just when I thought it was over

[Hunter Thompson excerpt -- campaign '72]--------------(Now, with no warning, another voice cuts into the sermon.  Four minutes after seven on Easter morning . . . and this one is a McGovern spot, talking about "courage" . . . but the voice has a definite flash quality to it:

Bobby Kennedy, come back to haunt us in the midst of this low-level campaign that would never have been necessary except for Sirhan Sirhan's twisted little hand . . . so now we have the taped voice of Robert Kennedy, long before he took a bullet in the brain, endorsing George McGovern on the radio in Milwaukee on Easter morning, four years later . . . )

There is not much talk about this around the McGovern campaign.  It was Frank Mankiewicz's idea to use the thing, and Mankiewicz was very close to Bobby.  He was the one who had to pull himself together on that grim morning in Los Angeles and go out to make The Announcement to a hospital lobby full of stunned reporters:  "Senator Kennedy died tonight. . ."

So the sound of his voice being used as a Paid Political Commercial is just a hair unsettling to some people -- even to those who might agree with the McGovern / Mankiewicz presumption that Robert would have wanted it this way.

Maybe so.  It's a hard thing to argue, and the odds are far better than even that Robert Kennedy would find McGovern preferable to any other candidate for the Democratic nomination at this time.  He never had much of a stomach for Hubert, except as the lesser of evils, and it probably never occurred to him that dim hacks like Muskie and Jackson would ever be taken seriously. ...

But in another sense the 1972 Democratic Campaign mocks the memory of everything Bobby Kennedy represented in '68.  It is hard to imagine that he would be pleased to see that -- four years after his murder -- the Democratic Party would be so crippled and bankrupt on all fronts that even the best of its candidates would be fighting for life by trying to put a good face on positions essentially dictated by Nixon & George Wallace.

In purely pragmatic terms, the Kennedy voice tapes will probably be effective in this dreary '72 campaign; and in the end we might all agree that it was Right and Wise to use them . . . but in the meantime there will be a few bad losers here and there, like me, who feel a very powerful sense of loss and depression every time we hear that voice -- that speedy, nasal Irish twang that nailed the ear like a shot of Let It Bleed suddenly cutting through the doldrums of a dull Sunday morning on a plastic FM station.

There is a strange psychic connection between Bobby Kennedy's voice and the sound of the Rolling Stones.  They were part of the same trip, that wild sense of breakthrough in the late Sixties when almost anything seemed possible.

The whole era peaked on March 31, 1968, when LBJ went on national TV to announce that he wouldn't run for re-election -- that everything he stood for was fucked, and by quitting he made himself the symbolic ex-champ of the Old Order.

It was like driving an evil King off the throne.  Nobody knew exactly what would come next, but we all understood that whatever happened would somehow be a product of the "New Consciousness."  By May it was clear that the next President would be either Gene McCarthy or Bobby Kennedy, and The War would be over by Christmas . . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Have mercy, baby, on a poor girl like me,
You know I'm falling, falling, falling at your feet.
I'm tingling right from  my head to my toes,
So help me, help me, help me make the feeling go.

'Cause when the loving starts, and the lights go down,
And there's not another living soul around,
Then you woo me until the sun comes up,
And you say that you love me.

Have pity baby,
Just when I thought it was over,
Now you got me running, running, running for cover.
I'm begging you for a little sympathy,
'Cause if you use me again it'll be the end of me.

'Cause when the loving starts -- and the lights go down,
And there's not another livin' soul around,
Then you woo me until the sun comes up,
And you say -- ay that you love me.

Baby, baby, hope you're gonna stay away,
'Cause I'm getting weaker, weaker every day...
I guess I'm not as strong as I used to be,
And if you use me again it'll be the end of me.

'Cause when the loving starts
and the lights go down
And there's not another living soul around,
Then you woo me until the sun comes up
And you say--ay that you love me.
Fallin' - fallin' - fallin'...
Fallin' -- fallin' -- fallin'....

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
{book excerpt:  Fear And Loathing:  On The Campaign Trail '72, by Hunter S. Thompson.  Copyright 1973.  Straight Arrow.  San Francisco}
{song:  "Say You Love Me" - written by Christine McVie - Fleetwood Mac, Reprise, 1975}

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thrown out just in time

This happened to me on the last Sunday of the regular NFL season when ------------------- [excerpt] -------------- two slobbering drunk sportswriters from the Alexandria Gazette got me thrown out of the press box at the Robert F. Kennedy stadium in Washington.  I was there as a special guest of Dave Burgin, sports editor of the Washington Star . . . but when Burgin tried to force a bit of dignity on the scene, they ejected him too.

...Actually, I was happy to get out of that place.  The Redskins were losing, which pleased me, and we were thrown out just in time to get back to Burgin's house for the 49er game on TV.  If they won this one, they would go against the Redskins next Sunday in the playoffs--...

[space]

...Not only did the 49ers stomp the jingo bastards and knock them out of the playoffs, but my seat companion for the flight from Washington to San Francisco was Edward Bennett Williams, the legendary trial lawyer, who is also president of the Washington Redskins.

"Heavy duty for you people tomorrow," I warned him.  "Get braced for a serious beating.  Nothing personal, you understand.  Those poor bastards couldn't have known what they were doing when they croaked a Doctor of Journalism out of the press box."

He nodded heavily and called for another scotch & soda.  "It's a goddamn shame," he muttered.  "But what can you really expect?  You lie down with pigs and they'll call you a swine every time."

"What?  Did you call me a swine?"

"Not me," he said.  "But this world is full of slander."

We spent the rest of the flight arguing politics.  He is backing Muskie, and as he talked I got the feeling that he thought he was already at a point where, sooner or later, we would all be.  "Ed's a good man," he said.  "He's honest.  I respect the guy."  Then he stabbed the padded seat arm between us two or three times with his forefinger.  "But the main reason I'm working for him," he said, "is that he's the only guy we have who can beat Nixon."  He stabbed the arm again.  "If Nixon wins again, we're in real trouble."  He picked up his drink, then saw it was empty and put it down again.  "That's the real issue this time," he said.  "Beating Nixon.  It's hard to even guess how much damage those bastards will do if they get in for another four years."

I nodded.  The argument was familiar.  I had even made it myself, here and there, but I was beginning to sense something very depressing about it.  How many more of these goddamn elections are we going to have to write off as lame but "regrettably necessary" holding actions?  And how many more of these stinking, double-downer sideshows will we have to go through before we can get ourselves straight enough to put together some kind of national election that will give me and the at least 20 million people I tend to agree with a chance to vote for something, instead of always being faced with that old familiar choice between the lesser of two evils?

I have been through three presidential elections, now, but it has been twelve years since I could look at a ballot and see a name I wanted to vote for.  In 1964, I refused to vote at all, and in '68 I spent half a morning in the county courthouse getting an absentee ballot so I could vote, out of spite, for Dick Gregory.

Now, with another one of these big bogus showdowns looming down on us, I can already pick up the stench of another bummer.  I understand, along with a lot of other people, that the big thing, this year, is Beating Nixon.  But that was also the big thing, as I recall, twelve years ago in 1960 -- and as far as I can tell, we've gone from bad to worse to rotten since then, and the outlook is for more of the same.

[space]

Not even James Reston, the swinging Calvinist, claims to see any light at the end of the tunnel in '72. ...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Do you always trust your first initial feeling
Special knowledge holds true, bears believing

I turned around
and the water
was closing
all around like a glove
Like the love that finally found me.
Then I knew
in the crystalline knowledge of you
Drove me through the mountains
Through the crystal-like and clear water fountains

Drove me -- like a magnet
To the sea
To the sea

How the faces of love have changed
turning the pages
And I have changed,
oh, but you, you remain ageless

I turned around

and the water

was closing

all around like a glove.

Like the love
that finally found me.
Then I knew
in the crystalline knowledge of you
Drove me through the mountains
Through the crystal-like and clear water fountains
Drove me like a magnet
To the sea
To the sea

= = = = = = = = = = = =

{book excerpt - Fear And Loathing:  On The Campaign Trail '72 -- Hunter Thompson.  Copyright-1973.  Straight Arrow.  San Francisco}
{song:  "Crystal"  written-Stevie Nicks, 1975 Fleetwood Mac album on Reprise label}

-30-

rap his whole trip

 Hube, baby.  I guess you heard...----------------- [Hunter Thompson excerpt - Campaign '72]---------------  Another nightmare we might as well start coming to grips with is the probability that Hubert Humphrey will be a candidate for the Democratic nomination this year . . . And . . . there is probably some interesting talk going down around Humphrey headquarters these days:

"Say . . . ah.  Hube, baby.  I guess you heard what your old buddy Gene did to Muskie the other day, right?  Yeah, and we always thought they were friends, didn't we?  (Long pause, no reply from the candidate. . .)

"So . . . ah . . . Hube?  You still with me?  Jesus Christ!  Where's that sunlamp?  We gotta get more of a tan on you, baby.  You look grey.  (Long pause, no reply from the candidate . . .)  Well, Hube, we might just as well face this thing.  We're comin' up fast on what just might be a real nasty little problem for you . . . let's not try to kid ourselves.  Hube, he's a really mean sonofabitch.  (Long pause, etc. . . .)  You're gonna have to be ready, Hube.  You announce next Thursday at noon, right?  So we might as well figure that crazy fucker is gonna come down on you like a million pound shithammer that same afternoon.  He'll probably stage a big scene at the Press Club -- and we know who's gonna be there, don't we Hube?  Yeah, every bastard in the business.  Are you ready for that, Hube Baby?  Can you handle it?  (Long pause, no reply, etc. - heavy breathing.)  OK, Hube, tell me this:  What does the bastard know?  What's the worst he can spring on you?"

[space in the text]

What indeed?  Was McCarthy just honing up his act on Ed Muskie?  Or does he really believe that Muskie -- rather than Humphrey -- was the main agent of Johnsonian policy at the '68 Convention?

Is that possible?  Was Muskie the man behind all that treachery and bloodletting?  Is McCarthy prepared to blow the whole lid off?  Whose head does he really want?  And how far will he go to get it?  Does the man have a price?

This may be the only interesting question of the campaign until the big whistle blows in New Hampshire on March 7th.  With McCarthy skulking around, Muskie can't afford anything but a thumping win over McGovern in that primary.  But Mad Sam is up there too, and even Muskie's local handlers concede Yorty at least 15 percent of the Democratic vote, due to his freakish alliance with the neo-Nazi publisher of New Hampshire's only big newspaper, the Manchester Union-Leader.

The Mayor of Los Angeles has never bothered to explain the twisted reasoning behind his candidacy in New Hampshire, but every vote he gets there will come off Muskie's pile, not McGovern's.  Which means that McGovern, already sitting on 20 to 25 percent of the vote, could rap Muskie's whole trip by picking up another 10 to 15 percent in a last-minute rush.

Muskie took a headcount in September and found himself leading with about 40 percent -- but he will need at least 50 percent to look good for the fence-sitters in Florida, who will go to the polls a week later . . . and in Florida, Muskie will have to beat back the show-biz charisma of John Lindsay on the Left, more or less, and also deal with Scoop Jackson, Hubert Humphrey, and George Wallace on the Right.

()(/

Jesus!  This gibberish could run on forever and even now I can see myself falling into the old trap that plagues every writer who gets sucked into this rotten business.  You find yourself getting fascinated by the drifts and strange quirks of the game.  Even now, before I've even finished this article, I can already feel the compulsion to start handicapping politics and primaries like it was all just another fat Sunday of pro football....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You can take me to paradise,
And then again you can be cold as ice
I'm over my head,
But it sure feels nice.

You can take me anytime you like,
I'll be around if you think you might
love me baby,
And hold me tight.

Your mood is like a circus wheel,
You're changing all the time,
Sometimes I can't help but feel,
That I'm wasting --
all of my time.

Think I'm looking on the dark side,
But every day you hurt my pride,
I'm over my head,
But it sure feels nice,
I'm over my head,
But it sure feels nice.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

{book excerpt:  Fear And Loathing:  On The Campaign Trail '72 -- Hunter S. Thompson.  Copyright 1973 -- Straight Arrow Publishing Co. - San Fran.}
{song:  "Over My Head" -- written by Christine McVie -- Fleetwood Mac 1975 album, Reprise.}

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dreams unwind...

"March"
[chapter title in Fear And Loathing:  On The Campaign Trail '72]------------------[excerpt]:

The View from Key Biscayne . . . Enter the Savage Boohoo; Madness & Violence on the "Sunshine Special" . . . Lindsay Runs Amok, Muskie Runs Scared . . . First Flexing of the Big Wallace Muscle; First Signs of Doom for the Democrats . . . Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here . . . Except Maybe Ted Kennedy . . .

"I get the feeling that Muskie is starting to run scared -- but not for the same reasons I keep reading about.  Sure, he's worried about Humphrey in Florida; he's worried about McGovern with the liberals, and he's worried about Lindsay, but -- well, there's the catch:  The Muskie people aren't afraid of Lindsay actually winning the nomination. . . . What worries them is that Lindsay might start doing well enough to force Kennedy into this thing."
   --A Former Campaign Mgr. & Political Strategist

The ghost of Kennedys past hangs so heavy on this dreary presidential campaign that even the most cynical journalistic veterans of the Jack & Bobby campaigns are beginning to resent it out loud.  A few days ago in Jacksonville, creeping through the early morning traffic between the Hilton Hotel and the railroad depot, I was slumped in my seat feeling half-alive and staring morosely at the front page of the Jacksonville Times-Union when I caught a few flashes of a conversation from behind my right ear:

". . . getting a little tired of this goddamn ersatz Kennedy campaign . . . now they have Rosey Grier singing 'Let the Sun Shine In' for us. . . . It seems like they'd be embarrassed . . ."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night
and wouldn't you love to love her?
Takes to the sky like a bird in flight
and who will be her lover?
All your life you've never seen
woman, taken by the wind
Would you stay if she promised you heaven?
Will you ever win?
She is like a cat in the dark
and then she is the darkness
she rules her life like a fine skylark
and when the sky is starless
All your life you've never seen
woman taken by the wind
Would you stay if she promised you heaven?
will you ever win?
Will you ever win?
Rhiannon
Rhiannon
Rhiannon
Rhiannon
...

Oooooooh
Taken by
Taken by the sky
Taken by
Taken by the sky
Taken by
Taken by the sky

Dreams unwind
Love's a state of mind
Dreams unwind
Love's a state of mind

= = = = = = = = = = = = =

{book excerpt:  Fear And Loathing:  On The Campaign Trail '72, by Hunter S. Thompson.  Copyright, 1973.  Straight Arrow Publishing Co., Inc., San Francisco.}
{song:  "Rhiannon" - written by Stevie Nicks.  Fleetwood Mac album, Reprise label; 1975.}

-30-

do I read a message in your eyes

----------- [excerpt -- Campaign-72, H.S. Thompson]-------------- A left-bent Fourth Party candidate with a few serious grudges on his mind could easily take enough left / radical votes away from either Muskie or Humphrey to make the Democratic nomination all but worthless to either one of them.

Nobody seems to know what McCarthy has in mind this year, but the possibilities are ominous, and anybody who thought he was kidding got snapped around fast last week when McCarthy launched a brutish attack on Muskie within hours after the Maine Senator made his candidacy official.

The front page of the Washington Post carried photos of both men, along with a prominent headline and McCarthy's harsh warning that he was going to hold Muskie "accountable" for his hawkish stance on the war in Vietnam prior to 1968.  McCarthy also accused Muskie of being "the most active representative of Johnson administration policy at the 1968 Convention."

Muskie seemed genuinely shaken by this attack.  He immediately called a press conference to admit that he'd been wrong about Vietnam in the past, but that now "I've had reason to change my mind."  His new position was an awkward thing to explain, but after admitting his "past mistakes" he said that he now favored "as close to an immediate withdrawal from Vietnam as possible."

*

McCarthy merely shrugged.  He had done his gig for the day, and Muskie was jolted.  The Senator focused all his efforts on the question of his altered Vietnam stance, but he was probably far more disturbed by McCarthy's ugly revenge-tainted reference to Muskie's role in the '68 Democratic Convention.  This was obviously the main bone in McCarthy's throat, but Muskie ignored it and nobody asked Gene what he really meant by the charge . . . probably because there is no way to understand what happened to McCarthy in Chicago unless you were there and saw it yourself.

I have never read anything that comes anywhere close to explaining the shock and intensity I felt at that convention . . . and although I was right in the middle of it the whole time, I have never been able to write about it myself.  For two weeks afterwards, back in Colorado, I couldn't even talk about it without starting to cry -- for reasons I think I finally understand now, but I still can't explain.

Because of this:  because I went there as a journalist, with no real emotional attachment to any of the candidates and only the barest of illusions about the outcome . . . I was not personally involved in the thing, so there is no point in presuming to understand what kind of hellish effect Chicago must have had on Gene McCarthy.

[ a space in the text ]

I remember seeing him cross Michigan Avenue on Thursday night -- several hours after Humphrey had made his acceptance speech out at the Stockyards -- and then wandering into the crowd in Grant Park like a defeated general trying to mingle with his troops just after the Surrender.  But McCarthy couldn't mingle.  He could barely talk.  He acted like a man in deep shock.  There was not much to say.  The campaign was over.

McCarthy's gig was finished.  He had knocked off the President and then strung himself out on a fantastic six-month campaign that had seen the murder of Martin Luther King, the murder of Bobby Kennedy, and finally a bloody assault on his own campaign workers by Mayor Daley's police, who burst into McCarthy's private convention headquarters at the Chicago Hilton and began breaking heads.  At dawn on Friday morning, his campaign manager, a seasoned old pro named Blair Clark, was still pacing up and down Michigan Avenue in front of the Hilton in a state so close to hysteria that his friends were afraid to talk to him because every time he tried to say something his eyes would fill with tears and he would have to start pacing again.

[ space ]

Perhaps McCarthy has placed that whole scene in its proper historical and poetic perspective, but if he has I didn't read it . . . or maybe he's been hanging onto the manuscript until he can find a right ending.  McCarthy has a sharp sense of drama, along with his kinky instinct for timing. . . . but nobody appears to have noticed, until now, that he might also have a bull-sized taste for revenge.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It was a blue letter
She wrote to me
It's silver words she told --
Wanna be -- on the road to paradise
I want a lover who don't get old.

Do I read a message in your eyes
You wanna love to stay another night
Baby when your day goes down
I won't be waitin' around for you.

For every voice you ever heard
There's a thousand without a word
Redbird, don't say you told me so,
Just give me one more song to go.

Do I read a message in your eyes
You wanna love to stay another night
Baby when your day goes down
I won't be waitin' around for you.

I -- ain't waitin'...

I -- ain't waitin' ... ... ...

====================
{book excerpt:  Fear And Loathing:  On The Campaign Trail '72, by Hunter S. Thompson.  Copyright, 1973.  Straight Arrow Publishing Co., Inc., San Francisco.}
{song:  "Blue Letter" - written by Michael Curtis, Richard Curtis.  Fleetwood Mac album, Reprise label; 1975.}

-30-

a peculiar affection

[excerpt, Fear And Loathing:  On The Campaign Trail '72, by Hunter Thompson]----------------------- I have a peculiar affection for [Eugene] McCarthy, nothing serious or personal, but I recall standing next to him in the snow outside the "exit" door of a shoe factory in Manchester, New Hampshire, in February of 1968 when the five o'clock whistle blew and he had to stand there in the midst of those workers rushing out to the parking lot. 

I will never forget the pain in McCarthy's face as he stood there with his hand out, saying over and over again:  "Shake hands with Senator McCarthy . . . shake hands with Senator McCarthy . . . shake hands with Senator McCarthy . . . ," a tense plastic smile on his face, stepping nervously toward anything friendly.  "Shake hands with Senator McCarthy" . . . but most of the crowd ignored him, refusing to even acknowledge his outstretched hand, staring straight ahead as they hurried out to their cars.

There was at least one network TV camera on hand that afternoon, but the scene was never aired.  It was painful enough, just being there, but to have put that scene on national TV would have been an act of genuine cruelty.  McCarthy was obviously suffering; not so much because nine out of ten people refused to shake his hand, but because he really hated being there in the first place.  But his managers had told him it was necessary, and maybe it was . . .

*

Later, when his outlandish success in New Hampshire shocked Johnson into retirement, I half-expected McCarthy to quit the race himself, rather than suffer all the way to Chicago....but a lot of people who said he was suffering from brain bubbles when he first mentioned that he might run again in '72 are beginning to take him seriously:  not as a Democratic contender, but as an increasingly possible Fourth Party candidate with the power to put a candidate like Muskie through terrible changes between August and November.

To Democratic chairman Larry O'Brien, the specter of a McCarthy candidacy in '72 must be something like hearing the Hound of the Baskervilles sniffing and pissing around on your porch every night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sleep....easy by my side
Into....gentle slumber you can hide
I.....I'm waiting
for the sun...
to come up....
I can't sleep...with your warm ways

Forever --

forever - love

Together --

together, love -- ...

=================
==============
{book excerpt:  Fear And Loathing:  On The Campaign Trail '72, by Hunter S. Thompson.  Copyright, 1973.  Straight Arrow Publishing Co., Inc., San Francisco.}
{song except:  "Warm Ways" -- written by Christine McVie -- Fleetwood Mac, released July 1975.  Label:  Reprise}

-30-

got to get some peace in my mind

The shittrain began on November 22nd, 1963, in Dallas...and then a year later, LBJ was re-elected as the "Peace Candidate."----------[excerpt, Hunter Thompson]---------------------Johnson did a lot of rotten things in those five bloody years, but when the history books are written he will emerge in his proper role as the man who caused an entire generation of Americans to lose all respect for the Presidency, the White House, the Army, and in fact the whole structure of "government."

And then came '68, the year that somehow managed to confirm almost everybody's worst fears about the future of the Republic . . . and then, to wrap it all up another cheapjack hustler moved into the White House.  If Joe McGinnis had written The Selling of the President about good old Ike, he'd have been chased through the streets of New York by angry mobs.  But when he wrote it about Nixon, people just shrugged and said, "Yeah, it's a goddamn shame, even if it's true, but so what?"

I went to Nixon's Inauguration.  Washington was a sea of mud and freezing rain....

= = = =

We couldn't find the commune.  The directions were too vague:  "Go far to the dim yellow light, then right at the big tree . . . proceed to the fork and then slow to the place where the road shines. . . . " 

After two hours of this I was half crazy.  We had been back and forth across the same grid of backroads two or three times, with no luck . . . but finally we found it, a very peaceful-looking place on a cold hill in the woods.

= = = =

Earlier that night, in Cambridge -- over dinner at a bogus Mexican restaurant run by Italian junkies -- several people had asked me why I was wasting my time on "this kind of bullshit."  McGovern, Muskie, Lindsay, or even Gene McCarthy.

= = = =

...That was four years ago.  LBJ was Our President and there was no real hint, in the winter of '68, that he was about to cash his check.  Johnson seemed every bit as tough and invulnerable then as Nixon seems today . . . and it is slightly unnerving to recall that Richard Nixon, at that point in his campaign, appeared to have about as much chance of getting himself elected to the White House as Hubert Humphrey appears to have now, in February of '72.

= = = =

Once they let you get away with running around for ten years like a king hoodlum, you tend to forget now and then that about half the people you meet live from one day to the next in a state of such fear and uncertainty that about half the time they honestly doubt their own sanity.

These are not the kind of people who really need to get hung up in depressing political trips.  They are not ready for it.  Their boats are rocking so badly that all they want to do is get level long enough to think straight and avoid the next nightmare.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Monday morning you look so fine
Friday I got travelin' on my mind
First you love me, then you fade away
I can't go on believin' this way
I got nothing but love for you
So tell me what you really want to do
First you love me, then you get on down the line
But I don't mind --
I don't mind --

I'll be there if you want me to
No one else that could ever do
Got to get some peace in my mind...

Monday morning you look so fine
Friday I got travelin' on my mind
First you love me, then you say it's wrong
I can't go on believing for long

But you know --
it's true
You only want me when I get over you
First you love me,
then you get on down the line
But I don't mind --
I don't mind --

I'll be there if you want me to
No one else that could ever do
Got to get some peace in my mind

-------------------------
---------------------------
{book excerpts:  Fear And Loathing:  On The Campaign Trail '72, by Hunter S. Thompson.  Copyright 1973}
{song:  "Monday Morning" -- Written, Lindsey Buckingham.  Label:  Reprise.  1975.  Fleetwood Mac album.}

-30-