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archived: 27 Feb - 5 Mar, 2005 Back Next Updated: March 1, 2004 THE BUDDHA OF OWL FARM They bore a striking physical resemblance to one another. The facial features were limpid, facile and smoothly devoid of the crags, crevasses and craters inscribed on the faces of beatific people who lived on a constant cocktail of stress, motion, travel, deadlines and psychological combat. Hunter S. Thompson and the Dalai Lama were nearly portrait perfect facsimiles of one another. In parallel lives, both men dedicated themselves to the spiritual uplift and the political liberation of poor and downtrodden peoples. The Dalai Lama is the world’s most gracious embodiment of compassion, serenity and beatitude. Hunter S. Thompson was the world’s most outrageously outspoken champion for the rights of the under-classes. A veteran political and cultural journalist, Thompson steadfastly supported the Democratic presidential nominees throughout his career as one of the world’s most highly acclaimed journalists and authors. While there are many articulate and eloquent exponents of progressive politics from the suavely skewering tones of Gore Vidal to the elegant phraseologies of Arthur Schlesinger,Jr.; Hunter S. Thompson’s prose was explosive, electric and the closest equivalent to verbal dynamite in world literature. He was a writer’s writer, a writer par excellence. Inspired by the twin towers of American literature, Melville’s Moby Dick and Kerouac’s On the Road, Thompson reeled off one of the greatest books of the twentieth century. In 1971, I lived in Charlotte, North Carolina, where I worked for the peace movement, civil rights and progressive political candidates. A devoted reader of Rolling Stone, which kept me informed of the latest developments in the then-fertile American music scene, I came across the work of Hunter S. Thompson. His magnum opus was published in two consecutive issues of the Stone. Thompson’s mammoth genius poured out onto the American landscape and flooded the consciousness of a generation of American progressives. No other book had the sheer, sweeping psychological impact on the sixties generation of Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream. Accompanied by his favourite partner in crime, (his attorney) Thompson lurched onto the American stage as its undisputed master of literary and political ultra-violence. The account of his drug-fuelled odyssey from Los Angeles to Las Vegas records the evidence of the world’s longest and most depraved yet utterly hilarious nightmare as he reeled through the gates and turnstiles of ultimate despair and passed by the dead ends of what was undeniably a savage journey that ripped its imagery into the collective brain of a generation already in open rebellion against every form of parental authority. Thompson’s epic quest for the soul of America became a nightmarish fantasy that reduced people to circus performers exploiting the suckers who drank booze in the seedy bars lining the strip in Las Vegas. Like a starburst, a nova express out of control, Thompson’s literary apocalypse exploded the myth of American superiority and imbued a sense of duty to truth and justice in all of us who realized that we owed the world an immense debt of gratitude for tolerating our culture that was drenched in the disgusting excesses of modern life. We are still attempting to repay that infinite burden that Thompson placed upon us. Epiphany at Owl Farm Last week, Thompson realized that he was at the tip-top of his career. He held forth from his seat of power, Owl Farm, located high in the Rockies near Aspen, Colorado. His throne room was his kitchen, and his throne was a chair at the table that he dubbed, “the catbird seat.” His wife, Anita, prepared his usual breakfast of jelly-coated fruit and Chivas Regal at the usual time, 5.00 pm, the normal start of Thompson’s routine working day. For the first time in the eight years of their relationship, Thompson asked Anita to leave the room. Disoriented by this unprecedented request, Anita Thompson grabbed her gym bag and drove into Aspen for a workout. An hour later, she rang Thompson on her mobile. She describes their ten minute talk as sweet and filled with love and good will. Thompson explained that he had not meant for her to leave the farm, and he planned to write a piece of journalism. At the end of the conversation, Anita said that he put down the receiver, and she could hear a clickety-clacking sound which she suspected was his favourite typewriter. A little while later, someone at the gym told her that something awful had happened at Owl Farm. Reports of troubles at Owl Farm were not really that uncommon, as Thompson frequently shot guns into the wilderness. He owned an arsenal of firearms much like another of his literary models, William S. Burroughs. Then, Anita Thompson received a chilling telephone call from Juan, Thompson’s son who was staying with them at Owl Farm. Juan, his wife and Thompson’s grandchild were in residence at Owl Farm when he heard a sound that he described as a, “bang.” Supposing it to have been a book dropping off a shelf, Juan swiftly determined that it had, in fact, been a gunshot that had ended the savage journey of his father’s legendary life. Anita returned to the farm to find Thompson poised gracefully in the catbird seat, with no evidence of a bullet wound on his face – which was now in a totally peaceful mask of dreamy, Buddha-like serenity. She embraced his body, kissed him goodbye and turned to the tasks that lay before her. Dressing Thompson in his favourite blue seersucker suit and his Tilley hat, the Thompson family attended his cremation. As a veteran of the US Air Force, Thompson received an American flag which is now draped on the wall of Thompson’s throne room. In one of their conferences, the Dalai Lama had given Thompson a white silk scarf which is now draped over the American flag in his seat of power. Thousands of Thompson’s favourite flower, the orchid, have transformed Owl Farm into a stupa or the temple befitting a beloved saint. The Buddha of Owl Farm lived the life of an American Mahakala, a fierce protector of the true faith and a guardian of justice with a wrathful visage and a heart of purest gold. Aftermath I feel privileged to have met Hunter Stockton Thompson. It was December of 1972 shortly after the Nixon landslide over George McGovern. I was in Washington attending the meeting of the DNC to select the Chair. The conference was held in the Hilton, which would become the scene of the failed assassination attempt on the life of Ronald Reagan by John Hinckley nine years later. Jean Westwood had masterminded the George McGovern campaign. The result was a disastrous debacle that left the party debt-ridden and defeated. Bob Strauss had risen to take charge and to champion the Democratic brand. He promised to return the party to financial vigour and victory four years later. While Westwood inspired visions of defeat, Strauss inspired visions of confidence and a new beginning. During a break in the proceedings that morning, I visited the Gentleman’s room, where I was mildly surprised when I noticed a familiar face standing at the urinal right beside me. I was side by side with Hunter S. Thompson. After obligatory remarks, I tipped the attendant and noticed Thompson struggling to decide what to do about a gratuity. His right hand dipped into his trousers and recovered a mass of coinage and about half a dozen plain white tabs. His left hand hovered over the mound of tablets and coins as if deciding what would be a fitting token of his appreciation. Realizing that Thompson’s hand appeared to be poised over the tabs, I swiftly slipped another dollar onto the plate that had been proffered and took Thompson by the arm as we moved through the door. He told me that he was doing an, “aftermath piece,” and I asked him whether he had arranged his press credentials. Thompson said that he had just arrived with his assistant, but that they had no credentials. At that point, I offered to make the proper arrangements. We crossed the lobby, and he signalled to the driver of a red Corvette to join us. Described as his assistant, she resembled the images of Anita Thompson I have seen in recent news articles. She was an attractive blonde woman of circa thirty years of age. I led them to the reception desk and explained that Thompson was with our group, Charlie Smith, Pete Ellington and George Bristol, all political veterans and immediately familiar to every employee of the DNC as heavyweight contributors to McGovern. I told the lady at the Press Table that Dr. Thompson was a prominent journalist accompanied by his research assistant, and they would like to go to the floor to interview a few people in attendance for his next article in Rolling Stone. Immediately, the lady at the desk handed over two sets of press credentials. The three of us ran the gauntlet of security and ploughed through the doors opening into the International Ballroom. Once inside, Thompson said that he wanted to introduce me to someone. In about fifteen seconds, I was face-to-face and shaking hands with Nicholas Von Hoffman, the 1970s liberal equivalent to Rush Limbaugh who had a huge and popular following due to his weekly television appearances. Thompson, Von Hoffman and I talked for the next hour or so about politics, justice, civil rights, the party, the future of America and the state of the nation. They were initially disappointed in the changing of the guard from Westwood to Strauss, but I suggested that their disappointment might be misplaced for, in my humble opinion, Strauss was going to pay heavy dividends by electing more Democrats who were vastly superior to their Republican alternatives. Thompson wrote a short piece for Rolling Stone on the DNC vote, and he emerged four years later to chronicle the rise of Jimmy Carter to the presidency. That is another story. I never saw him again. Now, I see him everywhere I turn, his legacy as enormous as the beatific Buddhas carved into the mountains of Sri Lanka. I know that when I visit the shrine at Owl Farm, I will see his image inscribed into the mountains, the land that he loved and the cloudscapes hovering over Colorado. __________________ Since 1968, Michael Carmichael has been a professional political consultant. Beginning as a Student Coordinator for Robert F. Kennedy, he has worked in five US presidential campaigns as well as over 100 major American political campaigns for federal and state offices. In 1985, he founded The Oxford Centre for Public Affairs in the United Kingdom. In 2003, he founded The Planetary Movement Limited, a global political action organization based in the United Kingdom.
Last Update: 03/23/2006 |
