MONDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 2005

R.I.P. Hunter
yas, rip it hunter
rip it to the death.
the old shit disturber
will be surily missed
the rat, what must have
driven him to do dat?
no more writing
no more man
no more work
but uncle duke will
live on in the comic strips
we will miss the doctor
and his tales.
He Stomped Terra
He Whomped Firma
that damned doctor
did he give himself
a taste of his own medicine
I'd hit him if I could
a love tap of course
we are all sorry
about a great loss
muchly too bad.

-- Capn Skyp


TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 2005

fierce-eyed one-of-a-kind journalist covering politics and the national agenda with such radical and nasty and brilliant aplomb and with such an explicit and enthusiastic disregard for standard journalistic rules and tropes,

this is what it is about, not drugs and guns. it's skewering the shitheads.

"The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side."
-- Hunter S. Thompson

Rest In Peace
doesn't cut it when
Ripping Into Pieces
was carved in stoned
lightning bolts shot
straight into the soft
underbelly of american greed
and a hearty dig in the ribs
was the key to the doctor's screed:
Mix those Metaphors
Hike those Semaphores
Hit them with Punchlines
for the Really Big Scores
-- capn skyp


My Hunter story

by Zane Kesey

1990 or so, Hunter was doing a talk in town so we took the bus and crew to hijack the good "Doctor". (It was at the Hilton and Hunter hadn't showed and the crowd was getting restless. The promoter asked Kesey and me to come up and assuage the audience. We talked and carried on for twenty minutes and then someone yelled, "I didn't pay seven dollars to hear you idiots," at which point Kesey jumped off the stage and, pulling out his wallet, went over to the guy and said, "Here's your seven dollars," and it looked like they were going to start wresting but just then Hunter Thompson slouched to the lectern and started mumbling. -- KB)

After an inaudible (but still hilarious talk) we escorted him away to the bus. (Thompson staggered off the stage into my arms and said, "Get me out of here, Babbs." There was a long serving table there on wheels. I lifted Hunter on it, covered him with a table cloth and wheeled him, not to the elevator and up to his room. but outside to the door of the bus and pushed him inside. -- KB)

Many unknown people climbed on board also, so we informed them that the bus was taking Hunter and the Pranksters to the Kesey farm with no return ride. This only seemed to encourage the crowd. A poker table was set up in the back of the bus and it was "stud all-round." Jokers and Pranks flew across the green felt that night, as did mind altering elements too numerous and redundant to mention.

Much later someone noticed that the bus driver was sitting at the table poking along with the players and that they had been parked for the last three hours in the driveway at the farm. The liquor flew, the smokes blew, and the Jokes grew. Around 4 A.M. Hunter decided that he "should have won every hand so we must have cheated in every hand"...

So he stepped off the bus. A friend quickly grabbed Hunter with plans to tell a deep secret and smoke a joint with him. The only good looking place to sit and smoke was in a nice white Cadillac convertible that dad was very fond of. If you know Hunter, you can see what is coming!

About 3/4 through the joint Hunter exclaims "the goddamn keys are in the ignition!" Dad always kept the keys in his vehicles, as he lived way out in the country, and hated loosing them. Hunter ripped the car into gear and sped straight for the main cow field, with the Sons Of The Pioneers blasting from the speakers.

"What?" says dad when he hears this, "Shit, come on everyone let's round up this loose Joker before the neighbors get on the phone or on the shotgun". What a scene...Cadillac spinning backward circles, Hunter shouting about aliens cheating him at cards, Ghost Riders in the Sky screaming from the tape player. Eventually dad jumped into the circling vehicle right in time to the cowboy song with a rodeo car-bronking maneuver. He grabbed for the keys, the engine died, Hunter and the song ebbed to silence. Everything sat still. Dad just started walking back, leaving the Cadillac, Hunter, my friend, the joint, and all of the card players in the field...watching him walk back to the safety of the farm, keys in hand, he won that round.

The next mourning all was normal, roosters crowing, beer bottles put away, bus in the garage, all other cars gone...taking Hunter in the night back to some hotel. As you leave in this foggy, still morning...you go past the barn, under the apple trees, down the long driveway, past the tree twinkling with mirrors, down the road....and...see the strangest thing...a Cadillac in the very middle of the field, surrounded by cows that have seen the terra stomped on!

To See a Video of the Card Game
order the FURTHER ON video
from Zane:

(ABOVE STILLS ARE FROM THE FURTHER ON VIDEO)

FURTHER ON


We first met Hunter Thompson when the Hells Angels came to party at Kesey's place in La Honda and they had this skinny guy with a cigarette in a holder tagging along with him. We never heard from him again for a long time but we did hear that the Angels got tired of him at one of their bars and punched him out.

As time went on our paths crossed and we always got along real well. One time he sent a hundred dollar bill to Kesey asking Kesey to send him some acid so Kesey faxed him back a sheet of blotter and when Thompson got pissed about it Kesey faxed him back his hundred dollar bill.

Hunter sent Kesey a personalized copy of one of his books. Thompson had shot a huge hole through it.


all faxes courtesy of Zane Kesey

Running Magazine stationed in Eugene sent Thompson to Hawaii to cover the Hawaii Marathon. They brought Hunter to a hotel in Eugene to finish the story and wouldn't let him out of the room until he was done. Thompson locked himself in the toilet and wouldn't come out. They got the manager to open the door and when they came in were met by an exploding string of firecrackers that scared the shit out of them and left Hunter falling off the toilet laughing so hard.

When he finished writing the story we had a big celebration lunch and drinks at the Vet's Club. Afterward, Kesey and I got in Kesey's Cadillac with the top down and Kesey said, "Call Hunter over here."

I yelled, "Hey Hunter, when did you say your plane was leaving?"

Hunter cupped his ear and I motioned him over and he came trotting, looking fit and trim and tanned in a white polo shirt and white shorts, dapper topper and his signature cigarette and holder.

When he got next to the car, Kesey, who had been leaning over, straightened up and flung a lighted string of firecrackers under Hunter Thompson's feet and my did he dance, cigarette and holder outflung, knees jerking high, feet flopping sideways, face contorted, eyeballs bulging, a marionette dancing to invisible strings tied to the sky as we drove away in a cloud of smoke, laughing over our shoulders, our enduring picture of Hunter Thompson.

-- Capn Skyp


TOM WOLFE'S ACCOUNT OF HUNTER THOMPSON

As Gonzo in Life as in His Work
Hunter S. Thompson died as he lived.

BY TOM WOLFE
Tuesday, February 22, 2005 12:01 a.m. EST

Hunter S. Thompson was one of those rare writers who come as advertised. The Addams-family eyebrows in Stephen King's book jacket photos combined with the heeby-jeeby horrors of his stories always made me think of Dracula. When I finally met Mr. King, he was in Miami playing, along with Amy Tan, in a jook-house band called the Remainders. He was Sunshine itself, a laugh and a half, the very picture of innocent fun, a Count Dracula who in real life was Peter Pan. Carl Hiaasen, the genius who has written such zany antic novels as "Striptease," "Sick Puppy," and "Skinny Dip" is in person as intelligent, thoughtful, sober, courteous, even courtly, a Southern gentleman as you could ask for (and I ask for them all the time and never find them). But the gonzo--Hunter's coinage--madness of Hunter Thompson's "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" (1971) and his Rolling Stone classics such as "The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved" (1970) was what you got in the flesh too. You didn't have lunch or dinner with Hunter Thompson. You attended an event at mealtime.

FOR THE REST OF TOM WOLE'S ACCOUNT:

GONZO



Ralph Steadman drawing of HST

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