something intelligent about Bruce’s guitar technique, where his songs fall in the Pantheon of Rock & Roll songwriters, but I can only say less than has already been said by those much more astute than I. Remember, I’m a musical idiot, a rocking dunce.
I wish I could write something that would rock my generation, the late baby boomers, but what would I say? By the time you reach middle age, unless you are very lucky, you’ve already dealt with one or more tragedies and/or drastic shifts in direction or fortune. What you find – in most cases I believe – is a sort of bewilderment at what has taken place. Many of the things you intended to do have not been done. You were on your way, maybe, and then, bang, life up and smacked you on the head. By now you either believe in stuff like God and mysticism and psychology or Scientology – or you don’t believe in much. Would you call that a gnawing cynicism? There are a bunch of intelligent words to describe the condition, but at this moment I can’t think of a single one. It’s the headache.
No, fool, it’s the Patron. But I didn’t even drink that much. Hell, I poured half the shot back in the bottle. Can you imagine Bukowski ever doing that? Or HST? They would consider the act of pouring the drink back sacrilege. Christ, I’m having a tough time spelling and it’s slowing me down – I can’t stand the sight of all the red and green lines underlining my mistakes. That’s a personal weakness, I know. Anal retentive to a fault.
Jesus, it sounds like I’m auditioning for Dr. Phil. Self-disclosure is what we called it when I was at Antioch University, almost exclusively the province of the Psychology students, who might begin a personal introduction with something like, “My father began abusing me when I was six. By the way, my name is Nancy Twaddlebury. I’m still processing the fact that my mother disappeared when I was only seven, but I feel some integration beginning to happen. My sister married a Muslim last year and moved to Iran. I have a parakeet named Saul.”
My head is throbbing. It feels about the size of a basketball. Good night.
I’ve got my iPod on and Bob Dylan is singing in my ear. The album is Oh, Mercy, from 1989? or something like that. Old but up until two or three years ago, new to me. I’ve come very late to Bob Dylan. Oh, I heard the name growing up, probably heard a lot of the songs, too, but without attending to them or having them make a big impact. What the hell was I doing when I should have been reading liner notes in classic albums? Where was I?
I have a terrible ear for music. It takes me a long time to recognize a song I’ve heard a hundred times. I have zero rhythm. I took guitar lessons for a few months, practiced as much as I could, and wasn’t much farther ahead than I was when I started. Musically retarded, that’s me.
I’m thinking of the book I’m reading called “An Actor Prepares” by Stanislavsky, the famous Russian acting coach. I don’t pretend to know more about acting than I do music, which is probably why this book caught my eye. I hear actors on TV talking about their craft, how they have to immerse themselves in becoming someone else. They talk a lot about process, like they’re talking about psycho-therapy. But maybe that’s not so far off. An actor has to enter another person’s psyche, not just his epoch and manner of dress and custom. The actor asks, “If I were in this situation, what would I do, how would feel, what would my reaction be?” And so on. Anyway, I’d listen to all these actors and still come away with questions. Another reason to read Stanislavsky.
Drinking water now, cold and healthy. Flush the toxins from the body. Hey, I never claimed to be Charles Bukowski. I can’t drink that much. Four beers is a big night for me. I take prescribed medications and vitamins now. The creep of middle age. I wonder how Hunter S. Thompson managed to survive, even thrive, after 30-odd years of recreational drug use. Man, he must have walked a helluva fine line, up to the edge of addiction, up to the edge of a major life fuck-up, only to back away just in time. Like those fellows on the nature channel that go snake hunting for kicks. Crazy bastards. “Hello kids, this is Jeff Corwin and today I’m standing in this swamp in South Carolina, looking for the venomous and aggressive Eastern Cottonmouth.” Hunter made a big name and rep for himself with the book Hell’s Angels and Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, but it has been a good many years since he produced anything new. His ESPN columns are like watching a man imitate himself. Hunter goes close to the line where his stuff sounds…sounds what? Shit, I totally spaced there, have no idea what I was about to write. The DimeTapp and tequila must be kicking in, mixing and mingling in my bloodstream. I’ve got a dull headache and feel a need to sneeze. I switched from Dylan to Springsteen. Rocking well at this moment. I wish I could say something intelligent about Bruce’s guitar technique, where his songs fall in the Pantheon of Rock & Roll songwriters, but I can only say less than has already been said by those much more astute than I. Remember, I’m a musical idiot, a rocking dunce.
I wish I could write something that would rock my generation, the late baby boomers, but what would I say? By the time you reach middle age, unless you are very lucky, you’ve already dealt with one or more tragedies and/or drastic shifts in direction or fortune. What you find – in most cases I believe – is a sort of bewilderment at what has taken place. Many of the things you intended to do have not been done. You were on your way, maybe, and then, bang, life up and smacked you on the head. By now you either believe in stuff like God and mysticism and psychology or Scientology – or you don’t believe in much. Would you call that a gnawing cynicism? There are a bunch of intelligent words to describe the condition, but at this moment I can’t think of a single one. It’s the headache.
No, fool, it’s the Patron. But I didn’t even drink that much. Hell, I poured half the shot back in the bottle. Can you imagine Bukowski ever doing that? Or HST? They would consider the act of pouring the drink back sacrilege. Christ, I’m having a tough time spelling and it’s slowing me down – I can’t stand the sight of all the red and green lines underlining my mistakes. That’s a personal weakness, I know. Anal retentive to a fault.
Jesus, it sounds like I’m auditioning for Dr. Phil. Self-disclosure is what we called it when I was at Antioch University, almost exclusively the province of the Psychology students, who might begin a personal introduction with something like, “My father began abusing me when I was six. By the way, my name is Nancy Twaddlebury. I’m still processing the fact that my mother disappeared when I was only seven, but I feel some integration beginning to happen. My sister married a Muslim last year and moved to Iran. I have a parakeet named Saul.”
My head is throbbing. It feels about the size of a basketball. Good night.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Of RSV and the Post-Factual Age
I’ve been out of commission for several days because my three-year-old daughter, Miranda, came down with RSV – a respiratory virus that goes around this time of year. Miranda had a horrible hacking cough, a fever that reached 105, and difficulty breathing. We spent the early morning hours on Wednesday in the ER at Cottage Hospital.
Taking your child to the ER is always a wrenching experience. Against the backdrop of lights and equipment and staff running around, the child appears small and vulnerable, at the mercy of people one doesn’t know. As the examination begins and the routine questions are asked, you hope that the staff is well-trained, rested, alert, and in a generous mood; you hope the exam room has been recently cleaned and sterilized, all the equipment calibrated. A lot can go wrong in a hospital.
Fortunately, we’ve never had a bad experience at Cottage Hospital, and our good fortune held this time. The staff was gentle with Miranda, professional from start to finish. While Miranda was under observation, hooked up to a machine that monitored her oxygen level, I thanked my stars for the health insurance card in my wallet, for the fact that my employer pays for those benefits 100%, and for the simple fact of having access to medical care. In America these days one can’t take such things for granted.
///
Try as I might, I can’t stop thinking about politics and what I see as the sorry state of my country under the leadership of George W. Bush. I still cannot watch or listen to W make a speech or hold a press conference without becoming incensed. Yes, W won the election, slim though his margin of victory was, and yes, he won despite widespread irregularities at polling places in Ohio. Get over it. Don’t piss and moan about W and his policies, come up with better alternatives that appeal to a majority of voters. Learn to frame the issues!
Graydon Carter, the editor of Vanity Fair, wrote a piece in which he referred to ours as a “post-factual” age. This is an age when a draft-evader can strut around the world stage like a decorated war hero, and a decorated war hero is forced to defend his service record and prove that his war wounds were not self-inflicted; an age when we invade and occupy a country that posed no immediate threat to our security; an age when the Social Security system is said to be in “crisis” when in fact the crisis point is forty years in the future and can be easily averted by relatively minor changes to the tax structure.
Facts don’t matter. Facts are whatever we say they are, whatever suits our purpose of the moment. Facts are merely inconvenient, easily overcome with media spin. Lie loud enough and long enough and the lie becomes the truth.
The contradictions are so numerous that it would all be amusing if it wasn’t so serious.
From the right side of the political spectrum we are advised to save and invest, to work hard and provide for ourselves, a reasonable request except when you realize that the people telling us to save and invest are the same people who export our jobs to India, cut our pensions and health benefits, and do everything in their power to keep our wages stagnant.
Here’s the twisted logic: we’re going to pay you less, transfer more risk to you, and demand that you save more.
Consider that for most of the past quarter century, the wages of average working Americans have fallen, corporate taxation has fallen, while the compensation of top CEO’s has skyrocketed. Consider that the gap between rich and poor in this country is beginning to resemble that of Brazil, Mexico and Russia. Is this right, is this what we want, is this the best way to achieve a decent life for the majority of Americans?
Or is the ideal of a decent life for all dead?
Taking your child to the ER is always a wrenching experience. Against the backdrop of lights and equipment and staff running around, the child appears small and vulnerable, at the mercy of people one doesn’t know. As the examination begins and the routine questions are asked, you hope that the staff is well-trained, rested, alert, and in a generous mood; you hope the exam room has been recently cleaned and sterilized, all the equipment calibrated. A lot can go wrong in a hospital.
Fortunately, we’ve never had a bad experience at Cottage Hospital, and our good fortune held this time. The staff was gentle with Miranda, professional from start to finish. While Miranda was under observation, hooked up to a machine that monitored her oxygen level, I thanked my stars for the health insurance card in my wallet, for the fact that my employer pays for those benefits 100%, and for the simple fact of having access to medical care. In America these days one can’t take such things for granted.
///
Try as I might, I can’t stop thinking about politics and what I see as the sorry state of my country under the leadership of George W. Bush. I still cannot watch or listen to W make a speech or hold a press conference without becoming incensed. Yes, W won the election, slim though his margin of victory was, and yes, he won despite widespread irregularities at polling places in Ohio. Get over it. Don’t piss and moan about W and his policies, come up with better alternatives that appeal to a majority of voters. Learn to frame the issues!
Graydon Carter, the editor of Vanity Fair, wrote a piece in which he referred to ours as a “post-factual” age. This is an age when a draft-evader can strut around the world stage like a decorated war hero, and a decorated war hero is forced to defend his service record and prove that his war wounds were not self-inflicted; an age when we invade and occupy a country that posed no immediate threat to our security; an age when the Social Security system is said to be in “crisis” when in fact the crisis point is forty years in the future and can be easily averted by relatively minor changes to the tax structure.
Facts don’t matter. Facts are whatever we say they are, whatever suits our purpose of the moment. Facts are merely inconvenient, easily overcome with media spin. Lie loud enough and long enough and the lie becomes the truth.
The contradictions are so numerous that it would all be amusing if it wasn’t so serious.
From the right side of the political spectrum we are advised to save and invest, to work hard and provide for ourselves, a reasonable request except when you realize that the people telling us to save and invest are the same people who export our jobs to India, cut our pensions and health benefits, and do everything in their power to keep our wages stagnant.
Here’s the twisted logic: we’re going to pay you less, transfer more risk to you, and demand that you save more.
Consider that for most of the past quarter century, the wages of average working Americans have fallen, corporate taxation has fallen, while the compensation of top CEO’s has skyrocketed. Consider that the gap between rich and poor in this country is beginning to resemble that of Brazil, Mexico and Russia. Is this right, is this what we want, is this the best way to achieve a decent life for the majority of Americans?
Or is the ideal of a decent life for all dead?
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