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Hunter S. Thompson: The Champion of Fun

Thread ID: 16947 | Posts: 4 | Started: 2005-02-24

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toddbrendanfahey [OP]

2005-02-24 16:44 | User Profile

Hunter S. Thompson: The Champion of Fun

by Todd Brendan Fahey circa 1990

I remember very crisply my introduction to the cult of Hunter S. Thompson. Having already broasted the front side of my body under a thin ozone layer one warm August afternoon in Santa Barbara, I traded my beach chair for a friend's towel, so I could lie on my stomach and read from an orange and blue paperback, which had him laughing so hard he could barely hit off the joint we were trying to finish before the locals came begging around.

Ralph Steadman's insane sketching on the cover of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas had sucked me right into the rented fire-apple convertible, and into the giddy vortex where Dr. Thompson lives.

Later that afternoon, like any obsessive-compulsive personality, I drove to Earthling Bookshop and cleaned out their supply of Thompson works, and began reading to the extent that I neglected basic human contact for as many weeks as it took to exhaust the six pieces of stone-madness. I became a True Believer, an historian, a collector--most likely a huge bore--emerging from literary hibernation and bringing Dr. Thompson with me to work, to parties...home to the folks for Thanksgiving. Dad was a bit miffed. He suffered through the introduction to The Great Shark Hunt, shaking his head spasmodically, and handed the book back to me, muttering, "Well, it isn't James Michener." No. It is not. Hunter S. Thompson is a special breed, a variety of which will not likely be replicated in the near future. And so, when Herr Doktor's agent informed me of an impending "nightclub act" at The Strand, in Redondo Beach, I was genetically enthusiastic. I was also a bit apprehensive; the scattered reports emanating from similar gigs, from people I trusted, were not real...positive. The first ugly feedback came from a girlfriend of mine, who had gone to see the Doc do his "Gonzo thing" at UC Santa Barbara. The outlaw journalist, she said, staggered onto the stage and proceeded to suckle from a bottomless flagon of Wild Turkey, alternately raving and mumbling in a uniquely demented fashion, until he was booed off the stage by a band of angry preps feeling cheated out of their twenty-dollar cash drain. The other, less reliable, report came from a tainted source, and had something to do with Dr. Thompson, G. Gordon Liddy, a mound of white powder and a blow-up doll--but the story was too disturbing to want to verify, and so I'll have to take my gentleman source at his word.

"Candy Goes to Washington!" yells a man in the audience. "Yes! Yes! That's it. Smart boy, wanna come up here?" Thompson nods eagerly at the empty chair at his table, but the man opts against the honor. Tthhap!! "The bitch almost ruined my life. Why would I want to **** a burned-out porno queen?" he shrugs. "I was originally arrested for a goddamn third-degree misdemeanor. They called it Sexual Assault. Can you imagine that? I mean, Sexual Assault is a low-rent ****ing thing." As he tells it, one Gail Palmer was inexplicably in Thompson's living room, crazy with booze and carnal predilections, and wanted to hump the mad Doktor senseless in his jacuzzi. But Dr. Thompson--the gentleman that he is--refused her come-on and gingerly prodded her toward the front door...which differs slightly from the account Ms. Palmer gave to the police the next day. According to Pitkin County sheriff's records, a friend of Gail Palmer--a long-time associate in the porno industry--reported that Thompson had held a gun to the woman's head, while trying to force her into his hot-tub. The Doktor disputes the allegations: "Would I really need to do that to get her to **** me?" But the assistant District Attorney took the call seriously enough to dispatch a squad of officers to the Owl Farm in Woody Creek. "The police spent eleven hours in my house," he mutters. "Eleven hours in a man's house. I guess that's what happens when people get the idea you're not...well. I'm surprised they didn't find more drugs," he giggles. "I hadn't cleaned my house for twenty years."