When my first husband wandered off into the sunset he took his uniforms, the ironing board, and my original Hunter S. Thompson for Sheriff poster.
He left everything else: guns, knives, household goods, the baby.
Fair enough – although I never did manage to shift most of the stuff, some of the guns had street value. The rest of the weapons are scattered in storage units across the world. I still use the mixing bowls. And the baby, of course, is all grown-up. It happens.
I only owned the poster because I know people in Woody Creek, a trend that has continued throughout my life. The mountains of Colorado exert an eerie appeal, and the kids who grew up shooting shit in those canyons are amongst my favorite people, encountered routinely in Portland, Seattle, SF, NYC, London, Rome.
Last night I went to see Gonzo and it was fascinating. In large part, of course, because it illustrated the way that a truly iconoclastic and talented man squandered his early promise on bullshit macho posturing. Or drugs, depending on how you want to write the story.
Not that I have any particular problem with bullshit macho posturing – I am a pioneer descendent, my uncles were variously Hell’s Angels, union enforcers, or other flavors of criminal genius. I like guns. Heck, I’m probably a better shot than many people reading these words. I have made a lifelong habit of dating thugs and killers, because I like the aesthetic.
The ethos of rugged individualism, the values of the frontier, are simply part of me. It is only when those habits turn into caricature or farce that I shrug and walk away.
Drug addiction and the ensuing moody drama? Boring.
Thompson is rightfully revered for his earlier work, whether you like it personally or not, and the movie does a fantastic job of showing that era, including interesting archival footage and new interviews with McGovern, Carter, Wolfe, and even (gasp) Pat Buchanan.
The saddest part of the documentary is not the suicide – it is the fifteen or so years when he didn’t manage to write anything much at all. Let alone anything interesting.