I tried sleeping through this news, but it tormented the possibility of rest until I wrote it out of me. After receiving the news Hunter S. Thompson was dead, I picked up Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72 and began reading with a sedative seven and seven in hand.
In the author's notes, Thompson wrote that his book was written in a sleepless, speed-induced binge that involved translating the final chapters into a recorder because he suffered from writer's block. I was only under the influence of a solitary drink, but this was definitely a late-night binge of intense typing.
I first discovered Thompson and his drug-frenzied realm of gonzo journalism three years ago when I read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas for extra credit in a journalism class. I never turned in the book review I was supposed to write, which seems fitting because Thompson rarely turned in articles he was hired to write -electing to reap the benefits of covered expenses instead. From there, I became a junkie for his work. I've read four of his books, have a poster hanging in the apartment, frequently wear bucket hats and proudly sport a T-shirt with his likeness on the front and the words scum life below it. I bought the DVD, then replaced it with the special edition version -complete with hilarious footage of him at his home and audio commentary from Thompson himself.
To my delighted surprise, Johnny Depp's portrayal of Raoul Duke on the silver screen does not stray far from the actual Thompson. His peculiar walk, excessive wardrobe and oddly paced speaking patterns were not fictionally applied to Duke. Depp even managed to aptly imitate his screeching holler, which I've heard came without reason or warning.
But it was never the drug use or outlandish outlaw behavior that attracted me to Thompson, although I'd be lying if I said it didn't help. In fact, his intent was not to glorify drug use; Thompson once said, I hate to advocate drugs
alcohol violence or insanity to anyone but they've always worked for me.
For me, it was his vision of the decadent American Dream and his uncanny ability to pick apart its intrinsic flaws with clever wit. Thompson never drove a Cadillac convertible to Sin City; he was blazing through the desert in a great red shark. He might have been known for being savagely unpredictable -in life and writing -but there is an alluring honest-hearted welcome as well. As a writer I hate the idea of calling someone the next (insert famous author)
but I would accept the label of the next Hunter S. with all my freakish pride.
After becoming a gonzo junkie, much to my surprise, I found out Thompson was still alive. He had been contributing articles to Playboy and www.ESPN.com while his nemesis, Richard Nixon, had been replaced with George Bush. I've never been an advocate of idolatry, but it was refreshing to have a hero that was still alive for once. As unlikely as it sounds, I even hoped to meet him one day; perhaps discuss writing over a couple of Wild Turkeys on the rocks.
That changed on Sunday night, and I have nothing but selfish lament for his death. I can only hope that his family honors his wishes of a giant gonzo fist obelisk on his Aspen property that will shoot out his ashes. At least then I would have something to visit someday to pay my respects to the good doctor.
-Blake Gillespie, junior creative writing major, is The Post's music writer. Send him an e-mail at blake.gillespie@ohiou.edu.
17
Archives
The Post Editorial
