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you may not find this interesting but I feel like sharing these with SOMEBODY....
Let me say at the outset that I never met Hunter Thompson, but I felt as though I had. I considered him a kindred spirit...
In the summer of 1972, as Richard Nixon unleashed his vicious campaign against George McGovern, I kept telling my parents (rather moderate Republicans) that if they really wanted to know what was going on in politics, they had to read Hunter S. Thompson in Rolling Stone. They brushed it off as some hippie ranting in a hippie leftist magazine, despite my repeated pleas to convince them otherwise.
then, toward the end of summer, we wound up a this little lakeside party with a bunch of their friends. At this party was one of the most respected journalism profs in the state, an elder statesman who had a hand in training most of the best journos in the state.
The folks asked him what they ought to be reading to keep up with the campaign. He replied:
"If you really want to know what's going on, you MUST read Hunter S. Thompson's essays in Rolling Stone."
Of course I was ecstatic. I left my folks a stack of RS with HST's work in them when i went back to school that fall. I don't think it changed their votes -- well, maybe my mom's -- but it certainly broadened their outlook.
II.
In 1993, several members of our family went to spend thanksgiving in Basalt Colo, just up the road from Snowmass and Aspen, and across the valley from HST's home. My brother in law and I went out one evening and he took me past HST's place. Weird iron gates out there.
Anyway, the next night I borrowed his car and went to Woody Creek Tavern, reputed to be HST's favorite night spot. Nice little place. I ordered a beer and a burger and sat on a stool and had a look around. It was quiet.
finally i asked a waitress: "Any chance mr. Thompson will be coming in tonight?"
"We never know when he's coming in," she said. "He just shows up."
She pointed out his favorite table and chair, over in a corner, and invited me to sit there. "If he comes in you'll have to move," she warned. Ok by me.
I had a couple more beers and then asked her: "Looks like he's not coming tonight, huh?" It was about midnight.
She allowed as how he usually came in before that time if he came at all. But sometimes he hit the tavern for last call.
She noticed my camera bag that I had been lugging around.
"You wanted to get a picture, huh?"
"Yeah, I was kind of hoping."
"Here," she said. She took a polaroid off the wall -- there were photos and crazy things on the walls and scraps of paper that he had signed - and handed it to me.
"Best I can do," she said.
"Thanks," I said.
Thompson is in the foreground, leaning toward the camera, a wicked grin on his face, as though he is imparting some kind of sage wisdom to the photographer. In the background are two exceptionally beautiful women, who appear to be laughing their asses off.
For a polaroid in bad light, it's a great photo. It's in my desk. I think I'll pull it out tonight.
if you made it this far, i thank you. i admit others probably had more interesting experiences with HST. God, I loved him.
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