Hunter S. Thompson was the one writer whose every book and article I ever read made me hurt from laughter, while also communicating truths that changed my outlook on life...
I had the opportunity to meet HST once, when I invited him to my college campus to speak. I was the Chairperson of the Forums and Lectures committee, and had brought over a dozen famous people to campus, but none drew a larger turnout than Hunter Thompson.
His lecture was scheduled for a Monday night. I remember because in accordance with his wishes, the announced time for the event to start was "at the conclusion of Monday Night Football", meaning he would be taking the stage at around 9pm.
So at this odd time, on an off-night, HST finally sauntered out wearing his trademark poker visor, with his cigarette holder sticking out of his mouth at an angle. He proceeded to sit down at the table provided for him and poured himself a glass of Wild Turkey Whiskey (it was in his contract rider). After taking a sip, he picked up the microphone, and instead of giving a speech, simply asked "so what do you want to know?"
For nearly two hours, until the fifth of Wild Turkey was polished off, he delighted the audience with a hilarious series of tales and observations. He signaled the end of the lecture by picking up a pitcher of ice water, removing his visor and then pouring the water over his head (I was happy that I had him autograph my half-dozen HST books back in the green room prior to that).
It sounds like the upcoming movie about his incredible life should be great...
Quote:
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Originally Posted by Hunter S. Thompson
The only other important thing to be said about Fear & Loathing at this time is that it was fun to write, and that's rare ? for me, at least, because I've always considered writing the most hateful kind of work.
I suspect it's a bit like fucking ? which is fun only for amateurs. Old whores don't do much giggling. Nothing is fun when you have to do it ? over and over, again and again ? or else you'll be evicted, and that gets old.
So it's a rare goddamn trip for a locked-in, rent-paying writer to get into a gig that, even in retrospect, was a kinghell, highlife fucking from start to finish... and then to actually get paid for writing this kind of manic gibberish seems genuinely weird; like getting paid for kicking Agnew in the balls. So maybe there's hope. Or maybe I'm going mad...
In a nation ruled by swine, all pigs are upward mobile ? and the rest of us are fucked until we can put our acts together: Not necessarily to Win, but mainly to keep from Losing Completely...
The Swine are gearing down for a serious workout this time around... So much, then, for The Road ? and for the last possibilities of running amok in Las Vegas... Well, at least, I'll know I was there, neck deep in the madness, before the deal went down, and I got so high and wild that I felt like a two-ton Manta Ray jumping all the way across the Bay of Bengal.
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HST RIP...
ADG