In an excellent piece in The Guardian, Jon Ronson points out that many HST wannabes miss the point:
It is the morning after Hunter S Thompson’s suicide, and I am reading loaded magazine’s recent interview with Iggy Pop. It begins: “Iggy Pop! Shit man. I’m alone in a hotel room thinking I’ve overdosed on coke. Sweating. Thinking what the hell am I going to ask Iggy tomorrow afternoon. Two valium and 14 hours later I am sitting in the lobby of the Chateau Marmont …”
And so on.
A great number of feature journalists, when starting out, want to be Hunter S Thompson. Unfortunately, many tend to want to be him in the wrong way. Reading loaded’s over-Thompson-inspired prose reminds me of the scene in Crimes and Misdemeanours when Woody Allen confesses to Mia Farrow that his love letter to her was plagiarised from James Joyce. “You probably wondered why all the references to Dublin,” he says.