The Monkey King's Used Primate Emporium and Book Reviews

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Brian De Palma and Campbell Black, �Dressed to Kill�

Started January 17 � Finished January 18, 2005; 187 pages. Posted 22 February 2005

I had things to talk about.

After some gentle nudging from Luva, I learned how to make a banner advertisement for this site. The ad was a huge success in terms of people who clicked over to see what it was about, scoring numbers that the host site deems �uncommonly high.� But these new viewers came to the site during that last entry, which was long and you only have a short amount of time to hook these short-attention span voyeurs.

So I was going to keep this entry rather short; a tale about a man named Klugarsh, a band called Victim�s Family, and a little film called Phantom of the Paradise.

And then Hunter pulled a Hemingway.

Goddamnit.

So I just got off work. I purchased a pack of Dunhills, a bottle of Wild Turkey, and a 12 pack of Heineken. Hell, I even bought a couple of grapefruit. So here we go.

I�m not going to go into details about his life, what his writing meant to me, and how it�s shaped my life. That�ll be on a million other Web sites. Besides, I�ve already talked about all of these things before on this very site. If you�re feeling nostalgic, you can check here, or here, or here, or here, or here.

I�ll say this though, when Ronald Reagan died, I got a call at the bookstore from the local paper. The reporter wanted to know if we had an upsurge in sales of Reagan-related material. The local paper and I haven�t been on the best of terms ever since one of their reporters asked me for a copy of one of my news stories, reprinted it with her name at the top, and my name completely removed.

I answered every question about Reagan and our store with the magic phrase � �This is off the record, not for publication,� and then gave her some of the best quotes she had heard until she was practically begging me to go on the record.

One of those quotes that she couldn�t use was about how we didn�t agree with the practice of trying to pump profits out of the loss of human life. �But,� I explained after repeating the Off the Record phrase, �there have been times when we�ve made tribute displays. For instance, I made a huge display for Douglas Adams when he passed away. But I like Douglas Adams.�

�Oh, you have to let me use that!� The reporter said.

I didn�t.

Today, I built another tribute display.

It�s odd � I found out about Hunter�s death less than an hour and a half after the AP story was filed. When it happened, I went into reporter mode, checking out different stories, reading his last column for ESPN on Feb. 17, analyzing what had been said, and, more importantly, what wasn�t being said. But after working all day, seeing Hunter�s face staring at me with an American flag draped over his shoulders, I�m surprised with how sad I am about this.

I pulled out a copy of Songs of the Doomed and re-read �Bad Craziness in Palm Beach.� The spine on my copy is broken at the beginning of this story, as I�ve read this particular piece over the years dozens of times. It still stands as one of the best things I have ever read, fiction or non-fiction.

A final note on death. When I found out about the murder of Mia Zapata from the Gits, I was at home, on the phone with somebody while playing pool in my apartment. Each pocket on the table had a band sticker next to it, and this was how we called our shots. �Nine ball in the Supersuckers pocket.� �Two ball, off the four, into Your Mother.� While I was having a conversation on the phone, I called my shot to my partner, saying �Eight ball in the Gits.�

The person on the phone told me the police had found her body early that morning.

When I was moving into a new place, I had the same CD in my car for about two weeks straight. After finally unpacking everything, I grabbed a Hickey CD and went to work. Thirty minutes later, I found out that the singer, Matty Luv, had killed himself.

Sunday morning, about ten hours before Hunter squeezed the trigger, I was feeling confident in what I could read before starting work and put two books in my bag. The second book was a biography on Hunter�s longtime friend and attorney, Oscar Zeta Acosta.

I don�t subscribe to any metaphysical properties or theories about the interconnectivity of all things. But I�ve put a George W. Bush book in my bag, and I�m carrying it with me wherever I go.

You know, just in case.

Finally, I�m including the review I did for the film version of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I was on the staff for the De Anza paper at this time. I may like Hunter�s writing, but I know better than to try and bite off his style, unlike so many other collegiate journalistic scribblers. The majority of my pieces were serious investigative stories, and so I jumped at the chance to be able to write a genuine homage.

At the time, our adviser was getting ready to retire from the paper and was in the midst of training a new person. A debate erupted over my piece.

�I don�t know if we should have our paper,� he said, �which is supposed to represent the student body of this campus, run an article about you drinking in public and beating a small child in the head with metal canisters.� He turned to the incoming faculty member and asked what she thought.

�I thought it was funny,� she said. It ran, albeit with an editor�s note saying they were sure that I was just kidding. Hopefully.

Yeah, we got along just fine. Anyway, here�s the piece, with minor edits.

---

During his presidency in the early 90s, George Bush stated that he never wanted to see another film glamorizing the use of drugs. His influence worked for awhile, but the Company Man is now probably skinpopping thorazine with the wave of drug friendly movies that emerged since he left office.

Drugstore Cowboy, Trainspotting, Killing Zoe, Pulp Fiction, and throwback pot flicks reminiscent of the Cheech and Chong era such as Dazed and Confused and Half Baked have shown that The Drug Menace is no longer the Bogeyman, and is instead now the drug of choice.

What better way to celebrate its return than a full-blown film adaptation of the 1971 drug-fueled book, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, written by the Doctor of Gonzo journalism, Hunter S. Thompson?

Thompson�s book of excesses and general mayhem probably caused more people to become interested in journalism than Woodward and Bernstein, though few will admit it now. I know it inspired me. Who wouldn�t want to go on assignment with a head full of hallucinogens and a gut full of whiskey, Barcardi and beer?

Thousands of college hacks peppered their pieces with the catchphrase �Fear and Loathing,� ignoring the more poignant gems like �Ye Gods,� �How long, O Lord, how long?� and the all encompassing battle cry of �Swine!� I myself briefly considered getting the �Gonzo� trademark tattooed on my body, involving a sword topped with a two-thumbed fist clutching a peyote button. While plotting out my body art, I remembered that my soul was impure, and decided to replace the peyote with a beer bottle.

But I digress. I should be telling you, the reader, about the film version.

While I have sworn never to use the �F&L� term in my own writing, I must say I had both of these emotions when I first heard about the impending movie.

Both of these were quelled when I learned about the numerous eccentrics involved. Directed by Terry Gilliam (Brazil, The Fisher King), adapted to the screen in part by Alex Cox (Repo Man, Sid and Nancy), and starring Johnny Depp, an actor at his best playing off-kilter characters in films like Ed Wood and Edward Scissorhands, Fear and Loathing is a dream for lovers of the book such as myself.

It is also, however, a nightmare for everyone else.

The film begins as Raoul Duke (Thompson�s alter ego, played by Depp), and his faithful attorney, Dr. Gonzo, played by Benicio Del Toro (The Usual Suspects) drive along the highway toward Las Vegas to cover the Mint 400 motorcycle race. Along for the ride are a virtual shopping list of alcohol and narcotics involving everything from grass to mescaline to ether.

It�s these first 30 minutes that are the ultimate kick for Hunter fans. One can almost read the book along with the dialogue. For those who have the book memorized, the task is much easier as this is a dark film.

Others not familiar with the Thompson mythos became confused early on. Couples attending the opening night screening murmured amongst themselves, wondering where the love interest was. Teenage girls wept openly in the aisles seeing Johnny Depp with bad teeth and a receding hairline. Film geeks shouted the names of certain camera angles, but stopped when I jabbed my elbow into the base of their skulls.

After an encounter with some hallucinogenic bats and a more frightening hitchhiker, Duke and Gonzo arrive in Vegas, right about the time the LSD kicks in. The visuals used at this point are the most realistic portrayal of a person doped out of their head ever shown on screen.

Not that I would know how that would look.

No, to hell with that, I knew exactly what there were trying to deliver, and they succeeded with flying colors, ho ho. I was so impressed with their delivery that our merry band of viewers decided it was time to join Hunter for the ride.

Breaking out a case of nitrous, we attached the balloon to the �cracker� � a small handheld cartridge when turned clockwise, breaks the seal, and then releases the beastly gas into a balloon when turned the opposite direction. This would have been helpful to know beforehand, but one can�t expect to know everything.

While fumbling with the equipment in the dark, a small child, no older than four years old, set his eyes upon the balloon. Being the greedy little bastards that children are, the child decided that it was a toy and made a grab for it.

What kind of degenerate monkey parents bring a four-year-old to a 10 P.M. showing of one of the most depraved stories ever told? After beating the child into submission with the full box of metal canisters, I set back upon my arduous task, wrapping the balloon around the mouth of the cracker.

I filled the balloon with the ghastly substance, passing it to the left. Turning the plastic holder counter-clockwise, the gas shot directly into my hand, effectively freezing my fingers.

�Holy Christ!� I yelled, waving my digits frantically in the air. One courageous soul behind me told me to be quiet and was rewarded for his bravery with a metal canister thrown directly into his left eye. He leapt out of his seat, blood spraying over the other patrons. The Aisle Nazis forcefully dragged him out the side exit, beating him about the head and arms with what looked like metal truncheons as he fled.

Again, I digress. I sunk lower in my seat, as the theater enforcers panned their spotlights over the crowd looking for troublemakers, thirsty for more blood.

The balloon was passed back to me and I worked on refilling it as I admired how closely the film matched the book.

After having some of my favorite books turned into unwatchable filth in the hands of the Hollywood scum-set, I was ready to bust heads if they defiled this one. Jim Carroll�s The Basketball Diaries was turned into a cautionary tale against drugs by the moral guardians. Mother Night was a nice attempt, but any sane person knows that no one can properly bring Vonnegut�s mind and images to the silver screen. There were attempts to bring Hunter�s work to the screen before in the watered-down Bill Murray vehicle Where the Buffalo Roam, a film that even Hunter didn�t like. So it was satisfying to see an honest effort to stick to the original material, even at the expense of alienating over half of the audience.

Not satisfying, however, was the nitrous, which had become more and more difficult to fill. The beastchild next to me regained consciousness and made another grab and my brightly colored balloon. We both pulled at opposite ends, trying to claim ownership when the fabric ripped, rendering the balloon useless. I let go of my end, making it snap against the little cretin�s head.

As he started wailing the Aisle Nazi�s shined their lights toward us, causing the parents to break into a run, leaving the filthy brat behind. One of the security team picked the child up by the scruff of the neck with metal tongs, heading for the exit.

Our collection of nitrous now useless, we moved on to the thermos of �Strip and Go Naked� � a demon concoction which, despite the pleasant-sounding name, usually results in numerous fights and general mayhem.

�Strip and Go Naked�
  • 1.75 liters of Vodka
  • Three cans of pink lemonade (no water)
  • Six cans of cheap beer.
  • As I poured the foul stuff into tiny cups, passing them to my comrades, two waif-like kids entered, bored from watching the remake of a computer lizard crushing plastic cities.

    �What the hell is going on?� one of them asked mouth agape as he stared at the screen.

    �It�s your future,� I told him. �Now sit down and shut up.�

    The kid took a seat and grabbed a cup, downing it immediately, beady rat-like eyes transfixed on the images unfolding before us.

    And there is reason to be transfixed. Depp does an excellent job with his character, eyes wild behind yellow tinted aviator glasses, cigarette jammed into a hold and constantly gripped between his teeth. Del Toro is less impressive, essentially reduced to a vomiting gas bag. And Gilliam has already proven to be a master of showing paranoid carnage and over-the-top visuals.

    The kid motioned for a refill, whispering that the film didn�t make sense to him. I explained patiently that people who didn�t appreciate the book for what it was � pure excess and debauchery � couldn�t possibly handle what was now playing for thousands around the world. He nodded his head, slowly understanding. I smiled smugly just before whacking him in the head with the thermos.

    �You should read more instead of hanging around in movie houses,� I said. �Who do you think you are, Jim Carroll?�

    But the little creep was right in a way. The film is not without faults. It sticks too closely to sections of the book, jumping to a large section taken almost word for word, and then leaping to the next adventure. It soon becomes disjointed because of these leaps, which leads to its downfall.

    Some of Thompson�s work is impossible to convey on screen. This realization becomes prevalent when they reach the Circus Circus casino (renamed due to legal problems) with acrobats and cheap attempts of what should be wolverines flying directly over thousands of gamblers heads, none of whom could care less. The Savage Lucy character in particular is portrayed as demure rather than terrifying with teeth like baseballs and eyes like jellied fire. And Gary Busey�s roadside adlibbing was not appreciated.

    I was about to admit this to the kid next to me, but a light shone in my eyes. The Aisle Enforcers had found me. The gig was up; I was doomed. I looked frantically for an escape route, but they had blocked off all the exits. They approached slowly, swinging their batons slowly through the still air, a look of pure malevolence on their faces. They were going to enjoy what was to happen next.

    I leapt from my seat, swinging my thermos at the fat employee�s head in front of me. The plastic shattered against his skull as I dove headlong into the pigs, swinging wildly. I could smell the blood as I bit into the artery of one of the guards.

    Oh, they beat me, those bastards. They beat me down.


    Rating: You�re not off the hook, Klugarsh. Be warned.

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