RIP Hunter S. Thompson

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http://www.cnn.com/2005/SHOWBIZ/books/02/2...obit/index.html

He was an incredible talent.

My favorite story of his had nothing to do with the ones he's known for. He covered the Roxanne Pulitzer divorce for Rolling Stone. There is a part of the story where he talks about driving down the street in Palm Beach. That one section of his story (and a few others) was as genius to me as the best passages of Shakespeare or Hemingway.

Only in America can a man live with his guns in a fortified compound and appear on the cover of High Times. In honor of Hunter S. Thompson, I'm temporarily renaming "Open Mic" as "Hunter S. Thompson's fortified compound." If you like, then we'll keep it that way. Or, how about "Fear and Loathing"? Let me know your thoughts.

While I had a little trouble accepting what he did as journalism, I must say that for a time I did enjoy reading him.

He was one of the writers for whom those of us growing up in the 80's could connect with the writtings, if not the man. In that decade of decadence, the drugs we did were rationalized as a social norm, until rationalization was a meaningless exercise. We pretended we weren't mimicks of Cheech and Chong, and looked to Dr. Thompson, and Spaulding Gray types, as a portal into psuedo-intellectual insights we may attain ourselves.

The Hypocracy, the thought that an insight or higher plain of the human consciousness was viewable or attainable through chemicals seems laughable now. Instead of going forward, we kept it in park and watched the world parade by.

I think we just liked doing drugs.

It's funny. I kind of keep Hunter Thompson in the same place in my memory as Kurt Vonnegut. Not for the drugs, but one of those authors many read thinking there may be a deeper meaning. For me it was over analyzed or drawn out moral tales, and side trips to the Midway.

But without them, I would never have known.

In any interview, program, or speech I ever saw or heard with Dr.Thompson, he seemed to know he had painted himself into a corner of American Culture, in which he did not seem comfortable. That of a stoned saviour. Pissed that those asking the questions seldome got beyond the drugs, and definitions of Gonzo Journalism. Seldom if ever discussing the content of his pieces, or their impact as reporting.

I hope The Dr. found the peace he was looking for. No doubt he wouldn't find it here.

"We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark -- the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back."

I am so glad they put that quote in the CNN report. It is hard to see out of context, but as I was reading Fear and Loathing I had to stop right there, look up and say "wow." His writing was so full of sillyness and cynicism and then all of a sudden he wallops you across the back of the head with something very profound.

Mostly he was just good with words.

I did have a brush with the doctor. once and very briefly.

I was living on Martha's Vineyard, Driving a truck during the day and doing sound and other things, at the Wintertide Coffeehouse, most nights.

On Monday nights, an Island drum group, Der Kunts der Drum, would have gatherings at a word of mouth location. You would know if was happening because you would hear they were playing Mystery Beach.

One Monday, coming onto dusk, I was doing something out front. It was maybe '91. A Jeep pulled up in front of my rented house on Main St. on West chop, with 3 people in it.

The driver says "hey kid, come here"

"Who the fuck are you?" I thought. I still walked over. I was curious. Didn't sound like loudmouth New Yorkers proving they were rich to themselves.

The driver was a big tanned/dark skinned guy.The passenger seat person unremarkable, and who ever was in back just sat there. Motionless. A sillouette in the semi tinted rear window. All wore shades, and the general impression I got was they were stoked. Not unusual on the Vineyard, in Summer back then. Especially, so late in the day.

As I got closer, the big one said"Where the the fuck is Mystery Beach." Leaning in, leading with his shades.

I must've given him a look. I know I laughed.

Then he says, "look we have to get to Mystery Beach, before sundown."

"There is no beach, called Mystery Beach."

He didn't like that answer.

"It's important, we have to get there. You sure there ain't a mystery beach.....You got a map." And with the second part he lifted his shades. His eyes revealed his state, and I let him know I had a map, In the house.

I had to explain it was in fact on the wall, and I would not be bringing it out. But he could come in.

We eyed the entire Island's outline, on the wall. "What's this one?" "What About here?" There was no Mystery beach.

This guy had been pushy and paranoid from the get go, I had no idea who he was, I didn't, and don't care who he was. Had he just asked where the drums were playing I would have told him, had I known. He hadn't asked.

He was pissed. More upset in speaking, but he was pissed off and uneasy. No matter how calm he tried to act.

He said, "look we have to get to Mystery Beach, to meet....some people. They told us we would be able to find them there."

"Well, is there something going on there?" sez I. Ever the smart ass.

His shades were back on, but he peered over them. He knew, I knew. He knew I had withheld information. He stared.

"Yes, there is a drum concert. We are supposed to meet them there." He looked like he almost wanted to chuckle, but his anger wouldn't allow it just yet.

"You're looking for the Drums. They are at Mystery Beach. " That pissed him off. "But that changes every week. It's not the name of a beach. I think It's Lucy Vincent this week."

It's a clothing optional beach. There are no signs, and few landmarks. The directions are vague and confusing, when given best. But, they will get you there. None in the Jeep acted like I could be trusted. I couldn't blame them.

The figure in the back leaned forward, I looked over. "Don't you fuck with us kid! You don't...wanna... fuck..with...us!" came a stern warning, slurred, through clenched teeth. The voice was a give away. The look? The most stereo-typical image I had ever seen. No denying who was behind those clenched teeth, that held a cigarette holder. Beneath a broader hat than any East Coast person would feel comfortable in. The Glasses. It was him.

I looked at him. He leaned back. A look at the driver, and once more at the others. I snuck a chuckle again. Head bobbing, sarcastic and smug. Smartass stoned celebrity, I thought. I can deal with that. High people that age, weren't really a threat.

I turned my back, and they were off, as quick as the Jeep could take them.

Life was consistantly, very strange for large periods of time, when I was in my late teens and twenties. I was laughing, and it was just another day.

Absolute truth.

Hey J6P, cool story! I've seen that clothing optional beach...

It's sad to see anyone take their own life.

War

I've had four friends take their own lives. It's a sad thing to go through. The last one almost cried me out permanently.

I think "Fear and Loathing" might be a better title for this forum. So, I'm going to go with that for a bit.

I like "Fortified Compound" but I think most people won't get it a month from now.

"from Otter Creek, and other views" crossed my mind.