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Gonzo journalism
Nov 18,  · The structural defect of oral history is that it is easy, GONZO The Life of Hunter S. Thompson. By Jann S. Wenner and Corey Seymour. Watch Gonzo History Hunter Oral S Thompson porn videos for free, here on Sort movies by Most Relevant and catch the . Growing Up Gonzo: Excerpts From the Oral History of the Oral History of Hunter S. Thompson. Freestyle George Michael's Family Pays Tribute to Singer.


Nov 18,  · The structural defect of oral history is that it is easy, GONZO The Life of Hunter S. Thompson. By Jann S. Wenner and Corey Seymour. Buy Gonzo Limited by Hunter S. Thompson An excellent oral history tribute to Hunter S. Thompson The Life of Hunter S. Thompson For any Hunter fan this books /5. Gonzo [Hunter S Thompson, Steve Crist, Johnny Depp] on *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Gonzo is a tour de force that will take you into the world /5().
Directed by Alex Gibney. With Hunter S. Thompson, Johnny Depp, Joe Cairo, David Carlo. A portrait of the late gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson/10(K). Nov 18,  · The structural defect of oral history is that it is easy, GONZO The Life of Hunter S. Thompson. By Jann S. Wenner and Corey Seymour. Watch Gonzo History Hunter Oral S Thompson porn videos for free, here on Sort movies by Most Relevant and catch the .

SMITH requires the javascript. Register or Sign In. In , as the movie version of Hunter S. An Oral History of Hunter S. Editorial Assistant Job Description: Must enjoy late-night hot-tubbing, chain-smoking, binge dessert eating, drinking hard alcohol, mixing margaritas and driving large cars in a reckless manner.

Should be able to withstand frequent yelling and loud noises, unintelligible rantings, and handle firearms and exploding targets with ease.

Knowledge of soft porn a plus. Curiosity about the limits of sleep deprivation helpful. Knowledge of housecleaning and faxing imperative. Young and sexy recreational drug users encouraged to apply. But I could barely understand the mumble on the other end of the phone at 3AM as it was. The mumble told me to get my ass on a plane the next day.

The author of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was looking for an assistant to help out on his forthcoming novel, Polo Is My Life, and had received my letter and resume. Thompson, Playboy magazine, October I guess there are more compromising ways a year-old woman can end up in the pages of Playboy.

I had barely been in the company of Hunter 24 hours before I got us in trouble with the law. For any other job, this was grounds for dismissal, for this one, it was like gunning for a promotion.

Hunter, with his trademark Tilley hat, cigarette holder and sunglasses, greeted me himself at the Aspen, Colorado, airport, following a bumpy plane ride made worse by my fear of flying.

Other than a welcome lunch filled with an excess of Champagne and tequila, the man seemed downright normal. I was brought to his Woody Creek compound, a remote tract 8, feet above sea level, and I settled into a small cabin adjacent to the main house, which I would share with his longtime personal assistant, Deborah. I went to sleep wondering what the fuss was all about.

Day Two started out innocently as well, with breakfast at the famed Woody Creek Tavern, where groupies hang out hoping to catch a glimpse of the local hero. There was no sense of impending mayhem when we decided to go for a Sunday drive up the mountain. Then we packed the car. One bottle of Champagne, one. A picnic for a madman—and his new hire. Driving in the red convertible up the mountain, sampling the assembled feast, I could feel the mischief rising like a fever.

When we reached the top of the mountain and were met by a bunch of snowmobilers blocking the road, it never entered my mind that anything was wrong with taking the screecher gun and firing two times into the air. On the way back down the mountain, we set up exploding targets on the side of the road and I shot at one with the.

For me it was like losing my virginity to John Holmes. I had never even touched a real gun before, and between the kickback and the noise, I was hooked. By the time I noticed the sirens behind us, I was too messed up to fully understand what was happening—and almost totally deaf. When the cops asked for my ID, I just smiled and laughed. I just smiled and laughed. I had managed to piss off the cops, keep my mouth shut and not rat on anyone—in other words, do all the things a faithful assistant to the father of gonzo journalism is supposed to do.

And while I could easily have shoved off and gone back east, as most people would have, I was trying to figure out exactly who I was and what I wanted to do. And something told me that hanging around this man—this deranged man whose legendary tales I had devoured throughout my college years—would help me learn exactly that. Notes on Gonzo For the uninitiated: Loosely translated, to be gonzo is to embed yourself in a subject matter so thoroughly that you actually live it.

Thompson perfected this craft through a series of ground-breaking works: And although one of the great mistakes many writers make is thinking that everything that happens to them is interesting; in the case of Hunter S. In defining the generation of the sixties and seventies, he is in the company of John Lennon. As a writer, he rivalled Norman Mailer in both pure ego and utter eloquence. And as an addict and a madman, he put Keith Richards to shame. All this comes together in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, the book—and later film, with Johnny Depp as Hunter—that remains firmly at the center of what has become the Cult of Thompson.

A friend was working at Rolling Stone, and Hunter long after most of his reporting for the magazine was behind him, Thompson remained on the masthead, cloaked as his alter ego, Raoul Duke had informed the magazine he was looking for an assistant, preferably female.

I wrote a fairly unorthodox letter, and he rang me up two days later. Does he really do all of those drugs? This monumental intake is accompanied by a tall tumbler of scotch on the rocks, which is replenished with fresh ice and booze—constantly—from morning till night. What did you do there? This is a tough one to explain at a job interview.

I went, ostensibly, to help him work on his long-promised novel, Polo Is My Life. The project has been in the works for seemingly forever, and the lack of progress makes sense. Thompson writing a work of fiction is like Madonna trying to act. The writing that ensued eventually turned into Better Than Sex: Confessions of a Political Junkie. Did you have any, you know, shenanigans with him?

There was a fumbled kiss in the car on the day we almost were arrested, but the instant I rebuffed, he went out and got himself a girlfriend. I did not envy her. There were no rules and no routine, and the recipe for success was different every night. The general organizing principle: My job was akin to caging a wild animal and slowly cornering it into submission.

Obviously he was the mentor, but it was almost impossible to get him focused; I was the apprentice, yet it was I who was sometimes forced to bark orders. I was considered successful if pages were stacked up the next day, no matter what words landed on them. In effect, it was my job to usher in the environment that would make the magic happen.

The evenings went down like this: What I wanted to do: What he wanted to do: Jump into the hot tub with a whole key lime pie, a cell phone, a bottle of Champagne and Caligula on in the background. The Night Shift My stint slinging drinks had weaned me off the nine-to-five shift, but this was more like active vampirism.

When everything was working, the good nights were magic. As one would expect when dealing with a person of extremes, the bad nights with Hunter were like being chained to a bar where the bad drunk really wants to talk to you. I was once banished to my cabin at three in the morning to reread The Great Gatsby. I was once kicked out after failing to recall a portion of the end of his book Songs of the Doomed. I witnessed broken lamps, broken dishes. The latter was a Frisbee throw that just missed my head.

Evenings like this were a race to see who could be reduced to a quivering mess first. To leave would be to admit defeat.

But to stay was sure torture. Eventually I would leave and go back to my cabin next door. The morning would almost always bring a note of apology, or a phone call to the same effect.

He was a Southern gentleman at heart, and at least he could apologize like one. I was nervous, sleep deprived and so tired of everything being so BIG. Trips to the gardening center wound up as portable flower shows. Every jaunt to the liquor store was like buying for a wedding reception.

Lunch was like a damn buffet. I began to understand that tedium can occur under any circumstances; even the most extreme can turn dull with repetition. Additionally, I had too much ego for the position. Thompson always hires young women, and I think I figured out why. The job, ultimately, is to nurture. The insecurity and paranoia that are inevitable accessories to genius gave way to this giant ego. With the lot of us around him almost constantly—his personal assistant, his girlfriend, myself—there were no large egos to fight his.

At least that was the deal if you wanted to stay. But how long can you feed the dreams of others before you lose sight of you own?

I found I could do it for one long summer. Then it was time to go. Most jobs involve lunch out with your coworkers, perhaps a nice parting gift. But at this one, Hunter, his girlfriend and I caught a chartered plane to Denver.

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