By Mike
Martinez
Published February
11, 1988
UCSD
Guardian Opinion
BACKSTORY: As a lifelong fan of Hunter S. Thompson, dating back to “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” I was quite delighted to see his syndicated column picked up by Guardian Opinion editor, Jeff Beresford-Howe in the winter quarter of 1988. Coincidentally, he also appeared in town that January as part of a Super Bowl event weekend as San Diego hosted the NFL championship game between the Denver Broncos and the Washington Redskins. My brother-in-law Buzz and I caught his “lecture” and the related spectacle.
When the word
hit the streets that the syndicated column of Hunter S. Thompson would be
appearing in the Guardian, I asked one of our writers what he thought of the
Doctor of Gonzology.
“I’m not
comfortable,” he admitted, “knowing that that Hunter Thompson is on the same
continent.”
Well, yes –
and here we go again. This sentiment aptly defines the tragic flaw in the
legend of Hunter Stockton Thompson. The fine line that separated the grotesque
caricature Dr. Gonzo from the legitimate journalist Hunter Thompson has been
blurred for so long that much of his current audience, and especially his
detractors, are unaware a line ever existed.
Even in his
early sixties work, Thompson’s view of the world seemed to be from an orbit all
his own. His later involvement with the Hells Angels, the Haight-Ashbury scene
and the Chicago demonstrations at the ’68 Democratic Convention further shaped
his alienation from the world of straight journalism.
His much
heralded invention of “Gonzo journalism” at the 1970 Kentucky Derby was inadvertent,
born out of writer’s block and chemical abuse. Gonzo didn’t allow for drafts
and rewrites, and might devote as much space to personal consumption,
exaggerations and marginal tangents as to the subject at hand. Try to imagine a
writer who could expose the transparency of the “new” Richard Nixon with the
same effort and eloquence he devotes to describing his afternoon breakfast of
margaritas, mushrooms and cocaine.
Once Hunter
built this monster, he continued exploiting it throughout the ‘70s. His stream
of consciousness savaged the guilt, fear, loathing and other foibles of our
politics, pro football, the Rich and Greedy, and many other foes. Here was
truly a Don Quixote who tilted at more than a few lousy windmills.
It’s been
often noted that Hunter Thompson’s large and devoted cult consists mostly of
people who were attracted to the gossip about his lifestyle and then explored
his work. Unfortunately, the gossip remained the substance for many. An
interesting footnote to the legend is the inevitable, almost subconscious use
of Hunter-style prose by writers profiling him. “Pacing the stage like a caged
tiger on Benzedrine” is how the San Diego Union described him.
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| Illustration by Buzz Rodriquez |
With
Thompson’s recent appearance at Symphony Hall and the obligatory skewering in
the Union, the beat does indeed go on. With the crowd screaming for the
Monster, Hunter shambled onstage late and insisted on speaking in a
high-velocity mumble. He was bombarded by hecklers, tossed a football, stalked
around in a huff, talked about cashing his paycheck. In short, vintage Hunter.
A snazzy
blonde and her well-heeled fixer couldn’t translate his gibberish and left in
their own snit. Others strutted in period costumes from the Legend of the
Monster like at some kind of rock concert. It was Circus-Circus, and even
Thompson called it “feeding time at the zoo.”
Some of the
questions were certainly a revelation. Giddy waterheads wanted to know if he
really took acid with John Chancellor or shot Linda Ronstadt’s poodles. A few
self-righteous Sixties diehards insisted on using gratuitous profanity and
demanded to know what Thompson was doing with his life, and why he was selling
out by writing for the San Francisco Examiner.
Unfortunately,
not many of those in attendance seemed to exhibit a grasp beyond the obvious.
Hunter S. Thompson is not, strictly speaking, an aural experience. Anyone who
dishes out fifteen bucks for a “lecture” by Hunter gets what he deserves. He’s
an intangible sensation, whether by his presence in a room or the cumulative effect
of his words and metaphors after you’ve read them.
It’s not
important that you believe Ed Muskie took the drug Ibogaine, or that Richard
Nixon was eaten by white cannibals. That’s typical Hunter hyperbole. It is
important that you feel the despair of Muskie’s 1972 presidential campaign, or
sense the void in America’s passion for democracy after the Nixon years.
Hunter S.
Thompson is an enigma – his name should be one if its’ definitions in Webster’s
Dictionary. He may be too outrageous for some tastes, or hopelessly
anachronistic, or a raving, greedy hustler in his own right. I don’t care if
he’s living with wolves – as long as he still possesses ideas and motivation
and the motor skills to put pen to paper. If he’s out there screeching in the
wilderness, I’ll be listening.