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Posts Tagged ‘Hunter S. Thompson’

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Meeting Dr. Gonzo: An encounter with Hunter S. Thompson

In Random thoughts on May 11, 2012 at 8:05 am

I whiled away a couple of hours this week reading "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." It brought back memories of the evening I met one of my literary heroes . . .

In May 1997, while living in Los Angeles, I went to Book Soup on the Sunset Strip to see Hunter S. Thompson. He was there signing copies of the Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967, his first volume of published letters. I had just graduated college with a bachelor’s in journalism. While in school, Thompson’s work was a near-constant companion. It wasn’t so much the writing I admired (though I do love his way with words) but the wild and eccentric personality that leapt off the page.

In person, Thompson did not disappoint. The signing had a conveyor belt quality to it. He didn’t do a reading or give any sort of talk. Fans simply filed past in a long line and were given a quick minute to grab his autograph and ask a question. He refused to scribble in the books themselves, choosing instead to scratch his name on a book plate, which was then placed in the book. He sat at a long table, his ever-present cigarette clamped in a long holder between his teeth. On the table sat a large grapefruit and a bottle of Chivas Regal, which he seemed to be working his way through with great enthusiasm. Johnny Depp, then preparing to play Thompson in the film adaptation of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, stood nearby and watched the proceedings in silence.

My signed copy of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas."

Just before it was my turn to meet him, someone told Thompson there was a porn convention going on at the Palladium down the street. All the big starlets were in attendance. Thompson stood up and made as if to leave. A Book Soup staff member quickly stepped in and urged Thompson to stay put. I’m sure he would have taken off if given the chance. When it was finally my turn, I shook his hand and told him I’d just graduated with a degree in journalism. Did he have any advice for a young, struggling reporter with aspirations of becoming an author?

“You majored in journalism?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“What are you,” he asked in a slightly raised voice, “some sort of fucking freak?”

I was thrilled Hunter S. Thompson considered me freakish. When I asked him for advice, he replied without hesitation: “Go into advertising.”

He dully signed several bookplates for me, which I stuck in my copies of The Proud Highway, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and Songs of the Doomed. My friend Dan, quite buzzed from our drinking session at Red Rock, was next. “I’m drunk,” he said, as he took a signed book plate from Thompson.

Smiling, Thompson replied, “It’s a great state to be in.”

Perfectly content, Dan and I scurried from the shop and returned to Red Rock, deeming it most appropriate to cap the evening off with a few more rounds.

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The writer’s vice

In Random thoughts on May 2, 2012 at 9:13 am

“You’re a rummy, but no more than most good writers are.” So wrote Hemingway—a man who knew a thing or two about drinking—in a letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald. Writing and alcohol have long been companions. Indeed, numerous bars around the world continue to benefit from the patronage of their famous—though, now deceased—customers. There are more than a handful of watering holes who boast Hemingway as a one-time patron. The writer was a frequent visitor to Harry’s Bar in Venice, where he had his own table in the corner. He laid numerous daïquiris to waste at El Floridita in Havana and enjoyed drinking scotch at Sloppy Joe’s in Key West.

Dylan Thomas gulped his last drink at Manhattan’s White Horse Tavern. Hunter S. Thompson enjoyed frequent libations at the Woody Creek Tavern in Colorado. Ian Fleming drank a bottle of gin a day. This, coupled with his daily habit of smoking seventy cigarettes, contributed to his early demise at the age of fifty-six. His favorite pub was the Duck Inn in Pett Bottom near Canterbury. His favorite chair in the back is dully marked. C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkein, while not heavyweight drinkers like the aforementioned scribes, met Tuesday mornings as part of a group called “The Inklings” at the Eagle and Child pub in Oxford. A plaque above their table marks the meeting spot. Jack Kerouac paid regular visits to Vesuvio across the street from City Lights in San Francisco.

Tourism spots aside, many great scribblers have embraced alcohol—often to their own detriment. But I’ve always wanted to know why? Perhaps it has something to do with availability and opportunity. If you’re wandering around your house all day, trying to come up with something to jot down on paper, it’s pretty easy to grab a scotch from the wet bar or beer from the fridge. Perhaps it’s a distraction from the solitary nature of writing itself. Authors, by their trade, are loners, and a drink can be good company. A 2008 Los Angeles Times article I found on this subject matter states:

“Intoxication, if not the source of literary creation, creates a cerebral aura congenial to it. It recasts the glare of life in a softer hue. It soothes anxiety and other stultifiers of reflection. It warms the mind and thaws thoughts frozen in timidity. The fruit of the vine does not give us insight but aids our discovery of it; it can allow you to eavesdrop on yourself.”

While some authors claim drinking helps get the words flowing, it has the opposite effect on me. Writing, as all who do it know, is hard work. It’s mentally taxing at times and can wear you down. I might sit with a glass of scotch or wine beside me as I write, but I would never tackle a page while feeling intoxicated—or even slightly buzzed. Yes, alcohol takes the edge off, but I want my mind to be as sharp and focused as possible when I work. That said, I do enjoy drinking and take great pleasure in toasting a good day’s writing.

Of course, none of this answers the question as to why so many authors are full-blown alcoholics. Consider this fact from a 2011 article in Slate: “According to one study, 71 percent of prominent 20th-century American writers at least flirted with alcoholism. (Only 8 percent of the general population abuses alcohol.)”

In the end, it’s very easy to romanticize the notion of the hard-drinking writer. I mean, let’s be honest . . . it wouldn’t be the same if writers instead had a penchant for making shadow animals.

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What’s the best way for an author to be remembered?

In books, writers, Writing on April 10, 2012 at 9:18 am

This past weekend, I checked the Amazon listing for Human Game and was pleased to see the sales ranking had jumped from the million-mark to the neighborhood of 200,000. Someone had obviously pre-ordered a copy. To that kind-hearted and anonymous individual, I send my sincere thanks. The book isn’t due out until October 2—indeed, the Amazon listing does not yet feature the cover image—so it’s great to know that someone is eager enough to order the book seven months before its release.

I once read somewhere that for a book to be a bestseller, heavy promotion has to begin about six months before it hits stores. Whether this is true or not, I have no idea—but, certainly, an aim of this blog is to get the word out. I realize blogging alone won’t sell books, but I’m hoping it helps. At this stage, it’s too early to tell. I do find it interesting, however, that several visitors to my blog have got here by entering the book’s title as their search-engine query.

While discussing all this with my wife over the weekend, I said, “What I’d give for just one major seller!” I feel no shame in admitting this. Yes, I want to sell out—I want to sell out an entire print run! I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a writer, musician, or any artist, for that matter, wanting to make money from their toils. Of course, I don’t write solely for cash. I enjoy the process and take great satisfaction in receiving the final product from the publisher prior to publication. I’m just saying one bestseller would be nice!

This all leads to a question: As an author, is it better to be remembered as a prolific scribe who turned out high quality books that never sold in large quantities, or remembered solely for one big-selling book in particular? Pondering this question, I drummed up a short list of authors who only ever produced one book—but, of course, they’re works have the stuff of immortality.

Margaret Mitchell – Gone with the Wind
Harper Lee – To Kill a Mockingbird
Ralph Ellison – The Invisible Man
John Kennedy Toole – A Confederacy of Dunces
Emily Brontë – Wuthering Heights

As for authors who produced numerous works but are remembered primarily for one book, I came up with the following (this, of course, is open to debate):

Hunter S. Thompson – Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Joseph Heller – Catch-22
J.D. Salinger – The Catcher in the Rye
Ken Kesey – One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
Henry Miller – Tropic of Cancer
D.H. Lawrence – Lady Chatterley’s Lover
F. Scott Fitzgerald – The Great Gatsby

Honestly, if I were to be remembered at all, I’d be happy to be remembered either way, for it means the work–whether multiple books, or just one–has touched a considerable audience.

The Guardian approached this from a different angle last year and composed a list of authors “famous for the wrong book.” Among them are Kurt Vonnegut for Slaughterhouse-Five and Evelyn Waugh for Brideshead Revisited.

Are there any authors you’d add to the above lists?

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My future biographer’s great dilemma

In Random thoughts on January 26, 2012 at 8:51 am

Having recently read biographies of Ian Fleming and Roald Dahl—and currently reading one on Hemingway—I have concluded that my life is pretty dull. I have not overseen covert operations for British Naval Intelligence in a time of war (Fleming), nor have I flown with the Royal Air Force against the Luftwaffe in North Africa (Dahl). Add to this embarrassing list of confessions the fact I have not hunted big game in the Serengeti or fished for marlin off the coast of Cuba (Hemingway). What, you ask, have I done? I once met Duran Duran lead singer Simon Le Bon in the Hard Rock Casino’s gift shop in Las Vegas. All I could manage to say at the time was, “My name’s Simon, too.” He responded, “It’s a bloody good name, isn’t it?”

This apparent lack of adventure will, I’m sure, present a challenge for my future biographer—as will my mundane love life. I have not bedded a stripper named “Stormy,” nor have I had an affair with the wife of a powerful media magnate (Fleming). I did not marry a successful actress (Dahl), nor have I lusted after a nurse who tended to my war wounds (Hemingway). On that point, I’ve never gone off to war nor been wounded in battle. What will my future biographer write about? It’s hard to say, as I won’t be leaving him/her much to work with. But it’s more than just my boring life that’s going to cause problems. It’s the lack of letters.

The Fleming, Dahl, and Hemingway biographies all list as primary source material letters written to and by their subjects. Gonzo scribe Hunter S. Thompson, believing he would someday make it as an author, had the amazing foresight to keep carbon copies of every letter he ever wrote. Today, letter writing—in the traditional sense—is pretty much a dead art form. We opt instead to send e-mails, which most folks delete as soon as they’ve read them—or we send quick text messages comprised of acronyms. L.O.L. Perhaps even more egregious is the fact many folks rely on Facebook status updates to convey what’s going on in their lives. Does this mean biographers of tomorrow are S.O.L.? Where is the primary source material for tomorrow’s biographies going to come from? Are there aspiring writers and artists out there saving their texts, e-mails, status updates, and “Tweets”?

Sitting on my bookshelf waiting to be read is Speaking for Themselves, a volume of letters exchanged between Winston Churchill and his wife, Clementine, over the long course of Churchill’s years in public service. How different that book would be if it were collection of “Tweets” no more than 140 characters long.

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Dark City release pushed to November

In author, manuscript, writers, Writing on October 28, 2010 at 10:23 am

Well, DARK CITY’s release has been pushed back to November 9. There was an apparent printing delay. The publisher is planning a media blitz the first week of November, so hopefully the book will generate a bit of good press.

In the meantime, I continue banging away on my current manuscript and making good progress. I’m trying to complete a 90,000-word first draft by March. Right now, I’m closing in on the 35,000-word mark. I’d like to have 45,000 words done by Thanksgiving. My wife is pregnant with our first child (it’s a boy!) and is due in March, so I’m hoping to have a draft completed by the time the little man arrives on the scene.

I’m happy so far with the way the book is turning out. The story is strong and the characters compelling—granted, my opinion is biased. Interestingly enough, the National Geographic Channel aired a documentary the other night on the very topic I’m writing about. After five books, I’ve grown accustomed to being a non-bestselling author, but I hold out hope one of them will someday take off! Perhaps this will be the one? We’ll have to wait and see.

In the meantime, I’ve been reading a pretty good book. THE INDIFFERENT STARS ABOVE by Daniel James Brown details the tragedy of the Donner Party. The subject matter is utterly compelling—what those poor people went through is staggering. My one complaint with the book is the author’s tendency to derail stirring scenes with a load of filler. Why, in the midst of reading about emigrant travel across the Great Plains, do we suddenly need a history on 1840s birth control? Another gut-wrenching scene, in which the emigrants are forced to eat the flesh of their dead companions on Christmas, is sidetracked by a dissertation on the holidays in 1800s America. There are several other instances like this that really grate the nerves—but, overall, the book is definitely worth reading.

Other books on my bedside table waiting to be read include three biographies: one on Clint Eastwood titled AMERICAN REBEL and another on Hunter S. Thompson, OUTLAW JOURNALIST. The final one is STORYTELLER, an authorized biography of Roald Dahl, which I’m hoping to get to before the holidays begin.

I’m also hoping to become more disciplined and start updating this blog on a regular basis!

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