Fear and Loathing with Ether

In a post-Watergate America, there are two journalistic camps. All young writers long to be either in the tribe of Woodward and Bernstein or of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. Nobody chooses to be Erma Bombeck. A tragedy like that happens only to scribblers with either incredibly bad timing or the misfortune to have pissed off an editor.

Woodward and Bernstein were the daring duo who unveiled the rabid ministrations of a syphilitic President Nixon, creating what we now know as Watergate. These two young bucks (who bear an uncanny resemblance to Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford) pioneered a firebrand class of journalism that relies on dogged attention to detail, unwavering integrity and an undying love of truth, no matter how insidious. They are revered by idealistic, starry-eyed writers who go to journalism schools and eventually take up advertising.

Hunter S. Thompson is known for his own particular warped vision of the truth, a fascination with weaponry and the pharmaceutical habits of a crack whore let loose in an opium den with a Platinum American Express card. He wrote a book describing his exploits with the Hell's Angels, convinced an obscure Hawaiian tribe he was their lost deity and shared a bathroom with Richard Nixon. He appeals to writers who drink too much, have more style than insight and want to get paid without doing work. He is a Gen-X idol.

So when Vegas.com asked me to get on the set of the film based on Hunter's triumphant book "Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas", a Rhino/Universal production now filming in town, I was enraptured with the prospect. I wanted to do it in Hunteresque-style. His landmark Gonzo journalism pits the writer against the story, down in the trenches, a part of it. My first newspaper editor used to berate me: "Don't be the camera, be the lens." Gonzo means fuck the camera, fuck the lens, hit the reader over the head with the tripod.

The first step in this plan was to get access to the set. So, I resigned my Air Force commission, filed for unemployment, went to a talent agent and was hired to be an extra for the movie. So far, so good. The getting paid = not working equation was still in harmonious balance.

At 2048 hours local time Aug. 4, I drove through the gate at the Main Street Station parking lot on Swenson and Casino Center. This pissed off the small Vietnamese man at the guard shack.

I yelled, "Movie cast! We're on the movie, you freak!" at him without rolling the window down. The redhead riding shotgun turned and looked at me with disgust. Her mood was quite ill. In preparation for an evening of thespian endeavor, I had forced her to stay up until 0500 viewing Kenneth Branagh's "Hamlet" while swilling Alambic brandy.

I parked the Avenger and unloaded the equipment. Working as an extra demands you bring three changes of clothing so the wardrobe weenies can tell you not to don any of it. I had also brought the basic necessities: a notebook, two novels (one by David Drake, one by John MacDonald), a Mini-Maglite, two black pens, a Spyderco climbing knife with a 4" serrated blade and two hip flasks. The redhead brought a macroeconomics textbook. We were set.

After announcing our presence and signing in, we began the first of what was to become many, many long waits of the evening. As no film stars were present, I decided to chat with a couple of people in line inside the wardrobe tent. A guy named Brett explained to me that he had been sent home from casting call the night before because they thought his ponytail did not belong in a film set in 1971. Tina, a blonde model with an MBA, described getting lost trying to find the parking lot. I started discussing Chaucer with them when I met a most extraordinary beast.

There are those among us who cannot help but join conversations they are not part of. This was such a creature. She would not give her name, so for the sake of journalistic integrity, I will refer to her as "The Dingbat." She began by explaining to anyone within earshot that she understood how the movie industry works. While everyone else had the foresight to look away, I had the misfortune to make eye contact, and she welded herself to me.

"You know, the people who get the roles aren't like you or me," The Dingbat began.

"No?" I asked.

"I know for a fact that 90 percent of Hollywood is either gay or bi."

"Hold that thought," I told her. I was going to need fortification if she was going to begin the revelations. I took a Continental Cola from the cast cooler, poured out half in the parking lot and replaced it with Bacardi. Grabbing my notebook and a pen, I returned to my place in line.

"So, who should I sleep with in order to become a star?" I asked The Dingbat.

She looked at me skeptically. "You wouldn't do that."

"Oh, yes, he would," the redhead assured her, nodding.

The Dingbat looked at the redhead, and then back at me. "Well," she said, "there was this young man who worked with me when I was on General Hospital. He smelled like wealth."

"Pardon me?" I interrupted. "Do you mean he smelled like money? Or that he could smell it?"

The Dingbat glared at me. "He smelled like wealth."

Before she could continue, I jumped in again. "So, he actuary smelled like currency? Or he smelled of wealth?"

She transfixed me with one phlegm-glazed eyeball. I saw the schizophrenia there, the kind that is not beaten by Ritalin or Prozac, but requires a Thorazine shot in the ass from an elephant gun to suppress. Having left mine at home, I felt suddenly at a firepower disadvantage, my fight-or-flight physiology cranking up for the impending attack.

It never came.

"He--smelled--wealthy," she spoke deliberately, enunciating each syllable.

"Oh, okay, I get it," I told her. "Carry on."

She weaved a tale involving this young smelly man and the producer who offered him a role in exchange for sex.

The Dingbat smirked haughtily at the punch line. "And he said 'No'."

I nodded, eyes wide. "So, did he get the part?"

Her nostrils flared. "No, he didn't!"

I nodded rapidly. "So, if I had sex with this producer guy, do you think I could get a part?"

She glared at me again, and tried to speak as condescendingly as possible in such a conversation. "The man is old and fat."

"I think if I could get over the hurdle of actually sleeping with a guy, I wouldn't care much what he looks like." Before she could reply, a wardrobe woman grabbed me and started feeling me up.

After trying out several possible options, I ended clad in a multi- pocketed ensemble of khaki trousers and sleeveless overshirt in earth tones. Brady Bunch-chic; very hip. Fully garbed, I had to wait another hour and half until the makeup and hair people decided they didn't even want to touch me. I was now free to wait for the casting call.
Sometime before dinner, we made the acquaintance of Stephanie, a 22-year-old Londoner, whose pixie appearance was embellished more than slightly to create the evil aliens in "Mars Attacks!" She claps her hands and exclaims with girlish glee, "I got punched out by Jim Brown! At this point, the rum had dwindled to empty, with friendly help from Tina, Brett, and our new pal, a dealer from a local casino waiting to do extra work in the film (as a dealer, of course). Because I do not wish to get the poor lad in trouble for his extracurricular drinking and toking habit, we'll call our dealer buddy John Smith. John volunteered to take Brett and go get some more supplies, so we chipped in and sent them off. While they were gone, we switched to tequila and Sprite.

At 0200, the caterers put out the spread. The word went out: Screen Actors' Guild members eat first. The fascist bastards swooped down on the grub as the rest of us losers looked on, a steady buzz growing as if we were a misplaced, underfed swarm of hornets.

After the lunch wagon shut down, we waited another hour. A wardrobe weenie assigned me a hat that looked like something an Alabama boy had worn at Appamattox, which I promptly ditched. We wandered over to introduce ourselves to an assistant-assistant-assistant producer named Kelly. She related the joys of living in a Winnebago, traveling from one movie set to the next, when she wasn't parked in her brother's driveway in Tahoe. Midway through the conversation, the walkie-talkie strapped into the webgear cradle on her chest started buzzing.

She put a finger to her earpiece and nodded. She looked at me. "Wanna be a paramedic?"

"Tell me whose life to save."

And I was off. A quick flurry through the wardrobe trailer and I literally had to run over to Binion's to make the set. They stuck me in the production room -the erstwhile Baccarat room- and told me to wait. There was more electronic hardware stacked over each square foot of area than in the Nellis control tower. Mark Harmon was brought in to have a quick touch-up on makeup and his microphone adjusted.

He looked at me, nodded, and said, "Hi."

I tried to decide between, "You know, 'Wyatt Earp' sucked," and "Do you ever regret leaving 'St. Elsewhere' ?"

"Hello," I said.

I watched them do four takes of a simple, two-minute scene. These clowns are not getting their millions' worth.

When I was 15, I saw Hunter Thompson speak at Marquette University in Milwaukee. Speak may be a strong word - he mumbled a great deal and the wittiest remark related the recent invasion of Grenada to storming a YMCA day camp. He had the complexion of ivory beef jerky and his shuffling, widespread gait was awkward and slow.

However, if I were to picture him in 1971, he would look just like Johnny Depp, who is playing the Good Doctor in the film. Well, okay, Depp is much shorter. But other than that - down pat. Depp has the amble, the gestures, the shaved pate...the whole Gonzo shebang.

I waited for another hour. They moved me out of the way, to the door of the newsstand inside Binion's and next to where they had stashed the costume rack. I waited.

A small man with a quad-pod walker came up to me. He said, "Property manager, huh?"

I blinked twice.

"Yeah, I was in the business, saw Burt Lancaster the year before he died. Now there was real athlete. Never smoked a day in his life, except when the role called for it."

I nodded silently.

"I worked with Jean Simmons, too," he told me. At first, I thought he was talking about being a KISS roadie. "What a beauty."

I eyed him skeptically.

He seemed to be taken aback. "True beauty, the kind that never really ages." I finally figured out he wasn't talking about Gene Simmons. He went on to explain how Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley were not really drug users, they just got confused because of all the fame and their evil doctors. He finally petered out and said good night. I raised a hand in farewell. I hadn't spoken a word.

I waited. A miniature Italian man walked out of the newsstand and shoved a copy of The National Enquirer under my nose. He jabbed a fat finger at the headline: JonBenet's Mother and Father Arrested! He yammered at me in a bizarre blend of English and a romance language, then left me standing alone, tired, bored and impatient.

An Asian blackjack dealer thirty feet away kept staring at me. She was sending telepathic massages at me: You aren't a star, you're just an extra. You make a lousy paramedic. They won't ever use you.

At 0700, they shot another scene, which the redhead got to be in. I met an extra who was a stand-in for Nick Cage in the upcoming "City of Angels". Terry Gilliam, the director, walked by, eyes wild, long hair unkempt, full beard in disarray. He went to a seat at least twenty yards away from anyone remotely related to the film. Gilliam may be a genius but he looked like refried shit at eight that morning. He stared vacantly into space, motionless, until an assistant director collected him, murmuring soothing words.

At 0930, it was a wrap. I hadn't been used at all. The redhead was in two scenes, one where she was playing blackjack just behind Johnny Depp. We were exhausted, disillusioned and pissed at the world. We went back to the parking lot and turned in our vouchers. We might get a check for $65 sometime, if they remember to send it. The getting paid = no work concept turned out to be just the opposite.

When they say "Fear and Loathing" have come to town, take them at their word.