Peter O. Whitmer, �When the Going Gets Weird: the Twisted Life and Times of Hunter S. Thompson�
What sets this apart from the other two biographies on Hunter Thompson (Fear and Loathing, by Paul Perry and Hunter, by E. Jean Carroll), is that Whitmer is willing to get into the head of Hunter, and how he�s bothered by the status of his own mythos.
It seems he gets tired of heckling frat boys who want to challenge him to drinking contests. He�s bored of the bravado that comes natural to him, but is expected of him, even if all he wants to do is nurse three bloody Mary's, five Heiniken�s, and a couple of grapefruit.
Sometimes it�s hard to be an icon.
Nobody knows this more than myself. It�s always been weird for me, being in a dimly lit dive bar and having some stranger come up and say my name as they reach out to shake my hand. Eighty percent of the time, I have no fucking idea who it is and these people always seem to want me to play some guessing game to figure out who they are, rather than just telling me.
I never win at these games. Most people don�t know how blind I actually am, and I didn�t get contacts or glasses until about six years ago. So it�s not that I don�t remember the time you stayed at my house and puked underneath my pool table while my pig was trying to have sex with your head, it�s just that I couldn�t see your face clearly. Now that I can, you look different.
I don�t, however. I�ve seen pictures from 1986, and I look pretty much the same as I do now. I suppose that�s why I�m so easy to remember.
Worse are the ones who remember me from one of my bands. I played drums, people! I was behind a mountain of overpriced people in a smoky, sweaty club, and I couldn�t see past the crash cymbal. Why are you paying attention to the drummer, anyway? I play drums, and I don�t watch the drummer! Or if I do it�s to watch their hands and silently fume about how they�re better than I am, trying to put the Def Leppard curse on them. Drummers make horrible faces as they play, and it�s not pretty to watch.
So, this high recognition factor and the entire idea of being a San Jose Punk Rock Icon would be fun if there was anything to it. But there really isn�t.
�Hey,� they say amongst themselves, �That guy was in those bands a while back.�
�Oh yeah! The dude with the devillock!�
I hear the magic Misfits word of the week and look up. They do the universal head nod. I nod back. End of icon acknowledgement.
Last night, Arlette and myself were tooling around on a quest for goofy sugary flavored coffee concoctions from 7-11�s up and down Winchester Blvd. At our third stop, we scored � something with bananas and latte in the title. We loaded up and were driving back to her place when she saw a truck with homemade wings painted on the side. She shrieked for us to stop and we went back so we could get photographs of the mobile monstrosity.
As she was snapping photos the owner of the truck came out; a short, older woman whose face looked like it needed to be re-inflated. She was amicable, even friendly, explaining that since she hand painted the truck with a roller to a light purple color, the gangster tagging war raging on her cab compartment had stopped.
Arlette asked the woman to pose with the truck. She stood underneath the wingspan, then squinted hard to get a look at me, making even more wrinkles appear around her eyes.
�What�s your name?� she asked me.
�Dean.�
�No, that�s not it. Well, maybe � did you know a guy named Mike Howser?�
Oh, jesus.
�Yeah, I thought that was you. I helped make a movie about twenty years ago, and you were in it. You were in your room talking about your band and the whole punk rock code of ethics thing.�
Oh, fucking jesus.
�Yeah! Wow, you look the same! You even have the same hair sticking in your face, except it was longer then. Black too.�
For the record, that film was from about 16 years ago, not twenty. But oh, jesus.
I have an appointment with my friend at a salon this afternoon. Anonymity sounds good to me right about now.
