So, my dear friends Karl and Angel decided that it was a crying shame that I’d never read Hunter S. Thompson. When this was discovered, Angel handed me her copies of “The Great Shark Hunt” and “The Rum Diaries”, then Karl slid me copies of “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72” and “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”.
I read the campaign trail book first, because I’d started reading it during one of the writer’s meetings that Karl and I now do every Saturday, but now that I’ve started Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I really wish I’d read it first. Fear and Loathing on the Campaign trail was kind of… well… dull. But when a book starts with the line “We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.” You know you’re at least in for some entertainment. So far, this book has been nothing if not a wild ride.
This explains a lot about Hunter S. Thompson’s funeral. I mean, I always knew the guy was a character, but until I read his books, I didn’t understand that whole having your ashes shot out of a cannon thing. Now I get it, and I’m endlessly amused by it.