Gonzo Today

Other Voices & Outside Sources

The Internet Just Raped My Brain

By: Coach Dan

The internet. What was once a marvel of modern civilization has quickly deteriorated into a hub for perverts, dope fiends, crooks, and cats. The Uneducated Elite, who in the past was resigned to sitting on their trailer steps and guzzling Bud Light by the quart while they deliver loathesome sermons to other half-mad, fully-drunk dingbats, now has as valid a voice in the world as a summa cum laude Harvard graduate. And it’s not going well for anyone.

As I sit here sipping on my Glenlivet and listening to Dylan, I wonder, where did we go wrong?  I am reading comments on internet articles on how the Obamas are “monkeys”; people are STILL waiting for them to publicly release their birth certificates to prove that they aren’t, in fact, ISIS agents sent here to destroy the country in some elaborate, 10-year gig that is finally coming to fruition.  Elsewhere, college-age kids don blackface for Halloween and laugh when Black Lives Matter tries to point out their ignorance.  Hate crimes have actually RISEN in the US lately, and we are left to pick up the pieces, trying to figure out what went wrong, and how this country took such a drastic leap backwards after such a positive step forward in 2004.

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Story Girls

By: Michael Chin

Jackson and Lily went to St. Peter’s because their father wanted to steer them from the bad influences of a public high school. He told them getting an education was not about smoking in bathrooms or fist fights or winding up pregnant before graduation.

Jackson knew the rationale, and remembered it one week into Catholic school, after his class watched a video to commemorate the tenth anniversary of terrorists crashing planes into the World Trade Center, and pimply-faced Johnny Reds spread his arms like an air craft and spiraled head first into Jinder, the only brown-skinned kid in school. Johnny made crashing sounds as he reenacted the terrorist attacks,like they were some big joke.

Jackson remembered what he had heard about bad influences, too, when he followed Johnny and friends out of the convenience store after school, ugly blue and gold school ties bunched up in their right pockets, stolen one-pound bags of M&Ms crammed in the left.

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Perverse Wailing at the Red Roof Inn

art by Joey Feldman

by Joseph Seiss

It’s only been a month since the election and I’ve already begun the grim slide into a whole new world of psychotic behavior. All of a sudden my worst fears are a sobering reality. No more jokes. Donald Trump has brutally murdered fun with a blunt object in the back of a stolen minivan, and then uploaded the whole gruesome thing to YouTube.

When they shut down the Daily Show and haul John Oliver off to Cuba, I’ll be standing next to the wild-eyed pervert in the crusty army coat by the freeway holding the sign that reads, “repent”. Yes. Sobriety is the new madness in an age where fascists run the show.

As I recall, the darkest moment of this election cycle went down on a blurry night in October at a Red Roof Inn South of the St. Louis International Airport. I had just fled back to my room with a bottle of Bacardi Gold and a bag of limes to decompress after sneaking onto the Washington University campus during the second presidential debate.

Trembling, I cocked my head around the door frame to give the empty parking lot a good scan before I bolted the door to my dimly lit hotel room. Muttering to myself, I yanked the curtains closed and flipped on the TV. I took a violent pull from the Bacardi, cracked a beer and did some breathing exercises as Wolf Blitzer and Kellyanne Conway bickered about the fate of humanity on CNN.

I would have stuck around on campus to get the feel for things, but the experience had given me such a sour jolt that all I could do was flee back to the Red Roof Inn. The mood had turned rotten after Trump’s sniveling vitriol spiraled into a kind of hateful, ritualistic display of brutish physical intimidation.

Watching that ape-lipped reprobate pace around behind Hillary like a prowling jackal was all it took. I was bound to do something rash. Anything, like maybe corner the InfoWars correspondent standing by the coffee booth, and jabber at him about how the Feds hauled my cousin away to the nuthouse after he called to report that his dentist was an extraterrestrial.

I figured this was my grand opportunity to leave my mark. Rattle the fuckers. Yes. Give them a run for their money. Show them there are other powers at play here. Yes. Then hightail it halfway across town to chuckle about it over a box of wine and some crab rangoon. Yes.

At one point, as I stood with a crowd of students straddling the CNN pavilion on the north lawn of Brookings Quadrangle, Cory Lewandowski brushed past me. I briefly succumbed to a fleeting desire to clock that prickly haired little weasel in the nuts. Obviously I resisted my animal desire, but the scenario played out it my mind’s eye.

BREAKING NEWS: Some kind of grinning, disillusioned, publicity seeking degenerate who somehow evaded campus security was apprehended Sunday at the site of the second presidential debate in St. Louis, MO, after allegedly assaulting Cory Lewandowski, GOP presidential nominee Donald Trump’s estranged ex-campaign manager.

The suspect, identified as a Kansas City man with a documented history of mental illness, was arrested by the St. Louis police department after striking Lewandowski in the groin. According to reports, the suspect refused to cooperate with police, and snarled incoherently at news cameras as authorities drug him off the Washington University campus amidst a wide-eyed frenzy of media and onlookers…

But that was then. This is now. Circumstances have changed. Donald Trump has thrust himself upon the helm. I’ve even considered converting to Islam, buying a hot piece and holing up in a motel room somewhere on the outskirts of Denver. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and with each headline the world seems to be crawling closer and closer towards the edge. But alas, only the paranoid will drag themselves from the smoldering heap. Or will they? Survival of the…fittest.

Even Steve Bannon can get behind that right? When the Trump people realize they were played for fools and their man gets caught embezzling public funds to settle his lawsuits, who will they blame then? They certainly won’t blame themselves, and now that Breitbart is technically the de facto state propaganda apparatus, white nationalism is now the hottest ticket in town.

The only silver lining I can grasp at this point is the fact that Trump and his transition team are so risibly inept that soon enough the whole thing will just keel over like a sick addict. I wouldn’t rule out the possibility of a swift and brutal impeachment months after the inauguration. Call it wishful thinking, but a man without a bright side in this day and age is a man bound for a depth of depravity that would cause even Charles Bukovski to shake his head in consternation.

We can only hope that in the end these strange days don’t count against us.



The Crack of Dawn


by Joseph Siess

…Mother Mary & the Morning of Terrible Judgment…Mad
to the Coast…Extreme Behavior on Av. Boa Viagem…

I came to around 6 am. The Pole sat on the far end of the couch, wide-eyed with a confused look on his thin face. A hazy morning light spilled onto the palm shrouded courtyard, and bizarre French music sounded from an unseen source.

“Good morning,” said the Pole through a wide, disheveled smile. “Just relax,” he added with a wave of the hand. “The coffee woman will be here soon.” He nodded in assurance, but his piercing stare confirmed my greatest fears. “Just take it easy, ok…”

“How long have we been here?” I croaked. I sat up, coughed and looked around the room, but my eyes remained heavy. I couldn’t recall anything from the past 12 hours.

Without answering, the Pole turned his back and walked into the kitchen.

I swung my feet onto the floor, ran my grimy hands through my tangled hair, took a deep breath and attempted to concentrate on the facts.

Splinters of memory seeped from my subconscious. I recalled four tabs, two of which were double-edged, a liter of Polish vodka and a jar of pickles. The faint odor of vomit jolted my memory and I remembered puking my guts out at some strange hour of the night.

Jimi Hendrix, Die Antwoord. The Argentines and the Australians. The Frenchman.

“Dear Lord,” I thought. “Here we go.”


The bizarre French music continued to waft on the salty, equatorial breeze that drafted into the room.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the mounted T.V. set in front of the couch, and to my horror, I saw a filthy, beach-combing wretch. I had slumped into a kind of tropical degeneracy during my time in Brazil, and the sight of myself filled my heart with loathing and disgrace.

I groped the dried juniper seeds hanging around my neck with quivering hands and bobbed back and forth. My legs were streaked with soot, and my straggly cut-off jean shorts were moist with perspiration. My stretched, loosely fitting t-shirt slid off my shoulder exposing my bony chest.

I was nervous, confused, and worst of all, completely whacked out of my skull on some of the most powerful shit I’d ever experienced.

The stuff had been working on me since the night before, and had not subsided in the least. “How long could this last?” I thought to myself. Grim thoughts plagued my twitching brain. Continue reading

Hunter S. Thompson: The Champion of Fun

art by Nic Price

art by Nic Price


by Todd Brendan Fahey
originally appeared in the March 1991 issue of Fling

I remember very crisply my introduction to the cult of Hunter S. Thompson. Having already broasted the front side of my body under a thin ozone layer one warm August afternoon in Santa Barbara, I traded my beach chair for a friend’s towel so I could lie on my stomach and read from an orange and blue paperback, which had him laughing so hard he could barely hit off the joint we were trying to finish before the locals came begging around. Ralph Steadman’s insane sketching on the cover of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas had sucked me right into the rented fire-apple convertible, and into the giddy vortex where Dr. Thompson lives.

Later that afternoon, like any obsessive-compulsive personality, I drove to Earthling Bookshop and cleaned out their supply of Thompson works and began reading to the extent that I neglected basic human contact for as many weeks as it took to exhaust the six pieces of stone-madness. I became a True Believer, an historian, a collector — most likely a huge bore — emerging from literary hibernation and bringing Dr. Thompson with me to work, to parties . . . home to the folks for Thanksgiving. Dad was a bit miffed. He suffered through the introduction to The Great Shark Hunt, shaking his head spasmodically, and handed the book back to me, muttering, “Well, it isn’t James Michener.”

No. It is not. Hunter S. Thompson is a special breed, a variety of which will not likely be replicated in the near future.


And so, when Herr Doktor’s agent informed me of an impending “nightclub act” at The Strand in Redondo Beach, I was genetically enthusiastic. I was also a bit apprehensive: the scattered reports emanating from similar gigs, from people I trusted, were not real . . . positive. The first ugly feedback came from a girlfriend of mine, who had gone to see the Doc do his “Gonzo thing” at UC Santa Barbara. The outlaw journalist, she said, staggered onto the stage and proceeded to suckle from a bottomless flagon of Wild Turkey, alternately raving and mumbling in a uniquely demented fashion until he was booed off the stage by a band of angry preps feeling cheated out of their twenty-dollar cash drain. The other, less reliable, report came from a tainted source and had something to do with Dr. Thompson, G. Gordon Liddy, a mound of white powder and a blow-up doll — but the story was too disturbing to want to verify, and so I’ll have to take my gentleman source at his word. Continue reading


story by Ralph STEADman

art by Joey Feldman


IMG_0913I must’ve been early getting to the Latchmere Theatre that Monday. The theatre was situated above a recently renovated pub along Battersea’s conveyor-belt main street.  I was wearing my Allen Ginsberg skull-mask with glasses to avoid unwanted confrontations.  I found the back entrance up a newly erected iron fire escape and went inside.

Immediately on my left, there was a door. It was open. It looked like a toilet.  Inside, a dark figure hunched over the pan. My god, I thought, I hadn’t expected such realism, not so soon anyway.  I’ve been out in the country for two years, so I’m out of touch with theatre. I didn’t like to ask if he was okay. Actors get funny at rehearsals, though I didn’t remember a bag of plumber’s tools lying there in the actual book. So I moved on.

Stumbling down a dark corridor, over pipes and dangerously loose wires I made my way toward sounds of banging and out-of-tune whistles.

“Ah Hullo!” I grabbed the hand of a tall, slender character emerging from a door with light beyond. He was wearing shades.  I shook his hand warmly.

“My God, you look just like him,” I said.  He looked at me and he looked at the mask I was wearing.  “Oh, sorry, don’t worry,” I said as I removed it.  “It’s me, Ralpho Steadman.  You must be playing Hunter S. Thompson. It’s amazing! You could be him.”

“What!?”  he looked at me strangely.

“Hunter.” I continued, “You’ve got him off to a tee, the way you move, the nervous twitch.  The weird, deep voice ….. Amazing.”

“Er…” He looked a little nonplussed.

“Oh sorry,” I said. “Relax, it’s okay. I’m not spying. Just looking in. You know.  You’re great – keep it up. Ah…don’t I know your face. From telly perhaps? Great stuff.”

“Don’t think so,” he said shuffling uneasily.

“Oh sorry. It’s theatre, right?” I replied, looking for openers. “Real acting! None of those crappy re-takes. Straight off first time. Know your lines. Tradition. That sort of thing. What’s your name? I ought to know you.”

“It’s Arnold,” he said. “I’m the electrician.”

“Ah…yes – just the man I want to see. Look – er, my wife’s thinking of opening a nursery school in our outbuilding.  Nothing grand. About 30 kids. Proper thing. Not just child-minding. The place needs electrifying of course. You ever work out of town? Never mind. I’m looking for Lou Stein. Is he here?”

“Try up those stairs. Take a left, along the corridor, then right down the end.  They’ll know.”

“Thanks. And don’t forget – day in the country – do you good.” I scribbled out my number and turned to leap upstairs.

“Oopsaaaieeeeeeee!!” A sharp pain, like thirteen cattle prods all at once, took my breath away as I drove my shin bone into the bonnet of a huge, red fibreglass Chevy convertible being carried across my path.

“Ouch and Hell!” I screamed, as I tried to hold in the agony and sorrows I’d long forgotten. “Sorry, my fault!  Is that it? The red convertible? Oh no! Arrrgh! No!”

“Are you alright?” The voice came from a tiny girl in a cream-white fluffy V-neck sweater who had been carrying the Chevy with another figure in the shadows.

“Blood!” I screamed. “I’m bleeding! Oh God, all over my pants. Get me a doctor quick! A real doctor. Nothing Gonzo – I don’t want to die ….!”

“Relax man. It’s only red paint. We just sprayed the Chevy.” Continue reading