I grew up in a time not so much, from my perspective, of upheaval, but rather of surreal contradiction. As most families were at pains to perpetuate the unreality of the 1950's while watching television programs depicting clean-cut, young people in what is termed "mod" clothing & calling them "hippies" contrasted with images of the brutal, larger-than-life genocide of the Vietnamese & Laotian people, as well -- as their very own sons -- for democracy & the American way of life. The Beaver would get in "little boy" trouble, as black people would riot in the streets, police officers would bludgeon curfew violators, & the national guard would shoot & kill innocent college students.
All the while, parents are telling their children that they can be whatever they want when they grow up. My parents did the same with me. I was confused by this. Not because I was -- to whatever degree -- aware of the contradictions going on all round me, but because I was a child. How, I wondered, can a child have the slightest clue as to what they want to do when their only conception of a career is what television told us was possible, our father's work made him spend little time with us & often too angry to be around when he was home, & mom was a homemaker? Everything was either glamorous, mundane, or dodgy. And I knew, even then, that whatever I was going to be when I grew up, it was not going to be on the "Prescribed List of Approved Professions" each of my parents kept.
From an early age -- despite my short-lived flirtations with the thoughts of fireman or policeman -- I was most attracted to the artists life-style. I had little vocabulary at the time & no idea how to actually write anything, but a part of me knew -- even the silly, little boy I was -- that I wanted to be a writer. The mere mention of this before one of my sisters had married one, would have drawn ridicule from my siblings & a quick veto from either of my parents. Though, I admit, my mother has always been much more liberal in her thinking, though her idea of a successful writer is one who publishes a best-seller & buys their mother a mansion.
Needless to say, I really had no idea what a hero was. Of course, I admired various artists throughout history, but to consider them a "hero" would prove to be quite a stretch. Besides, while I was aware of the writings, paintings, or whatever of these artists, I'd known painfully little of the lives of these artists. First, I think it was Shakespeare, then Hemingway, finally -- via a characterization -- it was Dr Gonzo himself, Hunter S Thompson.
I knew that Zonker Harris -- a character with whom I'd easily identified, at least, in mind -- & his Uncle Duke was Garry Trudeau's exaggeration of Thompson via the comic strip Doonesbury, but this was the closest thing to a hero I still feel I may ever find.
Being the malcontent, dissatisfied writer I have become, how could any more appropriate action be than to spend xmas morning watching the recently released documentary Gonzo: The Life & Work of Dr Hunter S Thompson? I feel, now having watched it, to know & even more admire, the man behind the Gonzo. A man who'd done what he wanted -- even when he was only selling free-lance articles for a $100.00 a pop to feed his family, to finally end his life as he'd often said he would. While I'm not so readily inclined to such heavy drug use or his love affair with loud guns, I do love turning a good phrase (if often so elaborate William Strunk would have failed me in a heart beat) & attacking the very things so many hold dear with derision, sarcasm & surrealism -- with down-right abandon.
It's clear that we have lost a great artist in Hunter S Thompson, but his influence on every would-be gonzo artist & true freedom-loving individual will not die. Not even if we beat it like a rented mule.
I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone,
but they've always worked for me.
-Hunter S Thompson
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