Better Than Sex
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Better Than Sex: Confessions of a Political Junkie (Gonzo Papers, vol. 4) Paperback – Illustrated, August 22, 1995
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4.6 out of 5 stars
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"Hunter S. Thompson is to drug-addled, stream-of-consciousness, psycho-political black humor what Forrest Gump is to idiot savants." --The Philadelphia Inquirer Since his 1972 trailblazing opus, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, Hunter S. Thompson has reported the election story in his truly inimitable, just-short-of-libel style. In Better than Sex, Thompson hits the dusty trail again--without leaving home--yet manages to deliver a mind-bending view of the 1992 presidential campaign--in all of its horror, sacrifice, lust, and dubious glory. Complete with faxes sent to and received by candidate Clinton's top aides, and 100 percent pure gonzo screeds on Richard Nixon, George Bush, and Oliver North, here is the most true-blue campaign tell-all ever penned by man or beast. "[Thompson] delivers yet another of his trademark cocktail mixes of unbelievable tales and dark observations about the sausage grind that is the U.S. presidential sweepstakes. Packed with egocentric anecdotes, musings and reprints of memos, faxes and scrawled handwritten notes (Memorable." --Los Angeles Daily News "What endears Hunter Thompson to anyone who reads him is that he will say what others are afraid to (.[He] is a master at the unlikely but invariably telling line that sums up a political figure (.In a year when all politics is--to much of the public--a tendentious and pompous bore, it is time to read Hunter Thompson." --Richmond Times-Dispatch "While Tom Wolfe mastered the technique of being a fly on the wall, Thompson mastered the art of being a fly in the ointment. He made himself a part of every story, made no apologies for it and thus produced far more honest reporting than any crusading member of the Fourth Estate (. Thompson isn't afraid to take the hard medicine, nor is he bashful about dishing it out (.He is still king of beasts, and his apocalyptic prophecies seldom miss their target." --Tulsa World "This is a very, very funny book. No one can ever match Thompson in the vitriol department, and virtually nobody escapes his wrath." --The Flint Journal
Since his 1972 trailblazing opus, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail , Hunter S. Thompson has reported the election story in his truly inimitable, just-short-of-libel style. In Better Than Sex , Thompson hits the dusty trail again - without leaving home - yet manages to deliver a mind-bending view of the 1992 presidential campaign, in all its horror, sacrifice, lust, and dubious glory. Complete with faxes sent to and received from candidate Clinton's top aides, and 100 percent pure gonzo screeds on Richard Nixon, George Bush, and Oliver North, here is the most true-blue campaign tell-all ever penned by man, beast, or Thompson.
Thompson delivers yet another of his trademark cocktail mixes of unbelievable tales and dark observations about the sausage grind that is the U.S. Presidential sweepstakes. Packed with egocentric anecdotes, musings and reprints of memos, faxes, and scrawled handwritten notes...Memorable. -- Los Angeles Daily News
"Hunter S. Thompson is to drug-addled, stream-of-consciousness, psycho-political black humor what Forrest Gump is to idiot savants." --The Philadelphia Inquirer Since his 1972 trailblazing opus, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, Hunter S. Thompson has reported the election story in his truly inimitable, just-short-of-libel style. In Better than Sex, Thompson hits the dusty trail again--without leaving home--yet manages to deliver a mind-bending view of the 1992 presidential campaign--in all of its horror, sacrifice, lust, and dubious glory. Complete with faxes sent to and received by candidate Clinton's top aides, and 100 percent pure gonzo screeds on Richard Nixon, George Bush, and Oliver North, here is the most true-blue campaign tell-all ever penned by man or beast. "[Thompson] delivers yet another of his trademark cocktail mixes of unbelievable tales and dark observations about the sausage grind that is the U.S. presidential sweepstakes. Packed with egocentric anecdotes, musings and reprints of memos, faxes and scrawled handwritten notes (Memorable." --Los Angeles Daily News "What endears Hunter Thompson to anyone who reads him is that he will say what others are afraid to (.[He] is a master at the unlikely but invariably telling line that sums up a political figure (.In a year when all politics is--to much of the public--a tendentious and pompous bore, it is time to read Hunter Thompson." --Richmond Times-Dispatch "While Tom Wolfe mastered the technique of being a fly on the wall, Thompson mastered the art of being a fly in the ointment. He made himself a part of every story, made no apologies for it and thus produced far more honest reporting than anycrusading member of the Fourth Estate (. Thompson isn't afraid to take the hard medicine, nor is he bashful about dishing it out (.He is still king of beasts, and his apocalyptic prophecies seldom miss their target." --Tulsa World "This is a very, very funny book. No one can ever match Thompson in the vitriol department, and virtually nobody escapes his wrath." --The Flint Journal
Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937–February 20, 2005) was an American journalist and author. He was known for his flamboyant writing style, most notably deployed in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas , which blurred the distinctions between writer and subject, fiction and nonfiction. The best source on Thompson's writing style and personality is Thompson himself. His books include Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga (1966), Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream (1972), Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72 (1973); The Great Shark Hunt: Strange Tales from a Strange Time (1979); The Curse of Lono (1983); Generation of Swine, Gonzo Papers Vol. 2: Tales of Shame and Degradation in the 80's (1988); and Songs of the Doomed (1990).
JOHN F. KENNEDY, who seized the White House from Richard Nixon in a frenzied campaign that turned a whole generation of young Americans into political junkies, got shot in the head for his efforts, murdered in Dallas by some hapless geek named Oswald who worked for either Castro, the mob, Jimmy Hoffa, the CIA, his dominatrix landlady or the odious, degenerate FBI chief J. Edgar Hoover. The list is long and crazy—maybe Marilyn Monroe’s first husband fired those shots from the Grassy Knoll. Who knows? A whole generation of American journalists is still embarrassed by their failure to answer that question. JFK’s ghost will haunt the corridors of power in America for as long as the grass is green and the rivers run to the sea.… Take my word for it, Bubba. I have heard his footsteps for 30 years and I still feel guilty about not being able to explain the biggest news story of my lifetime to my son. AT ONE POINT, not long ago, I went to the desperate length of confessing to the murder myself. We were finishing breakfast in a patio restaurant on a bright Sunday morning in Boulder. It was a stylish place near the campus, where decent people could meet after pretending they had just come from church and get fashionably drunk on mimosas and white wine. The tables were separated by ferns and potted palms. Bright orange impatiens flowers drooped from hanging urns. Even I can’t explain why I said what I did. I had been up all night with my old friend Allen Ginsberg, the poet, and we had both slid into the abyss of whiskey madness and full-bore substance abuse. It was wonderful, but it left me a little giddy by the time noon rolled around. “Son,” I said, “I’m sorry to ruin your breakfast, but I think the time has finally come to tell you the truth about who killed John Kennedy.” He nodded but said nothing. I tried to keep my voice low, but emotion made it difficult. “It was me,” I said. “I am the one who shot Jack Kennedy.” “What?” he said, glancing quickly over his shoulder to see if others were listening. Which they were. The mention of Kennedy’s name will always turn a few heads, anywhere in the world—and god only knows what a tenured Professor of American Political History might feel upon hearing some grizzled thug in a fern bar confess to his own son that he was the one who murdered John F. Kennedy. It is one of those lines that will not fall on deaf ears. My son leaned forward and stared into my eyes as I explained the raw details and my reasons for killing the President in cold blood, many years ago. I spoke about ballistics and treachery and my “secret work for the government” in Brazil, when he thought I was in the Peace Corps in the sixties. “I gave up killing about the time you were born,” I said. “But I could never tell you about it, until now.” He nodded solemnly for a moment, then laughed at me and called for some tea. “Don’t worry, Dad,” he said. “Good boy,” I said. “Now we can finally be honest with each other. I feel naked and clean for the first time in 30 years.” “Not me,” he said. “Now I’ll have to turn you in.” “What?” I shouted. “You treacherous little bastard!” Many heads had turned to stare at us. It was a weird moment for them. The man who killed Kennedy had just confessed publicly to his son, and now they were cursing each other. Ye gods, what next? What indeed? How warped can it be for a child born into the sixties to finally be told that his father was the hired shootist who killed Kennedy? Do you call 911? Call a priest? Or act like a cockroach and say nothing? NO WONDER the poor bastards from Generation X have lost their sense of humor about politics. Some things are not funny to the doomed, especially when they’ve just elected a President with no sense of humor at all. The joke is over when even victory is a downhill run into hardship, disappointment and a queasy sense of betrayal. If you can laugh in the face of these things, you are probably ready for a staff job with a serious presidential candidate. The humor of the campaign trail is relentlessly cruel and brutal. If you think you like jokes, try hanging around the cooler after midnight with hired killers like James Carville or the late Lee Atwater, whose death by cancer in 1991 was a fatal loss to the Bush reelection effort. Atwater could say, without rancor, that he wanted to castrate Michael Dukakis and dump him on the Boston Common with his nuts stuffed down his throat. Atwater said a lot of things that made people cringe, but he usually smiled when he said them, and people tried to laugh. It was Deep Background stuff, they figured; of course he didn’t mean it. Hell, in some states you could go to prison for making treats like that. Felony menacing, two years minimum; Conspiracy to commit Murder and/or Felony Assault with Intent to commit Great Bodily Harm, minimum 50 years in Arkansas and Texas; also Kidnapping (death), Rape, Sodomy, Malicious Disfigurement, Treason, Perjury, Gross Sexual Imposition and Aggravated Conspiracy to Commit all of the above (600 years, minimum) …. And all of this without anybody ever doing anything. Ho, ho. How’s that for the wheels of justice, Bubba? Six hundred fify-two years, just for downing a few gin-bucks at lunch and trading jokes among warriors.… Richard Nixon was not a Crook. Ho, ho. George Bush was innocent. Ho, ho. Ed Rollins bribed every Negro preacher in New Jersey to hold down the black vote for the Governor in ’93. Hee-haw. James Carville set Hamilton Jordan’s heart on fire and then refused to piss down his throat to save his life. Ho, ho. That is the kind of humor that campaign junkies admire and will tell to their children—for the same perverse reasons that make me confess to my son, over breakfast, that I blew John Kennedy’s head off in Dallas. You have to be very mean to get a laugh on the campaign trail. There is no such thing as paranoia.
Publisher
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Ballantine Books (August 22, 1995) Language
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English Paperback
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245 pages ISBN-10
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0345396359 ISBN-13
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978-0345396358 Item Weight
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13.6 ounces Dimensions
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6.15 x 0.73 x 9.2 inches
4.6 out of 5 stars
184 ratings
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I am going to start with the book but stay tuned for my evaluation of the seller. This is the 4th offering of the Gonzo papers and in some ways it’s my favorite volume. In other ways all the lines blur between gonzo journalism and exceptional tall tales with no hint of fact to ruin the story. I grew up watching Walter Cronkite and when he delivered the news I knew he was telling the absolute truth and had proof to support what he was saying. There were dozens of journalists in the field and studios that shared important information with the American public and had faith that the American people would be smart enough to come to their own conclusions. There were satirists who had an opinion and delivered public spankings while maintaining that it was one person’s opinion. Their job was to don the jester’s cap while pointing out the emperor was indeed naked. HST was the first journalist that wrote himself into the story so he could write from his perspective and say anything that he wanted. I don’t doubt that he did not consume vast amounts of drugs and alcohol but they did serve well as a beard. Pay the ticket, enjoy the show. Read the eulogy HST gave for Richard Nixon. It was a fine piece of writing. As for the seller, I paid a ridiculously low price for the paperback offset with only moderately excessive postage and handling charges. It arrived early in very good condition even though it was sold as good. Tiny foxing on lower right front cover but the binding was pristine. Excellent product, excellent service. Top marks all around
This book is better than some of its reviews. Not HST's best, definitely, but still very good. Despite what one reviewer said: this book is not mostly illegible faxes. There are only a few faxes, and most of them are quite legible. This is a document of various sources describing a rather unusual election. Some of the repetitions were annoying, and HST's frequent address of "Bubba" seemed a bit thin. But he also gave two great statements on the non-existence of paranoia, recounted the political process in an accurate and hilarious way (as usual), and provides an obituary of Richard Nixon to challenge H.L. Mencken's obituary of William Jennings Bryan (which HST has quoted and clearly viewed as an inspiration). Not as good as the '72 book, but what do you expect? And to correct the publisher's blurb quoted by Amazon: HST actually left the house during the writing of this book. Just further proof that most publishers, critics and reviewers don't actually read the books about which they write.
If, like me, you buy this new you'll feel cheated. This ain't a book. What it is I don't know. To digress some here, when I was twelve a friend of mine got me into Jimi Hendrix (this was the late 80s, a really bad time for music). As any air guitaring Jimi-ster could tell ya there are only four Hendrix albums (plus some live performances). However, on Jimi's death were many folks out there who couldn't get enough Jimi and were willing to shell out continously for "previously unreleased studio material", which of course all really su**ed (hence "unreleased"). Anyway that's what this "book" feels like - that copy of that dodgy Jimi CD your friend was listening to in the French lab class. Well over half of this is just xeroxed incomprehensible memos written in triple spaced free hand to various members of the Clinton campaign staff. The narrative also makes no sense. Thompson, unlike his great Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail in 72 where he actually went on the campaign trails, went to the conventions and wrote about it ie worked, doesn't go anyway here. He sits in Colorado or whatever and exchanges "memos" with people. He writes about fifty pages of analysis, much of which is about Nixon and 1972 all over again. If you haven't read Campaign Trail much of which will be incomprehensible (for instance you really have to know who Mankowiez (sp?) is - he was McGovern's campaign manager in 1972). Bottom line - if you want to read HST on politics read Fear and Loathing on the Camp
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