Shotgun Golf with Bill Murray. – The Last Interview by Hunter S. Thompson.
I came across Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas in 1971 while reading Rolling Stone. Long before Jonny Depp would bring it alive in Hollywood. Of course behind the façade of Raoul Duke and Dr. Gonzo (his “300-pound Samoan attorney”) was none other than Hunter S. Thompson in his early years as the seeker of what was left of the scorched nimbus of the American Dream. Wandering the Bad Lands like lost troubadours of some forgotten narcoleptic shakedown, with “… two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers … and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls.” … These minstrels of chaos brought us the daffy underbelly of our own bleak lives in smiles and wiles; a nourish world turned comic disaster relief leading to absolute zero: a place between possibility and total annihilation.
When I came across that last interview I just had to share it…
I guess I could probably count Hunter among those lost souls that have kept me sane all these years. There are only a few on that bus: Henry Miller, William Burroughs, J.G. Ballard, Samuel Beckett, P.K. Dick, Stanislaw Lem to name a few, but Hunter has been one of those I could reread for the sheer madness alone. His mythic America is as close to the street level as you can get, a gutsy instinctual elaboration of the dark and emotional carousel ride we love and hate. Violent and tempestuous, a world of drugs and mayhem: that’s the world of our outlaw culture. Nothing you’ll see in the movies compares with the real thing. Movies make it seem glamorous, while the reality is sheer panic. There’s something in some of us that seems bent on pushing the limits, to seek out hell rather than paradise. We seem to crave the dark impulse of existence rather than the staid worlds of simulated bullshit that academia seems to favor. Not a nice world, but hell its real and it’s alive. People still touch each other even in their solitary pain. That’s enough: it has to be.