You can trace today’s TikTok and Instagram videos—with the creator as the focus of the story—back to “Gonzo” journalism, a style popularized by writer Hunter S. Thompson.
With a press card tucked in the hatband, the traditional journalist followed the model of objectivity, framing the story around the “who, what, when, where, why and how.” A good reporter pursued the truth and muted their own point of view as much as possible. Editor-in-chief Perry White of the Daily Planet didn’t care what Lois Lane thought of the explosion, he wanted the facts to run the story by the deadline.
But Hunter S. Thompson threw a stick of dynamite into this status quo and told you how the bone-rattling blast felt firsthand. In Gonzo journalism Thompson didn’t report “on” the event, but from within it, making himself the story.
“I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.”
—Hunter S. Thompson
Bursting onto the literary scene with Hell’s Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga, Thompson told a lurid tale of what it was like to spend a year living and riding with members of the infamous California motorcycle club.
He followed this with his most famous work, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Dispatched to cover an off-road desert race for Rolling Stone magazine, Thompson blended fact and fiction into a story with the event serving as a backdrop for the main characters’ feverish, drug-crazed misadventures.
In other books, columns and screeds Thompson wrote about politics and sports with a style of dizzying prose that veered from grandiose to harsh with the occasional flash of lyrical brilliance. He specialized in championing the underdog against the “elites” by combining his ideas of justice, righteous anger and resentment into a bitter brew with dashes of raw humor.
In addition to Thompson’s unconventional approach to writing, his signature clothing style inspired legions of journalism school graduates to wear Hawaiian shirts, bucket hats and aviator sunglasses to cover their local city council meetings.
Photo by author
While Thompson lived long enough into the 21st century to have a web-based column (Hey Rube for ESPN), he died in 2005 just missing Twitter, Instagram and TikTok where he might have found a whole new audience. Thompson’s quotes are eminently tweetable: “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro,” and “Buy the ticket, take the ride.”
Thompson’s approach foreshadowed the world of social media today.
Ask kids what they want to be when they grow up and the reply, “YouTube influencer,” is all Gonzo. The crazy stunts and tricks everybody watches? Thompson delighted in outrageous and cruel pranks and would be right at home partaking in the latest social media challenge.
Plus his favorite activities; imbibing unsafe levels of questionable substances, riding motorcycles, shooting large caliber weaponry and detonating various incendiary devices lend themselves well to video. One can imagine the “likes” and “shares” this stuff would get. “I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me,” Thompson said, known to court and relish danger at every turn.
He believed there was nothing like a surprise display of pyrotechnics to evoke instant hilarity, and any traumatized victims were part of the expected collateral damage.
“When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”
—Hunter S. Thompson
Covid-19 wouldn’t have stopped Thompson, either. He tapped away at his IBM Selectric typewriter and raised peacocks on his beloved Owl Farm, a “fortified compound” in Woody Creek Colorado from the 1960’s until his death. The guy worked from home in shorts long before it was a thing.
Of course we’ll never know if social media would have been something Thompson might have turned against. He might have rued the existence of tech leaders “corrupting the possibilities of the American Dream,” and loathed the “hustlers” selling get-rich-quick courses, or cast a disdainful eye on the millionaire influencer “greedheads” pushing energy drinks and skin care regimens.
Photo by Matheus Bertelli: Pexels.com
Maybe the rise of “fake news” might have caused Thompson to question his own history of fabrication to make things, as his idol Hemingway put it, “Truer than how they actually happened.” We can only wonder.
Today Thompson’s ashes lie somewhere on Owl Farm, blasted out of a cannon per his final wishes by his good friend Johnny Depp. Meanwhile, TikTok is gunning for a billion users around the globe and work continues on Meta and the promised virtual world where each of us has a Gonzo avatar of our own.
Who knows, had Thompson lived, perhaps just like in Fear and Loathing he might have had the right kind of eyes to point out the high water mark of all of this, wherever and whenever it may be.
“That place where the wave finally broke, and rolled back.”
When some anglers picture fishing the Florida Keys, they think of the big three: bonefish, permit and tarpon. Others envision battling a leaping marlin Old Man and the Sea-style or hoisting up a gleaming, fanged ‘cuda for the Instagram.
But if you’re looking for lots of action, look no further than the mighty kingfish. Also called king mackerel, these hook-chomping predators run between 10-40 lbs, and beasts pushing 100 lbs and 6′ in length are always a lurking possibility. No matter what their size, kingfish love a good fight, so on a trip to Key West we chartered a local guide to take us to them.
The March morning was warm and bright as Jake, our tanned, thirty-something captain met us with a wide smile on the dock. We hopped aboard his slick, 28-foot “Mean Green Machine” bristling with rod and reel rigs. Our spirits were rising with the early morning sun as I slapped on sunscreen and enjoyed the motivational sound of the outboard as we gunned our way to the first stop. We cut the engines and drifted among the mangroves. These hardy trees are adapted to survive in saline, swampy water and their massive, intertwined root systems offer an excellent hiding place for various species of fish.
A cormorant resting on a branch eyed us curiously as Jake flung a wide net into the water. A half hour later we had our live bait, a live well full of googly-eyed menhaden. “Look at ’em,” Jake observed as dozens of bait fish darted about the well. “Just a few minutes ago they were happily swimming around, eating tiny critters for breakfast. But now they’re in for it. Circle of life, man”
Jake showed us what he meant, and opened the throttle on his twin 200 horsepower Mercury outboards. The Mean Green Machine knifed through the blue water like a fiberglass blade and banked toward open ocean. It was good to be at the top of the food chain and in a boat like this you felt in command of the seas, like you were Poseidon’s kid with special dispensation. But all that could change with 25 mph winds and a solid six on the Beaufort scale when they start flying the small craft advisory red pennant. We didn’t have that concern right now, and on the high seas, “right now” was the only thing you could count on.
Eyeing his GPS Jake eased back the throttle and as we slowed I could feel the hull settle into its full displacement. We came to a stop at an unassuming location in 40 feet of water about a mile offshore. There were no other boats in sight. “Here it is,” Jake said, as if recognizing some pattern to these particular waves. “One of my top secret spots. Years ago I dropped a bunch of concrete slabs out here and the fish love it.”
That sounded like a plan as good as any, so we got busy baiting hooks rigged to stout wire leaders. Then we dropped our offerings over the side and watched as their smooth silvery scales flashed aquatic desperation to any predatory things that might be skulking beneath.
Was it a shark? A barracuda? Some Lovecraftian horror oozing up from the depths?
Bam! We had a fighter on the third cast. The king mackerel hit, one after another, solid 40 inchers. Jake wielded his gaff and hauled them aboard, pure muscle beneath a seemingly scale-less silvery skin. “Careful of those teeth,” Jake warned as each kingfish brought aboard gnashed and snapped. They reminded me of the business end of bluefish off Cape Cod. Into the fish box they went. That night we would take them to a local restaurant where the nice white fillets would be blackened to perfection and served up with a side of rice and a local lager.
When fishing for kingfish there is always the opportunity for variety. Grouper can be found lurking amid the structure along with the bait fish that attract the kings. We caught several including a pretty spotted grouper, plump and just right for the grill. But Jake, intervened, apparently recognizing this particular pattern of spots. “Would you mind putting that one back? I’ve caught him several times before, he’s a friend of mine.” I was happy to oblige and with a swish of his tail the cute fella vanished back down to whatever shadowy crevice he called home.
A sharp tug on my rod and another fish was on–I saw the slash of white mackerel against blue water. My forearms and back ached from reeliong these beasts in and as I negotiated this latest fish to the gunwhale Jake reached out with the gaff. In a flash the water boiled and a huge form rose up like a giant log and my fish vanished as the line went slack. Total silence as we stared in disbelief.
“Did you see that?” we all said. Was it a shark? A barracuda? Some Lovecraftian horror oozing up from the depths? “That was a huge King,” Jake said, his eyes scanning the water like Ahab looking for a glimpse of Moby Dick. Kingfish it turns out, have no qualms eating their own.
As I reeled in the line it seemed heavier than it should be and I lifted a mackerel head out of the water — hooked in the jaw and severed behind the gills — for all to see. It’s eyes bore the look of something who’s day went from bad to worse.
“Drop the head back in!” Jake said. I obliged, releasing the bail and letting my macabre offering plummet to the bottom. We stood on the deck in silence and watched, there was nary a ripple on the water. Suddenly there was a bump on the line…then another. Then the rod seemingly of its own accord slammed down on the gunwhale and I struggled against something powerful before the line again went slack. This time I reeled in nothing but a frayed line…the head was gone.
“There’s something down there, man,” Jake said as we peered into the deep blue depths. “And it sure ain’t nice.”
ABOUT EDWARD KLINK
Edward Klink is currently a marketing professional with over 20 years of proven business experience—from Fortune 500 firms to start-ups... Read More.
