Hunter S. Thompson: West Hollywood
Meeting The Man
A Tribute
by Jim Marquez


On February 20, 2005, 67 year old Hunter S. Thompson, suffering from depression & chronic pain due to a slow recovery from hip-replacement surgery that limited his movement, and probably thinking of a lifetime of outrageous & foul deeds, sat in his kitchen at his Colorado ranch, called his wife, told her he loved her, put the phone down without hanging up, then, shot himself with a .45-caliber pistol. His son, Juan, Juan's wife, and Hunter's baby grandson were in the living room when the shots rang out.

I was absolutely crushed. The man had made staggering and lasting contributions to the world of non-fiction literature. To writing. The way it's supposed to be! He was a character, a drunk; a man who lived to excess but always with an eye to record the madness, to examine that madness, be a part of the madness, to try to understand it in some small way.

And after six months of haggling with the local county boys, Johnny Depp, a close friend of Hunter, Juan, and Hunter's wife convinced people to carry out Hunter's last wish: to have his ashes shot out of a canon over his ranch from a 153' tall Black Power fist.

On August 20, 2005 ( the date of my father's 8 year anniversary of his own death), with mourners and celebrities that included Depp, Bill Murray, Senator John Kerry, and many others Hunter's ashes were indeed fired out of that canon and spread over his lands. An arrogant thing to do, some say selfish, but most great writers are. Here's to you-you bastard wherever you are! Thank you.

Just three months before Thompson offed himself I had the privilege of meeting Hunter S. Thompson at a book signing at Book Soup in West Hollywood. After a soul-crushing drive through yet another foul and wicked session of L.A. traffic, I arrived, waited on line with over 500 other street freaks, and'�

'�I finally get to the front counter. I had ordered a copy of Hey Rube, Hunter's latest, over the Internet, in order to secure a spot and number for the line outside. Internet pick-up in back, I'm told.

In back of the store, behind a stack of books, Hunter's space is set up: CDs , black felt tip pens, an ashtray, a bowl of grapefruit, a large hunting knife, orange juice, and a bottle of Jim Beam.

Can I help you, sir? My book, I say. Name? Marquez, Jim. Wait a sec. OK.

There is a group of very young, very beautiful, and very white kids, nobody over the age of 23, gathered near an open back door. Somebody's 'people'�?

A female voice suddenly pops up: 'Hey! You're that writer, aren't you?'� I don't pay attention. She says, 'Yeah, I know you. We met at a party.'� Then I see a pretty 20-year old coming toward me.

I can only muster, 'Me?'�

'Yeah'�, she says, we had this cool conversation. 'You write travel, right? Off the beaten path?'�

'Why yes, honey, yes I do'�. I didn't recognize her though.

'Cool, yeah, see? I recognize you. Hey guys!'� She calls to her friends. 'This is Jim Marquez, the writer.'� And they move toward me en masse but they jerk away in unison when they hear a loud bang outside. Then, I hear, 'Fuck you! I'm the only writer here!'�

And Hunter S. Thompson comes crashing through the door, ranting, cursing, squeaking, and promptly falls to the ground. His hot wife is there and she says, 'Benicio, please help him.'�

And Benicio Del Toro glides in: tall, gruff, shy, a boyish grin; he bends over and picks Hunter up. They go behind a book stack to straighten out.

Did you see that? I mumble to me. Thompson already! And fucked up too! And I get to see him before all those other losers! But what's Benicio Del Toro doing here? Who cares? Oh, wait a minute; I almost forgot: Del Toro played 'The Samoan'� in the film version of 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas'�. WHITE RABBIT! WHITE RABBIT!

I try to finagle a primo spot in line using my newfound celebrity from my adoring fans but no such luck. I'm sent packing onto the damp street to wait with the other nuts.

I'm Number 65 and people are talking each other up, jockeying to cut in front of one another. There are plenty of shadows and bushes to smoke pot in and pass around beers and that's exactly what they're doing, along with hitting bottles of Jack to ward off the cold.

And the people, despite the minor vices-apparently the cops on this side of town don't give a fuck-are indeed chilling out; 25-55, except for the yammering jackass behind me regaling anybody who would listen about the thousands of stars and celebrities he's sought and met and proudly proclaims that that's his job, his life, his passion, to meet famous people and while I too am in line to do the same thing, I guess, I want to throw up. Poor bastard.

Inch by motherfuckin' inch though; again more traffic. But sucks because now there's nowhere to sit. The pot smoke helps, and I should have brought a half pint of Blue Smirnoff to soothe the frazzled nerves of the road, but forget it, I wanna be sober for this.

They're letting in ten at a time and being pretty damn good about keeping us in an absolutely straight line or it's off to the ovens for you. Put a bullhorn in somebody's hand and suddenly they think they're Reichminister Goebbels.

I'm trying not to talk to anybody, don't want to start trading Hunter trivia like some geek; I don't know shit, really, only what's read. The way it should be.

Then, not even five minutes goes by and there's already a commotion.

There's some dude at the door, about 30, trying to persuade the kid in charge of moving the line to let him in before everybody else, that he's somebody, that he requires prompt service; that he shouldn't have to stand in line with the rest of us.

The asshole is over six feet, and the kid is a generous 5'6'�. They go toe-to-toe. The kid holds his own, tough little SOB. Probably Irish. And after a few minutes of this the dude resorts to groveling and bribes and it's always hard to watch another man beg for something because in the end he has to prove his worth as an animal, to hide the defeat, and he shouts, THAT'S RIGHT! YOU'RE ALL MOTHERFUCKERS! GUESS WHO'S GOING BACK TO THE SUITE AND PARTY WITH HUNTER THOMPSON TONIGHT! YOU ALL CAN KISS MY MOTHERFUCKING ASS! YOU'RE WAITING IN LINE FOR SOMETHING THAT'LL NEVER HAPPEN! FUCK ALL OF YOU! And his eyes are sweating; his face is about to explode. Christ, I've seen that in the mirror one too many mornings of late.

He staggers away, braying and hollering, the voice trails off as he gets further down the row, and, judging by the faces and reactions from those in the crowd it appears that I'm the only one to have noticed. Poor bastard.

And every time somebody leaves the store they come out giggling, 'He's so worth the wait, man!'� and, Hunter is rumored to be on acid, on pot, on meth, on heroin, on coke, or any combination thereof. It's said Hunter has a habit of leaving these things early too, starting a fight, or simply passing out.

It's almost an hour's wait in an otherwise mellow line. My group is escorted into the store. You can hear laughing, hear the murmuring. Hear books being leafed through as the line is snaked through the stores' stacks.

Within seconds my heart stops. BOOM! There's Hunter S. Thompson again, but now he's upright behind the counter, signing books, cursing, belching, and offering lewd comments. To the left of him is Benicio, to the right, the wife, both acting as anchors.

There's also a black power sign on a poster behind them. Bob Dylan drones over a terrible sound system. The wheels are in motion.

For surprisingly the line moves swiftly and in about ten minutes I'm getting closer. There are others ahead of me handing over CDs, posters, patches, joints, bottles of booze, all good and well and expected for a man of Hunter's ilk, but I want to do something a bit different.

Some rocker stuck in the early 80s is stoked at meeting Hunter, shakes his hand, snickering like a school boy, and Hunter says with a twinkle in his eye, 'Are you drunk yet? Are you? Why not?'�

Then it's my turn.

Now, I don't want to say the same bullshit, like 'You're a fucking god man!'� (I'm thinking it, but no,) or make him sign a Vegas casino visor. I can be a considerate man when I choose so I say, 'Hunter, you've always been an inspiration, so much that I must return that gift in the form of my own book. It's called LA BITCH! I hope you like it. Thank you for inspiring me.'�(Yeah, it's a bit of an arrogant thing for me to do, but so what?)

I hand over my book. He takes it slow, looks at me, and is completely dumbfounded. The man is speechless. There's a hush with his people for two seconds, with Benicio, with the wife.

Hunter then says, kindly, 'Thank you, brother.'� and gives me the 'Chicano'� handshake. The wife takes my book from Hunter and says, 'What a beautiful cover. Thank you.'�

Benicio says, 'Yeah, man.'�

Hunter says, 'Catchy title.'�

He signs his own book. I take out my camera; ask for a two-shot with Hunter & Benicio then back off, let the next guy have his moment, then, think, why not?

I whip out my Criterion Collection Special Edition DVD of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and say to Benicio who is not signing anything, 'Dude, you think?'�

He says, 'Yeah, man. Cool.'�

As he signs my DVD I say, 'You blew Johnny Depp off the screen.'�

He chuckles and whispers, 'Yeah, that was easy.'� And I bark out an obscene laugh and then Hunter starts squeaking, chirping, 'EEEEE'�EEEEEEEEE'�EEEEEEE'�'� and begins to collapse.

Benicio and the wife reach for him. The wife says to me, 'I'm so sorry.'�

I say, 'You don't have to apologize to me,'� and she looks sad, but I guess she's somehow used to it. They right Hunter up. I take another picture, then, float away.

I know a man who used to book Charles Bukowski for his readings here in California, and he said that Bukowski really was fucked up half the time, but the rest of the time he was putting you on because the audience expected him to be the raging, drunken writer, challenging kids to fights, hitting on young women, you know; a 'show'�, giving them what they want. I wonder then'�

I leave the store, head swimming, I got a lot of quality time in for a mere mortal, but it all went so fast, and as I was digesting my encounter I'm promptly greeted by an enthusiastic, 'HOW WAS HE DUDE?'� And it's 'Shaggy'� from the 'Scooby Doo'� movies, Matthew Hilliard, or Dillard, or whatever the hell it is.

I say, 'Hey, man, I know you!'� And it's good to know that Mr. Three-films-that have-grossed-over-a-hundred-million-each has to wait in line like the rest of us. He puts a finger to his lips. 'What did he say to you, man?'� Shaggy asks with unabashed curiosity. And that was good to see too.

'He was fucking great,'� was all I could say. 'He was great!'�

'Fuck yeah!'� Shaggy pumps a fist in the air. 'I can't wait!'�

I leave then, past the others still in line, feel their envious eyes because they see me smiling, walking a foot above the pavement, cross the street, hop in my car, and hightail back to the eastside before The Patrol comes out looking for us past 9pm in cities where we're not supposed to be except for the back gates of their homes with rakes in our hands or at the back doors of their restaurants, crouched down, smoking bad cigarettes and plotting an escape. I make the Hollywood South with ease.

Once on, it hits me: Hunter S. Thompson was holding my book. The first book I put together. Yeah, I've done pieces for magazines, newspapers, and the Internet, made money too, but this was a book. I had been hocking it at readings of my own, albeit on a smaller scale, practically manhandling my friends into buying copies.

This book of mine, this work, in part dedicated to Hunter, and he held it. Touched it, mulled it over, commented on it, then looked me in the eye and seemed genuinely pleased when I offered my praise of him. Then, he shook my hand like a motherfucking man.

Hunter S. Thompson now has a copy of my book. I'm sorry to gush, I know this doesn't mean shit to a lot people, but goddammit, there are far too many jaded and cynical these days, and I feel sorry for them that they've lost their wonder in life, but not me.

I begin to sniffle then, actually choke up, hold back tears of joy I don't think I've ever felt before as I sail through town on the 101 south, smooth and empty and delightful.




Suggested Reading:
'Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas'�
'The Rum Diary'�
'The Great Shark Hunt'�

Mind you, his work is rough stuff. There are no 'lessons'� taught, nobody to 'identify'� with, and certainly there is nothing remotely 'uplifting'� about any of it. What there is this: 'There is no sympathy for the devil. You buy the ticket, you take the ride'�'�








Wicked & Foul Books about Los Angeles (The 'Bitch'� series Parts I-III)
& 'East L.A. Collage'� by Jim Marquez
www.LuLu.Com/JimMarquez

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