I don't claim to know which of Jessica Coen's books are underlined and which are dog-eared, but there's something about her memorialization of Hunter S. Thompson I find a little... offputting. Sure, it's overwrought and overwritten, but anyone reading this knows I'm into that sort of thing. No. It's something else. It reads as though she's trying to convince us of something.

I know what it is: That she's a journalist!

Listen. I have no problem with gossip. While I'll admit that I find the image of young women kvetching and retching their way through Manhattan's finest restaurants on the expense account of some PR homunculus repugnant, I recognize that there's an audience that demands semi-satisfaction. Enter Coen, eager to get turned out, and Denton, just the man to do it.

What bugs me is when said trollop takes time from her tripe to explain to us, the ignorant many, the significance of Thompson's work. How it is not, as we might foolishly suspect, depressing or nihilistic, but that it is, upon closer, more brilliant inspection, actually "funny and hopeful."

She closes her obit by sharing with us one of her favorite Thompson passages:

But our trip was different. It was a classic affirmation of everything right and true and decent in the national character. It was a gross, physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country -- but only for those with true grit. And we were chock full of that.

And without further ado, she returns to the important business of posting Paris Hilton's personal phone book and speculating about what drugs "Dr. Pat" might be helping her to overcome.

I don't know if Hunter Thompson was a journalist or not, but when he turned someone inside out, it was usually himself.

Analogcabin @ 11:32 AM
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