Saying goodbye to the good doctor (Fe. 25. 2005; The Herald; heraldtoday.com)
WADE TATANGELO
Herald Staff Writer
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson would have been a helluva a guy to find at the local watering hole. Before the busted leg and the hip surgery - the main sources behind the severe pain that led him to end his fully lived life at 67 on Feb. 20 - he was known to descend from table tops, hurl dinner rolls, ignite explosives, discharge firearms and pummel anyone who dared switch the channel during a sporting event on which he had heavily wagered.
Dangerous? He once accidentally shot one of his assistants - he mistook her for a bear. However, it's impossible to imagine a dull evening spent in the man's company. A larger than life creation who put himself so deep into the scene, and so at odds with the rules of the game, that he was like an away pitcher taking the mound minus infielders in front of a sold-out Yankee Stadium.
(Yeah, that's what made him a great writer, too.)
Of course, you wouldn't want a hopped-up Thompson running wild in your living room - let's make it clear, the man was a menace - but in a packed saloon with, say, one of his editors footing the bill, it would've been a real thrill to accompany the self-proclaimed "champion of fun" and witness him ravage the surroundings like he did in his mythical report "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas."
Maybe just sitting there sharing several bottles of wine with Thompson would've been even more stimulating. Hearing first-hand what it was like riding with the Hell's Angels and then getting beaten nearly to death for the sake of the story. How about the lowdown, Hunter, on what happened that evening you were invited in Tricky Dick's limo under the guise of talking football? Or perhaps we would ponder Dubya's victory, war propaganda in the digital age and Jay Gatsby getting along in a world where ecstasy is purchased for $25 a hit.
Weird times indeed, good doctor.
Yeah, watching Thompson get ripped on ether and shock the rank and file would've been fun. But the real treat, I think, would've been shooting the breeze on one of his many passions. Literature, sports, media, poker, politics, guns, music, philosophy . . . Like his friend, George Plimpton, the man's curiosity knew no limits and, for a while, at least, his talent knew no bounds.
Thompson was to journalism in the 1970s what Jerry Lee Lewis was to rock 'n' roll in the 1950s. From the American Dream to the savage '72 campaign trail, he went all the way up the river and turned the story inside out so that the entrails were in plain view. He was unflinching and wrote what "family newspapers" fear to print, but what many a family man and woman think and discuss at the dinner table after the kids have gone to bed. Don't let the drug-fueled cartoon mislead, Thompson was by most accounts sober as a judge when he sat down at his typewriter to shine a flashlight in the beds where the corrupt laid down to make deals.
Hero worshipping is a dangerous practice. Thompson deserves no pedestal because he was no saint. But he would have been a great guy to have at the neighborhood pub.
A ringleader to keep the conversations honest and the yahoos in check. A prankster to give a stuffed shirt a hot foot when the fool stood up too long on his toes. A voice of integrity - unrelenting and unencumbered - brazenly disrupting the chorus when they stopped considering what they were repeating.
Wade Tatangelo, features writer/music critic, can be reached at 745-7051 or wtatangelo@HeraldToday.com.
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