While living in Desert Hot Springs, I’ve had two collectiions published, without leaving home. Also, two comedy albums have been released, though to prepare for those I’ve gone on tour, performing in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland, Seattle and New York. (Palm Springs has the only airport in the country with a putting green, but it’s now closed for security reasons because golf clubs can be used as weapons.) The protagonist in my novel is a controversial comic, and in those segments where he’s onstage, he performs what I’ve developed onstage. I’m just schizophrenic enough to resent this nonexistent comedian for stealing my material.
Nancy advised me not to mention how much I missed living in Venice, but in the very process of writing about Desert Hot Springs, I realize that I’ve somehow become attached to living here. I remember sitting in the passenger seat of a car being driven by a photographer for 111 magazine, named after the highway which runs through all the desert cities except Desert Hot Springs. I had rented that devil’s costume again and I was wearing it for a photo shoot. At a red light, a van from a Christian church pulled up alongside us, and I waved at the driver. The light turned green, and we continued on our way. The church van caught up to us, and now the driver held up a Bible, while the kids in the back of the van were laughing and waving to me. It was a unique and precious moment, worthy of being preserved in amber for posterity.
BLOWING DEADLINES WITH HUNTER THOMPSON
High Times founder Tom Forcade and gonzo journalist Hunter Thompson were both dedicated dopers and enthusiastic adventurers. One time, Forcade phoned me on behalf of Thompson to invite me on board a rented yacht from which he wanted to cover the America’s Cup yacht race in Rhode Island. I had to turn down the invitation because I was in the middle of preparing an issue of The Realist.
Forcade called again, and said, “Hunter is really pissed.”
“Well, tell him just because he doesn’t believe in deadlines, I still do.”
I first met Hunter in 1965 on the Berkeley campus at a Vietnam Day Teach-In which I emceed. When his first book, Hells Angels, was published in 1967, I assigned him to write a behind-the-scenes article about his promotional tour. He was having financial problems, so I paid him $200 in advance. Later, I had to extend his deadline, and I offered to send him some LSD if it would help.
“Good,” he wrote back. “I’ve blown every deadline I’ve had for the past two months. All at once I got evicted, my wife went into a lingering two-month miscarriage and my lawyer came out from San Francisco and flipped out so badly that two sheriff ’s deputies took him one Saturday night 200 miles across mountains to the state loony bin. . . . As for acid, thanks but I’m suddenly OK.”
Soon after, another letter arrived, asking, “Can I get any leeway on the July 1 delivery date? . . . In the meantime, you can send me some acid to help me level out. And I’ll send you a dozen just-born marijuana weeds. You can plant them in Central Park.”
As it turned out, he bungled his book tour by appearing as either a blathering drunk or an insane mumbler. He walked off his first TV show when the interviewer said, “Tell me, Hunter, what do you think of the Hells Angels?” Who could blame him?
But at least he was honorable with me. In October, he wrote, “There’s no avoiding the fact that I blew this one completely. I’m sending you $200 of the $1,900 I now show as book-profit on the hardcover edition. . . . With [Lyndon] Johnson as president, I feel on the verge of a serious freakout but if I ever get over that hump I’ll write a good article for you. In the meantime, we’re at least even on the money. This check is good. I’ve sworn off money articles a/o December, so maybe I’ll level it out then. If not, I might run for the Senate or send off for a Carcano [the rifle ostensibly used to kill President Kennedy].”
Instead, 38 years later, Hunter pointed a handgun at himself.
San Francisco Chronicle editor Phil Bronstein had wanted him to cover the O.J. Simpson trial for the San Francisco Examiner which he then edited. He told me, “I thought Hunter would be the perfect person to write about the trial.” They met at a waterfront restaurant. “Hunter’s face was all banged up,” Bronstein recalled. “He claimed he had gone night-diving and scraped his face on a rock. The waiter had some glandular problem, causing his eyes to bug out, but Hunter accused him of staring. Then he started telling me about these rumors he heard from friends in the L.A. coroner’s office about nasty activities with dead bodies, including the infamous bodies involved in the Simpson case. Teeth marks on the butt and things like that. He said that he would cover the trial if we put him up at the Chateau Marmont in a suite with three satellite dishes, four fax machines and several assistants.”
That particular assigment was withdrawn because Hunter was such a flaky prima donna.
When Lee Quarnstrom was executive editor at Hustler, he wanted to interview Thompson. “Hunter wanted $5,000 for the interview,” he told me. “He said, ‘Get Larry Flynt to kick in some of his money.’ I said, ‘Well, we don’t pay for Q&As.’ So he called me back and he said, ‘OK, I’ll do the interview for nothing, if Hustler will fly us both to Bora Bora and you can conduct the interview on a veranda as we sip mai-tais and watch the sun set into the Pacific.’”
And Art Kunkin, publisher of the L.A. Free Press, told me, “Hunter wanted me to put him up at the Chateau Marmont, and I wouldn’t do it, and he threatened to kill me. He was pissed at me for not having the kind of budget to do that.”
In 1970, I assigned three stoners who were running for sheriff—Stew Albert in Berkeley; George Kimball in Lawrence, Kansas; and Hunter Thompson in Aspen, Colorado—to write about their experiences and observations during those election campaigns. Albert and Kimball came through, but I kept hearing nothing from Thompson. I sent him a follow-up note, and he finally replied: “Yeah, your letter got thru & found me in the middle of writing almost exactly the piece you asked for—but I’ve already agreed to give it to Rolling Stone. [Jann] Wenner asked about a month ago. . . .”
As a writer, I could understand. As an editor, I was frustrated. Like other editors, though, I was willing to tolerate Hunter’s irresponsbility in the hope of presenting his talent.
Several years ago, at a memorial for Allen Ginsberg, Hunter was supposed to make an appearance but he didn’t show up; Johnny Depp, who played him in the movie version of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, did. I told the audience I was disappointed because I was hoping to present Depp, Thompson and Bill Murray (who played him in Where the Buffalo Roam) all together, and then I would say, “Will the real Hunter Thompson please fall down.”
POSTSCRIPT: THE MEDIA MORTUARY
There are, of course, conspiracy theories that Hunter Thompson was actually murdered, just as there had been about another friend who also committed suicide, Abbie Hoffman. A week after Abbie’s death, the autopsy report was released, and his picture was on the left side of the front page of the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner. On the right side was a photo of Lucille Ball, who was about to undergo serious surgery.
That evening, I had dinner at a Hollywood restaurant with Steve Allen. CNN’s entertainment reporter had made an appointment to meet Steve at the restaurant, and he interviewed him outside—twice—once for if Lucille Ball survived the operation, and once for if she didn’t. Although I could understand the practicality of such foresight, I was somehow offended by it.
Sure enough, the next day, there was Steve Allen on CNN, standing outside the restaurant and saying, “We all hope Lucy will pull through. There have been many success stories in the history of television, and yet the affection that millions of Americans hold for Lucille Ball is unique.” A week later she died, and sure enough, there was Steve Allen on CNN again, standing outside the restaurant and saying, “Lucy will be greatly missed. There have been many success stories. . . .” Then George Burns came on and said, “I had a lot of fun with Lucy,” but I couldn’t tell whether he had taped that before or after she was dead.
I learned of Hunter’s death when a reporter for Associated Press
phoned to ask what my reaction was. As he would write: “‘I’m stunned,’ said Krassner, who was nearly speechless for several minutes after hearing the news. ‘It’s hard to believe I’m referring to him in the past tense.’”
Bear in mind that this was on a Sunday evening in the middle of a three-day Presidents Day holiday weekend. I don’t know who else or how many others that reporter called before or after me, but apparently I was the only one who happened to be accessible at the time. As a result, after the AP report was dispatched, I was deluged with interview requests from print, radio and TV correspondents. Each time I found myself uttering some new observation, if only to keep myself from getting jaded.
During one call, I said, “Hunter was larger than life, sort of like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float.” On the next call, I added, “Except that it was filled with nitrous oxide.”
Among the interviews was NPR’s All Things Considered. After it was broadcast, I learned that I was considered “big enough now” to merit the preparation of an advance obituary for NPR. I don’t take it personally. This is a purely pragmatic process. I’ll be right up there with Charlie Manson, who is certainly a high achiever in his own field of endeavor. My personal definition of success is simply trying to do the appropriate thing every moment. As Ken Kesey once told me, “My energy is what I do. My image is what other people think I do.”
My friend, radio journalist Jon Kalish, was given the assignment to put me “in the can.” He is allowing me the rare opportunity of fact-checking my own obituary. I asked him if it would be possible to include my Web site.
GEEZERSTOCK
When I was a kid—this was before television—the radio was my best friend. Lionel Barrymore—brother of fellow actors John and Ethel, granduncle of Drew—was confined to a wheelchair and played the crippled Dr. Gillespie in the original Dr. Kildare movies. He also had a radio program where he would spout maxims and dispense homilies. In his authoritative, quavering voice, he once said, “Happiness is not a station you’ll arrive at, it’s the train you’re traveling on.” That single sentence immediately became my entire philosophy of life.
A few decades later, I would read in Hollywood Is Four-Letter Town by James Bacon: “Lionel Barrymore once told me, as he sat in his wheelchair crippled with arthritis, that he would have killed himself long ago if it hadn’t been for [film producer] Louis B. Mayer: ‘L.B. gets me $400 worth of cocaine a day to ease my pain. I don’t know where he gets it. And I don’t care. But I bless him every time it puts me to sleep.’” So happiness wasn’t a radio station you’d arrive at, it was the wheelchair you were traveling on, and for Lionel Barrymore it must have been an express trip all the way.
I remember publishing The Realist (when People labeled me “father of the underground press,” I immediately demanded a paternity test). I remember celebrating the Summer of Love in 1967. I remember naming and co-founding the Yippies (Youth International Party) and going to the Democratic National Convention in Chicago in 1968 to protest the Vietnam war. I remember the Woodstock Festival in 1969—the music, the mud, the sense of community, the bare breasts, the warning not to ingest the brown acid.
Suddenly I’m 72 years old. I must have been in deep denial since years before I had automatically been accepted into the league of senior citizens, except in Portland, Oregon, where they refer to us as “honored” citizens. Whatever title gets me on the bus and into the movies cheaper is fine with me.
I’ve noticed that the network news shows seem to be aimed at middle-aged and elderly viewers. They are all sponsored by prescription drugs promising to prevent erectile dysfunction. The Viagra commercial—with background music by Queen singing “We Are the Champions”—features men dancing in the streets, ecstatic at the prospect of asking their doctors if a free sample is right for them. Personally, I don’t have any problem getting a hard-on, but I’ve begun to worry that it’s really rigor mortis settng in, on the installment plan.
Although any part of my body can attack me without warning, for no reason at all (okay, maybe revenge), I’m in pretty good shape for my age, except for an awkward, twisted gait due to a police beating—in 1979, while covering the trial of ex-cop Dan White for the murder of San Francisco Mayor George Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk—when I got caught in the post-verdict riot, and my injuries were exacerbated by hereditary arthritis. I went to a New Age healer who wondered if a brace might help. She placed one hand on my hip and with the other she held the hand of her receptionist.
“Yes,” uttered the receptionist.
“Yes,” repeated the New Age healer.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” I interjected, “but would you mind if I look for a second opinion . . . maybe from another receptionist?”
My friends have grown older, and the musicians we listened to in the sixties have grown older along with us. I imagine myself emceeing the Geezerstock Festival, standing on an outdoor stage, looking out at a vast audience of grey-haired hippies with paunches and granny glasses, as I speak in a slow, shaky voice.
“Are you having fun? . . . I can’t hear you! . . . No, I mean I really can’t hear you! . . . I have an announcement. The Port-o-Potties that are painted green should be used only by those who have to pee at least once an hour. The Port-o-Potties that are painted red should be used only by those who have to pee less than once an hour. . . . It’s now my pleasure to introduce the Rolling Stones. They’ve been very busy, gathering moss. Here comes Mick Jagger with the aid of a walker. And Keith Richards is being carried out on a gurney. . . . Oh, wait, I’ve just been handed another announcement: Warning—do not take the brown antacid. . . .”
Two years ago, I wrote a piece for the AARP magazine, Modern Maturity. When my subscription copy arrived—the issue that my article was supposed to be in—it wasn’t in there. I checked with an editor, who asked how old I was. I told her that I was 70, but I didn’t understand what difference that made. She explained that there were three editions: one for readers 50 and over, one for readers 60 and over, and one for readers 70 and older. I was too old to read my own article.
My dentist, in his early 50s, had a copy in his waiting room. I felt like I was cheating as I leafed through the pages, but it did include my article. There was a time when I was considered too young to read certain things, and now I’m considered too old to read certain things. Apparently something must’ve happened to me in between. Like, say, my life? But, as Lionel Barrymore once said on the radio, “When you stop growing old, you’re dead.”
I still write columns and articles, I still perform stand-up satire—my 6th album has been released—and I’m finally working on my long awaited (by me) first novel, about a contemporary comedian inspired by my friendship and association with Lenny Bruce. I keep wondering what he would be saying in these insane times.
In 1964, Lenny was unable to get work because he had been arrested so many times that night clubs were afraid they’d lose their liquor licenses. Lenny’s work was his life, so, with his permission, I wrote an obituary—this was two years before he actually died—and that became the excuse when, without my permission, a short-lived magazine, Cheetah, published a fake obituary of me. Associated Press called, and I explained that it was a hoax.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course,” I replied. “I’d tell you if I was dead.”
On WBAI radio in New York, Bob Fass was taking phone calls on his midnight free-form show, Radio Unnameable. Listeners were discussing whether that obit was legit. Then someone called and said, “You know, I didn’t even know that Paul Krassner was alive until I heard that he was dead.”
And, at that precise moment, my sense of false humility was finally restored.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PAUL KRASSNER is the only person in the world ever to win awards from both Playboy (for satire) and the Feminist Party Media Workshop (for journalism). He was inducted into the Counterculture Hall of Fame at the Cannabis Cup in Amsterdam, received an ACLU Uppie (Upton Sinclair
) Award for dedication to freedom of expression, and was described by the FBI as “a raving, unconfined nut.” Krassner takes none of this personally.
OTHER BOOKS BY PAUL KRASSNER
How a Satirical Editor Became a Yippie Conspirator in Ten Easy Years
Tales of Tongue Fu
Best of The Realist [Editor]
Confessions of a Raving, Unconfined Nut: Misadventures in the Counter-Culture
The Winner of the Slow Bicycle Race: The Satirical Writings of Paul Krassner
Impolite Interviews
Sex, Drugs and the Twinkie Murders: 40 Years of Countercultural Journalism
Pot Stories For the Soul [Editor]
Psychedelic Trips For the Mind [Editor]
Magic Mushrooms and Other Highs: From Toad Slime to Ecstasy [Editor]
Murder At the Conspiracy Convention and Other American Absurdities
Copyright © 2005 by Paul Krassner
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including mechanical, electric, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All the pieces in this book were originally published in High Times, the New York Press and AVN Online, except for the following: “Humor as a Spiritual Path” was published in Wild Heart Journal. “In Praise of Offensive Cartoons” was published in The Education of a Comics Artist. “Bite Your Tongue,” “Nonpartisan Harassment,” “Grammys, Shrammys” and “Media Mortuary” were published in the L.A. Weekly. “Bizarre Sexually Oriented Spam Subject Lines” was published in Book of Lists. “Marijuana vs. Cigarettes” was published in Under the Influence. “Harry Shearer Still Hears Voices” was published in Funny Times. “Occult Jeopardy,” “Jews in the News” and “The Devil in the Desert” were published in the Los Angeles Times. “The Rise of Sirhan Sirhan in the Scientology Hierarchy” was published in Abuse Your Illusions. “Kerik’s Nanny” and “Geezerstock” were published in The Nation.
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