Any reader trying to get a sense of Hunter S. Thompson and his growth since 1970, this would be a great first book. It samples selections from his time as a writer for the Rolling Stone as well as letters to and from the editor-in-chief, Jann Werner.
Many of Thompson's excerpts in this book will show you that current times were written on the wall in bright red lettering.
The entrenchment of the two-party system acting as gatekeepers to the power world in which the Doomed and Screwheads aren't allowed to travel is something Thompson took on. As capitalism and defected worm-infested brains lead us into the 21st century, we find that the slovenly and sloth-like lifestyles we have chosen have led to a breakdown of towns and any sense of community. Cities appear as a dot on a map. Circular with an assumed nerve center. But when you get most places, it looks like the monkies of the Amazon Rainforest have been put to work given concrete and rusted metal to create a dim, sprawling, playscape.
Tourism is not viewing from your automobile windows. Roads do not equal progress, just the opposite. Housing is expensive because mean, yet cowardly vultures control real estate. Cops are a group of terroristic thugs doing the bidding for every greedhead looter in the country. Thompson lays out a new vision for towns that some on the left are just now calling for:
"Our program, basically, was to drive the real estate goons completely out of the valley: to prevent the State Highway Department from bringing a four-lane highway into the town and, in fact, to ban all auto traffic from every downtown street. Turn them all into grassy malls where everybody, even freaks, could do whatever's right. The cops would become trash collectors and maintenance men for a fleet of municipal bicycles, for anybody to use. No more huge, space-killing apartment buildings to block the view, from any downtown street, of anybody who might want to look up and see the mountains. No more land rapes, no more busts for "flute-playing" of "blocking the sidewalk"...fuck the tourists, dead-end the highway, zone the greedheads out of existence, and in general create a town where people could love like human beings, instead of slaves to some bogus sense of Progress that is driving us all mad."
Thompson also touched on the constant interactions between the lowest form of human life, the police, and minority groups in Amerikkka. As cops brutally and cowardly commit acts of fascism and violence against those they are supposed to be serving and protecting today, the same problems have plagued our history in the past. Their skills are less than your average used car salesmen and their underdeveloped brains are quick to the trigger if your hue or political stance is even a sliver away from total fascism. Thompson documents one of these interactions with the murder of Rueben Salazar:
"...no explanation was necessary--at least anybody likely to be found drinking in the Silver Dollar. The customers are locals: Chicanos and barrio people--and every one of them is acutely aware of what happened in the Silver Dollar on August 29, 1970.
That was the day Reuben, the prominent Mexican-American columnist for the Los Angeles Times and news director for bilingual KMEX-TV, walked into the place and sat down on a stool near the doorway to order a beer he would never drink. Because just about the time the barmaid was sliding his beer across the bar, a Los Angeles County sheriff's deputy named Tom Wilson fired a tear gas bomb through the front door and blew half of Reuben Salazar's head off. All the other customers escaped out the back exit to the alley, but Salazar never emerged. He died on the floor in a cloud of CS gas--and when his body was finally carried out, hours later, his name was already launched into martyrdom. Within twenty-four hours, the very mention of the name Rueben Salazar was enough to provoke the tears and fist-shaking tirade not only along Whittier Boulevard but all over East L.A...
...A week later, District Attorney Evelle Younger--a staunch Law & Order man--announced that he had reviewed the case and decided that "no criminal charge is justified," despite the unsettling fact two of the three jurors who had voted for the "death by accident" verdict were now saying they had made a mistake.
But by that time nobody really gave a damn. The Chicano community had lost faith in the inquest about midway through the second day, and all the testimony only reinforced their anger at what most considered an evil whitewash. When the DA announced that no charges would be filed against Wilson, several of the more moderate Chicano spokesmen called for a federal investigation. The militants called for an uprising. And the cops said nothing--at all."
The political scene in 1972 was similar for Thompson, a cesspool of untalented ghouls running naked through the White House and Capitol Hill donning Kente cloths and Confederate flags to symbolize what they think they stand for. Brownshirts are recruited and activated by a president with a mental capacity that could not handle putting together a Hot Wheels race track, to do his white power dirty work.
Thompson, I believe, later in life became swept up and missed the ominous clouds moving over Washington D.C. with Bill Clinton and it can be somewhat understood. The media did was not conglomerated into five companies. Politicians still had somewhat of the Fear in them that one day, citizens from every color would cannibalize the US and state governments in front of their families on 24/7 entertainment news services. His political innocence and political elbow-rubbing caused him to miss the total picture of what was happening, but he later caught on before his death with George W. Bush. Here is a succinct and accurate portrayal of the American electorate and presidential politics at the end of the '72 primary season and still today:
"...This may be the year when we finally come face to face with ourselves; finally just lay back and say it--that we are really just a nation of 220 million used car salesmen with all the money we need to buy guns, and no qualms at all about killing anybody else in the world who tries to make us uncomfortable...
...How low do you have to stoop in this country to be president?"
Thompson also delights in his sympathy for a crooked president that some were trying to rehabilitate the image of. Think Bush and soon to be President Baby Duck:
"Who gives a fuck if he's lonely and depressed out there...If there were any such thing as true justice in this world, his rancid carcass would be somewhere down around Easter Island right now, in the belly of a hammerhead shark."
There is even an excerpt from his book Hey Rube! that shows Thompson beginning to realize the twilight of his life was ending and he goes through many memories of life to an almost zen-like reaction to how he will go on and cherish the intricacies of his life. While discussing his memories, Thompson is also writing this out into a love letter for someone he never mentions? It's not clear, but the memories and the climax of putting a letter into a mailbox to send away may also serve as a melancholy euphemism to his own death. It closes with this perfect excerpt that shines a light on how normal, yet how unique even the small things were to Hunter:
"Yes sir. That is my wisdom and this is my song. It is Sunday and I am making new rules for myself. I will open my heart to spirits and pay more attention to animals. I will take some harp music and drive down to the Texaco station, where I can get a pork taco and read a New York Times. After that, I will walk across the street to the post office and slip my letter into her mailbox."
And remember, if life gets too weird, Thompson provides a possible solution:
"And when things get nervous, there's always that smack-filled $7-a-night motel room down on the seawall in Galveston."
5/5 stars. Can never get enough HST, should be required reading in any literature, journalism, and political science majors.