The curse of Lono Book

I accepted my assignment with some wild trepidation. It’d been a while since I spent time with Dr. Hunter S. Thompson and I knew the crazy bastard would give me the shakes if I let off the throttle for half a second.

Before I uploaded the book, his 1983 visit to Hawaii and the dark underbelly of Americana, I fired up the El Camino and went for provisions, I wouldn’t be left stranded high and dry like a potbellied iguana the way I had in Costa Rica; I’d be ready this time. I surveyed my haul: three cases of Kona Beer, two gallons of rum, a couple pints of gin, a handle of Kentucky bourbon, a carton of American Spirit cigarettes and a bag of Lays potato chips. I was on a shoestring budget, but this might just get me through to screaming end.

Thompson was in rare form, describing a quick survey of the Hawaii marathon that ended up with weeks on the Kona shore, holed up like a gang of demented ferrets in a hot dog factory. The good doctor mixed in his cacophony of gonzo literature with snippets of history of the island and especially of Captain James Cook and his fatal last voyage and his attempted kidnapping of a Hawaiian king. It was a blood curdling song of despair, nervousness and confusion – but worth the shamble through the back alleys of Honolulu to a high resting place atop a summit of clear perspective.

So long again, Thompson, you frenzied maniac, we’ll meet again.