REMEMBRANCE OF HUNTER THOMPSON

It was December of 1996 at the Louisville Memorial Auditorium when I encountered Hunter S. Thompson. The event was a tribute to the good doctor, and Thompson was screaming, swilling whisky from a glass jar and blasting anyone within close range with a fire extinguisher. He wandered over in my direction and instead of shooting, handed it to me saying, “Go on! Do it! It’s fun!” I was nervous and discharged a couple of lame bursts in no particular direction before I aimed it at him, and then thought, “Uh, oh. Not smart. I’d better let someone do this who can get away with it..” His son Juan was standing next to me so I handed him the musket. Juan then blasted his father with a steam of frozen CO2 while Dr. Thompson danced around like a Labrador Retriever under a hose.

It was a wild evening with Johnny Depp chugging a bottle of Chevis Regal, Warren Zevon playing his litany of Hunter inspired tunes, Roxanne Pulitzer dressed tightly in black, Hunter’s mother Virginia puffing on a cigar from her wheelchair, and just about anyone in Louisville who ever knew Hunter or lived through him vicariously. The one thing I will never forget was Thompson’s energy. He was mad, raving; barking his words rather than speaking, but at his core was a pure unmitigated joy. He was alive and loving every moment of it.

One of the reasons I attended that evening was to try and get Hunter to sign my copy of Hell’s Angels. I knew Thompson hated signing autographs but this book had already been signed by Sonny Barger and a soon-to-be killed president of the Oakland Hell’s Angels. Yet even with that kind of clout I decided Thompson would probably chew it up and spit it out at me. Given his state I knew it was too dangerous. I thought it best that he remain happy.

Juan was still standing next to me and after we chatted awhile I impulsively asked him if he would be willing to sign it. Juan was totally surprised that anyone would ask him for his autograph but graciously took my pen and scribbled, “Juan Thompson, in the spirit of HST.”

That was my only encounter with Hunter Thompson – and believe me that was enough -- but I could tell he loved his life.

Today I pulled my copy of Hell’s Angels off the shelf and read Juan’s inscription. His words were like a comforting epitaph.

Paul McDonald © 2005