Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Copyright © Las Vegas Review-Journal

JOHN L. SMITH: Thompson comes to unsurprising end in what could of been best of times

After so many years of waving his gun around Woody Creek, Hunter S. Thompson finally sighted in.

No one who read his work and watched him operate could have expected less. The only surprise, perhaps, was the fact he waited until age 67 to do it.

For those who have followed his career, Thompson's demise over the weekend of a self-inflicted gunshot wound was about as hard to predict as a hangover after a long night of slamming back tequila.

Thompson's life was remarkable not only for what he created on paper, but for his impact on a generation of peach-fuzzed reporters and for his greatest creation, the half-mad, drug-addled Dr. Thompson himself.

Readers ate up Thompson's wickedly hip diatribes like political peyote buttons, and legions of writers surely ruined themselves trying to imitate him. In his way, Thompson was a bit like Hemingway, whose drinking bouts and bullying became almost as much a part of his legend late in his life as his work.

Thompson used that image and a good deal of talent to propel himself into the national spotlight, where he remained, whether as a spokesman for his generation or just another drunk at the journalism bar, for the rest of his life.

Southern Nevadans may remember him as the author of the often quoted "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," which was to early '70s visitors what "The Green Felt Jungle" was to the post-Kefauver crowd. Written initially for Rolling Stone magazine, where most of Thompson's popular essays were published, the book was one of the most successful attempts by a so-called counterculture writer to capture the essence of the gambling and tourism scene.

Those who scoff at it now should remember that its subtitle was "A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream." In many ways, Las Vegas works its dark magic on that dream to this day.

Thompson caught the strangeness of the place -- even if he painted in broad, psychedelic strokes. The work remains as interesting today for what it says about who we were and what outraged us as for its sizzling, cynical depiction of Las Vegas.

My favorite of his books isn't about Las Vegas. It's a swell piece of reportage called "Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga." The book contained genuine character development, but he was a character in those days, not the caricature that made him easy to sketch in Garry Trudeau's "Doonesbury" strip.

Near the end of "Hell's Angels," the writer awakens to the danger of hanging out with outlaws when a few of them give him a beating. It was done more for its intimidating quality than to cause him any permanent damage, and, of course, it served as an ideal image to end the story. Even more, it added to the perception of Thompson as a drug-snorting, typewriter-toting Captain Kirk. (It was an image that must have made Ernie Pyle roll over in his grave.)

Guns, drugs and booze are what most people probably associate with Thompson these days, and that's his doing. He was determined to become a name, and he became one.

When he was focused, Thompson was really good. His insight into the character of politicians was refreshing in a world full of hardball pontificators.

These should have been the best of times for Thompson. With a malaprop master in Washington, a Cabinet full of eerily loyal neoconservatives in the background, and the scent of lost liberties and Orwellian decision-making hanging in the air, you'd think he would have saddled up, sobered up and ridden back into the fray.

In a convertible Cadillac, no less.

His latest broadside was "Hey Rube: Blood Sport, the Bush Doctrine, and the Downward Spiral of Dumbness," but he hadn't been on his game in years. Besides, these days half the nation drinks to forget the current occupant of the White House, and there are 10,000 angry writers hurling metaphors and invective at the Chief.

Hunter S. Thompson was his generation's Hemingway in the margins. He didn't go to Paris, but he did go to Vegas.

Stoned or sober, he had plenty to say about us and wasn't all wrong.

John L. Smith's column appears Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. E-mail him at Smith@reviewjournal.com or call 383-0295.