Hey Rube

by Hunter S. Thompson

  Whoops. Strike that. Nobody was killed because of my episode, and the only obvious casualty was me. I was sliced up so grossly that I almost.…

  What? Get a grip on yourself, Doc! Remember your manners. We are, after all, dealing with longtime friends.… Calm down and tell us about Sunday night and the great victory.

  But first, let me tell you about this vision I had. Maybe it was all the blood. Who can know for sure about these things.

  USC doesn’t have the horses, but Carson Palmer deserves the Heisman Trophy. In my vision, Beano Cook is saying he “has no idea who will win the Heisman Trophy this year.”

  But I do.

  Try Carson Palmer from USC, who has a bitching arm and a nice habit of lulling a defense to sleep with normal stuff, and then breaking their backs with long weird strikes to the heart.… Sudden death: WHACK! Right down the middle—so fast that it catches you flat-footed, two steps behind and stupid.

  Indeed. We have all known that feeling from time to time—even Deion Sanders and Jerry Rice. There will always be somebody faster. But not many.… And just about everybody will be significantly slower. Always. Speed is a precious commodity in America.

  Carson Palmer, however, is not faster, and USC is nowhere near unbeaten—which is fatal for the Heisman, I suspect, so he is a very unlikely long shot in December.… Miami’s hot rod QB, Ken Dorsey, is truly impressive, and no doubt the favorite, but only as long as Miami keeps winning. Dorsey is fast, strong, and scary confident. He is a winner—just like I would be if I played QB behind that offensive line. That is what makes Miami so daunting. They have the horses.

  It would be nice to believe in a Miami–Notre Dame finale, but that is probably too much to ask for in these bleak and deadly times.

  There are too many bleeding X-factors running around, too many holes in the boat.… It makes me oddly nervous today about feeling happy in public. And I don’t feel any urge to be 22 years old again.

  By Sunday my nerves had gone all to pieces, along with my attitude, and I was sorely in need of a football orgy. The time had come to laugh out loud at something, anything, even a frenzy of subhuman violence like pro football. It was also time to gamble heavily and take long risks for no good reason at all. That is the nature of unacceptably rotten losing streaks.

  The first disaster was my own near-death experience with the bloodbath after my hand went through the window and the walls began turning red—a rich crimson as in arterial spurting from what appeared to be my palm.… It was more human blood than I had ever seen in my life.

  That includes more experience with public bleeding than your average bloodthirsty sports fan will ever conceive of, much less than I would admit—not because I feel guilty about anything, but because I have learned over time that most people simply don’t like blood. It is as simple as that.

  There may be a nice way to deal with too much blood all at once, but I’m damned if I know what it is.… There is vampirism, of course, but I don’t recommend it—or anything else that involves uncontrolled bleeding. It is one of those specialties that is best left to the handful of queasy specialists who do it professionally, like combat medics and blood bankers.

  Right. And so much for that ghoulish raving, eh? Many worse things happened last week. Washington, DC, was paralyzed by killer snipers who murdered nine or 10 innocent bystanders, Moscow was stunned by another mass slaying of hostages by Russian soldiers, and Sen. Paul Wellstone of Minnesota was killed in a disturbingly familiar plane crash that very nearly included Sen. Ted Kennedy of Massachusetts.

  But that is another story, eh? For another time, another place, like they say.… Yes, but you don’t always get that choice, in the real world. And Sen. Wellstone’s death hit the Rum Diary Crew especially hard. It would have ruined my weekend, even without the bloodbath.… And it utterly destroyed Josh Hartnett, age 21, who was on his way back to Minneapolis to personally campaign for Paul Wellstone when he heard the news of his death. It will be a nasty scar on his brain for the rest of his life.

  I know these things. My brain is covered with scar tissue. I was 22 when JFK was murdered, and I will never recover from it.… Never. And neither will Josh recover. Take my word for it. Those things are forever.

  —October 29, 2002

  My 49er Habit

  Some people called me a fool for betting the 49ers to beat Oakland last week, but they were wrong. It is true that I bleed 49er scarlet and gold on some days, but I am no longer ashamed of it like I was in the good old days when I was trapped in the nasty habit of betting on San Francisco every week like some kind of helpless junkie.

  That addiction is still with me to some extent, but it is no longer quite as painful as it was back then when I lived three blocks up the hill from Kezar Stadium.

  Freelance writers almost never make enough money to live on, much less ride exotic motorcycles and buy season tickets to 49er games. But I am here to tell you that it can be done—and done without ever resorting to shadowy gigs like pimping or selling drugs. There were times when I was sorely tempted, due to overweening poverty, but I have always believed that anybody with a personal lifestyle as flagrant as mine should have a spotless criminal record, if only for reasons of karma.

  I still believe that, and it has served me well and honorably over the years. Knock knock. And I still try to live by it.

  But it was not just karma that quasi-justified my spending habits in those wild and elegant years of the middle Sixties. No, there were good reasons.… My brand-new silver and red 650 BSA Lightning (the “fastest motorcycle ever tested by Hot Rod magazine”) was absolutely necessary to my work. Nobody will argue with that. It was the best investment I ever made.

  The 49er tickets, however, were a touch more difficult to explain. I was a professional sportswriter, even then, and I have been hopelessly addicted to NFL football ever since I watched the legendary Giants-Colts championship game in 1958—but that was not enough, at the time, to justify spending our rent money on my football habit.

  Perhaps there was no justification, but I did it anyway, because I had to. It was necessary to my mental health.… My comfortable apartment on Parnassus Hill looked out on the Bay and the Park and the Golden Gate Bridge—and, thusly, straight down on the wretched hulk of Kezar.

  Indeed, who could ask for anything more? … Ho ho. But we could only see half of the playing field. John Brodie would fade back and throw long to Dave Parks or Gene Washing-ton—and the goddamn ball would disappear in midflight behind the roof of a building. We could hear the roar of the crowd and the howls of despair that usually followed, but we never saw the end of the west-bound play. Never. And that was too painful to live with, too hard on my nerves. So I borrowed enough money from my lawyer to pay for a season ticket. (And thank you again, John Clancy, for the loan.) It was another good investment.

  But it took about 20 years to “mature,” as they say. It was not until Bill Walsh and Joe Montana came along that the worm turned, and after that came Steve Young and Jerry Rice, along with five Super Bowls, many victory celebrations, and the delicious habit of winning, which I highly recommend.

  And that—to make a long story short—is why I bet heavily on San Francisco to beat Oakland last week. The 3 points helped, but in truth I honestly believed, in the pit of my gambler’s heart, that the 49ers would Win, and that is why I bet on them.

  It was a vicious game, and by the time it was over I was ready to sic the Hell’s Angels on that flaky punk of an EP kicker. That swine. If the Raiders had won in OT, Al Davis would be ordering a new Mercedes 500SL to send Jose Cortez for Christmas.… The game was that important for Oakland, especially with the hated Denver Broncos coming up next.

  The spread should be about six for that one. And the Broncos are riding high.… But what the hell? I’ll take Oakland and six anyway. It will be life or death for the Raiders—and if it’s not snowing in Denver on Monday night, I suspect they will win.

  Probably not, but those six points are what this busi
ness is all about.… And so long for now, folks. I have to get to bed so I can go into town tomorrow and vote. That is another habit I recommend. It ain’t much, but it’s the only weapon we have against the Greedheads. Mahalo.

  —November 4, 2002

  Don’t Let This Happen to You

  There were some very weird football games on Sunday—amazing comebacks, stunning failures, and one stupefying tie in Atlanta that turned out to be my only win of the day. It was the ugliest thing I ever saw.… And ye gods, I have another game coming up within hours, and I fear it. Perhaps the time has come to give up gambling.

  What? No. That would be impossible. It would be like donating all my blood to a charity event. Without gambling, I would not exist.

  Right. And so much for psychomedical gibberish, eh? Let’s get back to the real reason for my degrading streak of dumbness that has brought me so low.… It was hashish, a vile and dangerous resin that can be ruinous or even fatal if it ever gets mixed up with significant gambling decisions.

  Indeed. I know this from profoundly negative experience. Even secondhand hashish smoke can tip your mental balance in painful ways.… This is what happened to me when I placed my Bets on Saturday. I was ripped to the teats on secondhand hashish smoke, and I made a fool of myself. I also lost so many greenback dollars that I was reduced to paying off with cardboard IOUs before the game even started.

  So what? you might say. It can happen to anybody, and it does. Disaster goes with the territory in this business. You just don’t want to make a habit of it.

  I have nobody to blame but myself, of course, and I have long preached that Dumbness deserves no sympathy—but in my heart I believe that what happened to me could happen to any one of us, at any time, so I guess the moral of this story is Don’t let this happen to you.

  Not all of my choices on that day were the direct result of my drug experience. A few were based on entirely logical assessments of the teams and the point spreads.… What kind of squandering jackass, for instance, would have risked real money on the giddy idea that the flaky Indianapolis Colts would beat the living snot out of the Philadelphia Eagles? It was so unlikely and so shocking that I would have been embarrassed to be seen betting on it in public.

  The final score was 35–13 for Peyton Manning and my man, Marvin Harrison, who ran wild on the vaunted Eagles’ defense. At the end of three quarters, the score was 28–6 and Donovan McNabb had piled up 199 yards of total offense. It was pitiful.

  Just then the phone rang: it was Warren Zevon, calling for advice on how to deal with Donald Rumsfeld, our Secretary of Defense. “He keeps calling me,” he said. “But he never says why. It’s giving me the creeps. I’m afraid to answer the phone.”

  “Don’t worry,” I told him. “I know Don. We were in the Nixon Wars together. I recognize his footprints. This is just another publicity stunt for his new image, as a closet rock & roll guy.”

  “That is bullshit,” he said. “He’s a cold-blooded monster. I used to date his daughter.” He chuckled. “That’s why he’s calling me. He wants revenge.”

  “You are right,” I said. “He heard you were dying, and he wants a piece of your ass before you go. He Wants to be known as your buddy.”

  “That swine!” Warren snapped. “I don’t have time for him now. I’m in the studio with Bob Dylan every day. Tell him I’ll see him in hell.”

  “Don’t get sentimental on me,” I said. “I just got wiped out on my football bets. I was humiliated. I lost everything!”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “How about them Rams? Was that a beautiful game, or not?”

  “Not.” I said. “I had the Chargers and three. Yes. I also had Miami plus two and a half. My own editor beat me like a gong. He keeps betting the Jets and the Giants, and they both keep covering.”

  “Why don’t you quit gambling?” he said. “You are turning into a loser.”

  I hung up on him and went back to analyzing the scores and the numbers, trying not to sink into a coma of grief and loss.… Why had Warren refused to let me tell my story about Princess Omin and my accidental dose of secondhand hashish smoke? And about why I lost all my bets? What was wrong with him? Nobody wanted to hear it. All they wanted to do was laugh at me. Hell, I never dated Donny Rumsfeld’s daughter. All I did was follow those tire tracks in the snow until they went straight off the cliff—so I stopped my Jeep to investigate.… Ah, but that is another story and we don’t have time for it now.

  —November 11, 2002

  Grantland Rice Haunts the Honolulu Marathon

  I was deeply engrossed in the Tampa–New Orleans game on Sunday night. They were locked in one of those “classic defensive struggles” that Grantland Rice used to write about—in the good old days, before he turned queer.

  That’s what the sportswriters said, anyway, but who knows? I knew Grant, from a chance meeting in my childhood, and he never seemed weird to me … but rather like some old and mysterious uncle who took his work so seriously that we rarely saw him, except for times like the Derby or the frantic week of the SEC basketball tournament, when Kentucky was riding high and I would see him out playing golf in Cherokee Park.

  We knew him as “Mr. Rice” in those days, and we knew that he did some kind of extremely important work that may or may not have had something to do with sports, but we never quite knew what it was—and because of that, we were vaguely afraid of him. Mr. Rice told good sports stories, and he had a friendly way of putting his hand on your shoulder or your arm when he talked to you—and he would stare right at you when he talked, so you had to pay close attention to everything he said.

  Indeed. There was something distinctly sinister about “Uncle Grant,” as he liked to be called, and I kind of liked him for it. He was suave, in a sentimental way that seemed to reek of heavy drama and dangerous, romantic adventures involving secret murder and violence and desperate foreign intrigues that would forever be unspoken, at least by him. He was far too professional to go around babbling and bragging about this secret life or what he really did for a living. We had no need to know, anyway. Hell, we were just a bunch of curious neighborhood kids who called themselves the dreaded Hawks A.C.

  We were powerful, back then. We controlled a vast territory that stretched from Cherokee Park all the way down to the Municipal Armory in downtown Louisville, only a few blocks from the river, and I think this is why Mr. Rice seemed to like us, and even respect us on some days.…

  He was extremely helpful, for instance, in getting some kind of official sanction that allowed us to do our own little shootaround drills at halftime and between games at the SEC tournament—on the court and using official game balls from the teams who were playing that day, or night: maybe Georgia vs. Alabama, maybe LSU vs. the mighty Kentucky Wildcats, who were riding very high in those days. We mingled with the players and retrieved loose balls that went into the crowd, we hung around the Press table with Uncle Grant and his friends, or sometimes we would climb the long narrow ladder up to the TV booth, far above and behind the feverish fans in the wooden seats below. We more or less had the run of the place, as they say, and we tried hard not to abuse our inexplicably privileged situation.

  Wow! Those really were the good old days, eh? That kind of behavior today, in 2002 America, would get you locked up by some quasi-legal Military Tribunal in a cage at Guantánamo Bay … and it was not that long ago, either: barely 20 years since the days when people could speak openly to each other without fear of the police and wander around freely, wherever they wanted to, as long as they weren’t hurting anyone else, when a nationwide panic like the one we have today was inconceivable, when some hideous bogeyman like “War on Terrorism” would have seemed more like a vengeful Communist Plot than like something that could ever happen in the good old USA.

  Whoops. I seem to be wandering here, so let us drag ourselves from those innocent days of yesteryear and confront the terrifying reality of NOW, today, in these grim years of the post-American century, to wit: I lost all my bets on
the once-proud Tampa Bay Buccaneers, along with five or six other games, and these dumbfounding losses plunged me into such a fit of melancholy that I almost canceled my trip to Hawaii this week for the 30th annual running of the weird and dangerous Honolulu Marathon, which will happen on this coming Sunday, December 8—exactly the same day as the final deadline for declaring War on Iraq and also the last day of existence for the debt-ridden hulk that was once United Airlines.… And all of these ominous developments, taken together, mean certain disaster for millions of people all over the world.

  That is when being stranded in Hawaii, with no money and no way to get off the islands for what may be the rest of your life, will look like paradise on earth, compared to what the rest of the world will be enduring. It will be like a series of horrible earthquakes with an epidemic of Dengue Fever occurring in slow motion all over the world in the same week. Not unlike the Book of Revelation, now that you mention it. When Hell erupts out of the earth and the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse ride everywhere, everywhere, with permanent flood tides of blood and filth and murder that will destroy our lives forever—

  Right, and so much for that, eh? You bet, so lighten up with your preaching, Doc. Just why have you decided to fly to a profoundly remote island in the central Pacific Ocean that is probably closer to North Korea than it is to Beverly Hills and which is guaranteed to be one of the most unhappy places in the world to be when the sun comes up over Waikiki Beach on Sunday morning? If you don’t get your legs blown off by an airport bomb, you will be taken into custody by military police and held for further questioning as a suspected terrorist sympathizer with no local address and no apparent reason or purpose or even a good excuse for being there at all.