The New Road

Hunter S. Thompson

Hunter S. Thompson, with whom I share a birthday, has died. I went to see Hunter at a book festival in downtown Miami. I was lucky enough to get a seat about three quarters of the way back in the hall. By the time he got on stage, way late and obviously drunk, stoned or both (now called crunk), there was overflow seating on the outside with a speaker setup.

I first read Hunter at the end of high school. He was so groovy, cool and weird I wanted to be just like him. I started throwing in elements of Bill Murray's blurred speech from when he portrayed Thompson in "Where The Buffalo Roam". As I got a little older I started to realize three things. First that I didn't make a good Hunter S. Thompson. Second, that Hunter didn't fit into the 80s at all. And third that Hunter himself was mostly an act. The more I read, especially his weekly column in the new times, the more I found that today's Hunter was just full of it.

The Hunter I liked wrote Hell's Angels, and found himself a somewhat unwilling participant in a story. Hesitantly being drawn into the world of the bikers under the pretense that this was the only way that he could get access. And in so doing he brought us, as the reader, along with him. We would stay in our little cars as the bikers drove past and think about a totally different life on the road. He went up and touched them.

His later books after Hell's Angels are a mess. It's all about himself, and drugs, and more about himself, and more drugs. There as no way for a reader to connect with his world. All I could do is stand back in amazement at his antics. And realize in the end that all that was there was antics.

Hell's Angels took me to my seat three-quarters of the way back in the hall on a hot sunny Miami afternoon. As Thompson stumbled to the stage we all nervously laughed. Would he go nuts? Was he nuts? He talked about crazy things, about being chased by the CIA, about black helicopters. The moderator tried in vain to get straight answers on any topic. It was a mess. He was a mess.

I built up the courage to ask him a question on a microphone that was a lonely walk away into the center of the room. As I walked up the butterflies grew in my stomach. What could I, some live at home virgin ask this man anyway? I waited and waited for the people ahead of me to ask their questions. Nervous. Sweating. Could I just turn around? No.

Finally after a year of waiting I asked my question. "Will you be writing a book about you and the CIA?" He gave me a look that was either, "are you so stupid that believed my bullshit?" or "what the hell is this person saying to me?" Either way he used me like a rag doll, he blew off the question then got in a little audience appealing snipe about me. I was crushed.

I walked the lonely walk back to the seat. Watching my shoes to not step on anyone and embarrass myself further. i didn't listen to the rest of the show, I was convinced people were looking at me, marveling at the pointlessness of my question. A few minutes later I got out of the room. Nobody had been looking at me. And in hindsight it's clear that Hunter, like a stand-up comedian, had use the audience and members of it as props in his show. It was all an act.

Though the fundamental idea of Hell's Angels remains a good way to tell a story. Allowing the reporter to enter the world and become the conduit of the reader can create a very engaging read. Too bad he didn't stick with it.