Remembering Hunter S. Thompson
Went and saw Willie Murphy last night at the Viking Bar. Drank Whiskey. Poured some on the ground. Paid tribute to a mighty legend, a teacher and, a beast of a writer. Willie dedicated Ray Charles’ “Unchain My Heart” to Hunter, whom Willie explained, “Told it like he saw it.”
What follows is a story that came through over the fax machine last night from a mysterious phone number, the country code says it’s from somewhere in Argentina! Judging from the insane scribbling and the dark smudge marks all over the paper, it could have come from only one person I know. It seems that the “El Profe” (aka The Good Doctor) was up drinking late last night – reminiscing about his good friend Dr. Gonzo…
— Begin Translation —
During my freshman year in college in Colorado I dressed on many, many occasions in the uniform of my hero – white Chuck Taylor low-tops, loud Hawaiian shirt, black cigarette holder with a Dunhill permanently locked and loaded, and yellow aviator shooting glasses. I am prematurely bald and at times when we are ripping into a crazed Friday night in the dorm the effect is eerily similar -through the haze of exhaled bong hits I really look like him. I blast the Apocalypse Now soundtrack, The Doors, and The Cowboy Junkies into the cold concrete hallways as my peers get dressed up to brave the snow and hunt down the best frat parties.
There are many rich and connected East coast kids at the school and one of them, who is an heir to a chemical fortune and has a “III” after his name, has a little black address book that is magic. On one occasion we prank call Tori Spelling and in a desperate late night and drug-addled effort to connect to things bigger than us, we make a late night call to Hunter S. Thompson but quickly hang up when he answers.
In October of 1991, my girlfriend’s parents take us to Aspen for a weekend of fine dining and a glimpse into the ski vacations of the ridiculously rich. I know that just 15 minutes down the road is the Woody Creek Tavern and I commandeer the minivan after everyone else declines the invitation to come with me. There are not many signs for Woody Creek and as I pull in I am imagining the best case scenario to be a photo of me grinning like an idiot in front of the place.
I walk in and wander over to check the walls for famous photos or signatures or some evidence that this is in fact the oft-referenced home court watering hole of Lono – the head truth teller and chief bullshit-caller of the second half of this century. The Doctor is also the only writer to make me laugh out loud and permanently twist my brain to look at the world correctly.
There are six or eight tables, a pool table, and a six-seat bar. I spot the famous Rolling Stone photo where HST is reclining on a parked motorcycle and confirm I am in the right place.
I wander around the outside edge of the bar, checking out more photos and end up standing in the doorway to the kitchen. My voice cracks a little as I ask a mustached guy in cooks’ whites if Dr. Thompson has been in recently. He points at the end of the bar with his knife.
“You mean Hunter?”
My first impression is that Hunter S. Thompson is larger than life. Really.
He is a thick, fleshy man who does not represent the face I have seen peering out from the black and white photographs. Airman Thompson is long gone and a growling Marlon Brando as Colonel Kurtz coughs from the far left barstool. He is wearing blue Levis, $400 Mephisto walking shoes, a white polo type shirt, and a thick plaid flannel jacket. He is smoking one cigarette after another. There are quartered grapefruits, bowls of chili, and a bottle of Chivas Regal on the bar. He sits next to a tough-looking blonde woman who is at least ten years younger.
“Hunter needs some water.”
One of the waitresses yells through the smoke and wet coughing. I stand rooted at the other end of the bar and imagine that he might, in fact, expire right then and there from the ferocity of the hacking and wheezing. Another younger waitress wants her photo taken and HST obliges but the camera doesn’t work.
I see my opening as I sit down a couple of stools away. “I have a camera in the car. I could take your photo and send you the picture.”
“No,” she replies, looking sideways, “he probably wouldn’t like that.”
Hunter then viciously chops some colored drink straws in half and jams a thick wood-handled steak knife into the top of the bar. He staggers up, coughing, and marches off to the bathroom, brushing against my arm along the way. He is gone for a solid ten minutes.
A sandwich arrives when he returns and he eats a single french fry before passing the plate to his blond companion. They seem to be going over a manuscript of some type as he smokes, growls, yells, and waves his hands. He flashes me a glare twice.
I order a Coke and realize that I am not ballsy enough or suave enough to plan much less execute my next move. I am completely in the hands of the two hard-faced waitresses. Things seem to be happening in slow motion as
I am stunned at the sight of Lono in full stride and at full volume.
The older waitress returns and smiles at me.
“Are you here to see Hunter?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you from?”
“Seattle” (Technically this is true).
“Well, stay right here. He’s got a full drink.”
The bartender looks up from the beer he is pulling. “And he’s in a pretty good mood.”
After the younger waitress and I decide that a book signing might be the best approach, I realize that I have left my copy of Curse of Lono back on the bedside table at The Molly Gibson lodge in Aspen. Idiot. I rip back in the maroon minivan and as I pull up to the Woody Creek Tavern the second time I see HST pointing himself towards his blue, wood-sided Jeep Cherokee. The Dr. smells a trick, or an interview request, or a feeble autograph attempt and he jumps in his car and sprays gravel out of the parking lot as soon as I get close to the door. There is an NRA sticker as big as a manhole in the back window that I see very closely as he almost backs over me in his haste to depart.
I go back in and the waitress smiles and offers me his lunch bar tab with the familiar three letter autograph as a consolation. HST tips an admirable 33% on the ticket.
I later drive up to see the entrance to Owl Farm, imagining that I might get shot at or at least stopped. The Pitkin County Sheriff stickers from the traumatic 1990 “lifestyle bust” are still on the gate. I realize that the day was not a failure and I got to see the real main event in its full glory. The end of my time at the Woody Creek Tavern seems the right way to finish the day. I could never hope to sit down for a beer or shoot guns with HST because I am nowhere near the same league of fire-breathing champion that he is.
It also seems that things should end the way no one would expect them to. As we stop to realize what is suddenly gone it doesn’t really matter why what happened on Sunday went down. The train is off the rails and there will be no more calling bullshit the way bullshit is meant to be called. The Kingdom of Fear is in a in a double-handed fascist death grip and the sane will have to go elsewhere for their shot of comic relief.
Res ipsa loquitur, Lono.
— End Translation —