Years ago, when I was but a lad, I discovered the writings of a one Hunter S. Thompson. Again, I don't remember exactly where I had heard about him at the them. But from the ages of 15 to 17 I undoubtedly read every single thing the man had ever written. However, at the age when you know everything a lot of the genius of his writing is lost on youth and inexperience. But I always loved the style more than anything. There was a kind of visceral tone to his writing. A rage and a defiance for no other reason than to enjoy defying someone. Somewhere along that line I read his biography too. What most intrigued me about him was the passion. In his youth he would sit and type out the Great Gatsby on his typewriter. Just to feel what it was like when F. Scott Fitzgerald put ink to paper. That is something far more interesting than any of his books. I don't rightly know what to make of that. But it is easy to admire such a trait.
With that being said. Last night, for the first time in many years I reread Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. His most well known title, but not my favorite. For that I tip my hat to Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail 72'. I should also mention that, to those who do not know me, I almost never reread books. Except for a very select few. But perhaps I should relieve myself of that habit! This time around I caught many things that I'd missed in the days of yesteryear.
Back when I was 17 and knew everything, the idea of a alcohol and drug fueled odyssey into the Heart of the American Dream was an appealing thing. In a don't give a shit about nothing kind of way. In some ways it still is. If only to pursue a journey against the grain of what is socially acceptable. To just see it all from rock bottom looking up. For it is the strangest feeling to walk along some busy freeway in the dead of night. Hearing the trucks, cars and bustle of humanity pass you by. The world is a busy place and it has naught to do with you.
What really hit me this time was the absurdity of the book's premise in general. As our hero explains he was sitting in a bar in Los Angeles drinking beer and Singapore Slings with a side of mescaline. Although he is a writer for the paper, he wasn't really doing anything. Later he unexpectedly receives a call from New York City telling him that he has to cover the Mint 400 race in Las Vegas and that he needs to go meet another member of the company in LA to get money to cover expenses. Just think about it for a few moments. A stranger calls you whilst in a drunken stupor telling you that you must meet another stranger and get money to go cover an event out in the desert. Also, it has to be done now. Don't hesitate and don't question it.
How else could you do such a job where you are really just making it up as you go but to add your own personal flare to the matter. Flare, in the case of our dear friend Hunter, being to add as many drugs as possible to the trip and just see where it takes you. Which is definitely more interesting than simply covering a race from a detached and objective standpoint, as traditional journalism tended to do. But it does lead to a question. Who won the race? Frankly, I don't know and I don't care. So if you haven't already. Pick this book up and revel in depravity and debauchery. If only for a short time.
-T2
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