Hunter S. Thompson was insane. Really, genuinely sick, and not in a way that’s fun or exciting, but rather, sad.

A lot of the stuff he says here would be interesting if it was true. But he sets out pretty early to make sure you know not to trust him. He’s not going to narrate the truth. He’s not going to attempt to. His brain is not up to the task of conveying knowledge from the world into a book. Nobody is fact-checking.

Salacious gossip that you know is bogus lacks much of a thrill, don’t you think? Instead of being exciting and important, it’s just poor taste.

Poor man. He needed to be in therapy, not reporting on a presidential campaign.

The account of the Democratic National Convention in Miami would be worth something. If I could trust it. There’s a neat procedural chess match internal power machinations feel to it. There’s very clever strategy that goes on, and is entertaining to read about. If it even happened.

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