Where's Ralph Steadman, you can imagine Hunter S. Thompson asking in his bullet-point snarl, swear words not far behind. Where's that “illiterate bastard,” that “filthy twisted pervert,” as he called his gonzo co-conspirator in letters reprinted in Steadman's new memoir, The Joke's Over, about the two of them. Thompson would have said this with his usual mix of bullying and affection, which still brings a laugh from Steadman to this day.“Don't write, Ralph. You'll bring shame on your family,” is another Thompson quote Steadman is fond of.
But where indeed is Steadman these days, that co-creator of early 1970s drug- and booze-drenched gonzo journalism as the artist who sketched Watergate-Middle America grotesqueries to accompany Thompson's words, and who decades later helped to shoot Thompson's ashes out of a 150-foot cannon? Where's Steadman when we need his satire the most?
Comfortably at home in England, thank you. “I was playing with my grandson, and you came and interrupted it,” says Steadman, who is now 70, over the phone. “And now they are going! Goddamn, I can't deal with this! Ah, bless your heart! What is this, The Globe and whatever?”
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