Jesus, the guy was a stutterer or, more correctly, a recovering stutterer—he’d been fine early in the conversation, but now that the pressure was on, he’d fallen apart completely. I couldn’t stand it. Hunter had broken him; he’d taken a perfectly nice man who clearly idolized him and reduced him to what I’m sure the man hated most about himself. I looked at Hunter; his face was contorted with shock and remorse.
I empathized with the poor professor, his was a tragic case. But it was the grief on Hunter’s face that got me. I don’t know if I’d ever seen anything just like it before. I charged out of the kitchen and into the living room—just in case I couldn’t suppress my laughter.
It took me lots of time and substances to regain my composure. When I returned to the kitchen I found Hunter still on the phone, coping with the awkwardness of the situation as best he could—in his own particular fashion.
I guess you could say that the art of apology wasn’t something that Hunter ever really bothered to master. I’m sure if he had, he would have been great at it, but it wasn’t his thing. He was, however, talking soothingly at the speakerphone. I paused for a moment, hoping to hear a non-stuttered reply, but there was only silence from the other end of the line. Hunter kept on.
I felt awfully bad for the guy, but I’m sure Hunter felt worse. I could see that right away. Of course that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t do it again as soon as the mood struck him.
As I walked toward my truck, the cloud had passed and the sun was shining brightly, the breeze had warmed and the peacocks were again strutting and squawking. I felt these men should be left alone to their business.
DOCUDRAMA
I was trotting across the lawn toward the driveway waving two pornographic calendars; the young filmmakers were trotting faster. This was kind of surprising because they were burdened by a lot of heavy equipment. Of course they had more incentive, and several more trips to make. The electric cords and fixtures that they were trailing must have made it awkward for them.
Of all the film crews I’d encountered at Owl Farm over the years, these guys seemed the most professional. What I know about filmmaking would fit in a shot glass with plenty of room left over for whiskey. So, when I say they seemed professional, I mean they had lots and lots of equipment. Big bright lights, big shiny cameras.
I’d first encountered them around four in the afternoon that same day. I was heading out the door and they were pulling into the driveway of Owl Farm. When they got out of their rig, I placed myself between them and the door. Hunter’s friends tended to screen strangers. They could see what I was doing and good-naturedly said that it was okay, they were expected. Hunter and I had just been having a nice, neighborly afternoon visit, nothing degenerate, so I introduced myself, wished them luck with whatever they were up to, and scrammed.
A few hours later I was making myself some dinner when Hunter’s voice came on my answering machine. “Michael, are you there? Pick up. You have to get over here. I need help.” This not being my first rodeo, I gauged the actual urgency in his voice as moderate, listened, and ate my dinner. When I finished, I speed-dialed Owl Farm and when Hunter’s machine picked up I just said, “It’s me. I’m coming right over,” and headed out.
I arrived in Hunter’s kitchen minutes later. Doc was on his stool, and the two film guys were there. Thirtysomething, clean-cut, and sober, they looked fine to me. Hunter gave me a hug, told me to grab a beer, and hauled out the coke grinder to make me feel welcome. As the guys and I were introducing ourselves I peered around them and into the living room. Lots of high-tech equipment in there.
Filmmakers. These guys were filmmakers. They’d driven out from L.A. just to interview Hunter. They were making a documentary on George McGovern and his presidential bid, which had been the inspiration for Hunter’s book Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail. The senator had called personally and asked if Hunter would do him a favor and talk to these guys. It had been set up for weeks. Sure. Time passes, moods change. Now they were at Owl Farm and things weren’t going so well. It had been hours since they’d arrived and all they’d been able to accomplish was to move about half their equipment into the living room and piss Hunter off.
They were nice fellas. Smart, courteous, and professional. What could they have done wrong? Nothing. But timing is everything. Hunter simply didn’t feel like being bothered at that particular moment, so he decided that they were half-assed and ill-prepared. And now they were paying an unpleasant price. I was there for what? To back Hunter up? To help boot the poor bastards out? I really didn’t feel like helping Doc crucify them, because, to me, they seemed whole-assed and well-prepared. I didn’t, however, mind hanging around, swilling a couple of beers, and snorting some after-dinner gag. So, I was in for the show.
Now, this being-interviewed-on-camera thing was something that Hunter had done a thousand times, and when he was enjoying himself, he was great at it. He was smart enough and professional enough that, even in traction, he should have been able to pull it off with no trouble. Hunter felt fine, but was disinclined to put himself out on this particular evening. I tried to reason with him. Just do it, get it over with. They’ll leave. It seemed so simple. Too simple, apparently. Hunter raged, I mollified, the filmmakers wrung their hands. Hunter and I drank, the filmmakers wrung their hands. Hunter and I snorted, the filmmakers wrung their hands. Hunter accused them of knowing nothing of his work. Jesus, they had every book he’d ever written with them. Not new copies, either—beat-up, dog-eared pages marked, passages highlighted. They knew a lot more about his work than I ever would. The interview was about as close to scripted as you could get. Piece of cake. No surprises, no ambushes. I suggested that we read from some of the highlighted stuff. I suggested that I read. Okay.
Hunter, a funny writer, enjoyed hearing his work read, liked to hear people laughing at it. Like clouds parting in the middle of a terrible storm, a patch of blue appeared with a couple little birds flying around up there. Hunter lightened. I hoped this would be a window of opportunity. “Okay, go get your stuff,” Hunter said. The technical guy charged out of the kitchen. He proceeded to set up these huge lights and what-all in the living room. The interviewer guy stayed with Hunter and me in the kitchen. I kept reading. There was lots of setting-up going on out there; they had tons of shit, and it was taking time. The clouds closed in again; no more blue sky. The birds were gone, probably dead. The window closed; too bad. The abuse resumed. I felt bad for the guys, although, I must confess, making them think that everything was going to be all right was a nice touch.
My mind raced. I was running out of gambits to try to make the situation less ugly. Then I thought of it: the calendar. The calendar combined the two things Hunter loved most: naked women and Hunter. “Doc, have they seen the calendar yet?”
I had produced a dirty calendar a couple of years earlier. Hunter had been asked to write a one-line endorsement to try to help sell the thing and he ended up writing a whole essay. It had its own page. The calendar was coveted by the hip, in-crowd, from New York to L.A. It was a fine bit of writing, never published anywhere else. And the images were depraved.
No, they hadn’t seen the calendar, but Hunter had run out of them. As I had hoped, the thought seemed to cheer him. All those naked girls, his own words. I said I’d go back to my cabin and grab a couple. I should have considered the downside of my leaving. When I returned to the kitchen I saw that things had gone to a place that is usually reached in a handbasket. The guys were huddled by the front door clearly planning a break. Hunter was raging. I heard the door opening, looked into the living room to see them heading out with armloads of equipment. “Jesus, Hunter, at least sign these for them.” Hunter was beaming, his mission accomplished. He cheerfully signed the calendars, and I chased after the filmmakers. I caught up with them at their van and pressed the calendars on them. They were grateful and thanked me for trying to help. That was it. I went inside and visited with Hunter while the film guys continued to make trips load
ing up equipment. I said goodnight, and left before they had finished.
FUCK
The next set of documentarians arrived while Hunter and I were sitting in the kitchen chewing the fat and watching some tube. They were expected—I mean, God help them if they hadn’t been—but not by me. It had been several weeks since the last cinematic incident at Owl Farm. Maybe Hunter thought it would be a nice surprise for me to see more movie guys coming through the door, or maybe he didn’t think it worth mentioning. All of a sudden they were in the kitchen. Earnest and beaming. Owl Farm! Hunter Thompson’s lair! Just like they’d imagined it! Oh, yeah.
There were two guys, Steve Anderson, director of the narrative feature The Big Empty, and a sound technician/cameraman. Both were sharp. The last guys were sharp, too, but sharp isn’t enough. Dumb luck is what it takes, and these guys were lucky, at least that night. Hunter was in a fine mood and ready for whatever was going to happen next. So this new crew was welcomed, and we introduced ourselves. Once again the subject of the film wasn’t Hunter. Why would anyone make a film about something other than Hunter? Remarkably, their subject was interesting anyway. It was the word fuck. They had been crisscrossing the country interviewing well-known and influential people about their attitudes re. fuck. Clearly, this was a high-concept film. The kind of out-of-the-box, lateral-thinking sort of thing that appealed to Doc. I was appalled.
The guys accepted some beers, and we made small talk, eventually getting around to their project. The list of people they’d spoken to, and were planning on talking to, was impressive. Filmmaker Kevin Smith, conservative film critic Michael Medved, columnist Judith Martin (Miss Manners), rapper Ice-T, singer Alanis Morissette, newsman Sam Donaldson, porn actor Ron Jeremy, and a bunch of stand-up comedians whose names are more or less household words.
Hunter left the room to shine himself up for the camera. While he was gone we discussed the film: the hypothetical Southern white guy who would brain you for using the word fuck around the womenfolk but who uses the word nigger around them with impunit y, people who think you ought to be allowed to bellow fuck in the schoolyard at recess time. These movie dudes were serious guys who wanted to make a serious and funny film. When Hunter returned, both guys had to get to setting up. They gave us a tape to watch, a rough cut of a couple of interviews. We popped it in, and were immediately enthused. The first interview was with Ben (God) Bradlee. It goes without saying that he was lucid, brilliant. We agreed with everything he said, glancing at each other, nodding in agreement with every word he uttered. Freedom-of-speech stuff, nothing unexpected, though. The surprise came with the next interview: Pat “April Love” Boone. As you might expect, he disapproved of this kind of language. What was unexpected was that he was kind of reasonable and articulate. No ranting right-wing prick, he simply talked about good manners and propriety. Hunter and I were impressed. Not enough to take any vows of pure speech, but we had to give old Pat a little credit.
By the time the tape was over, the guys had finished setting up. We congratulated the boys on their work. How the hell did they get Pat Boone to do an interview on this subject? Hunter was still in a good mood; it was getting late, prime time for him, bedtime for me. The movie guys had to go with the flow. I said goodnight; they went to work.
Fuck, directed by Steve Anderson, premiered at the AFI Los Angeles International Film Festival in April 2005. The promotions for the film billed Hunter’s segment as “one of his last interviews.”
One Bright Shining Moment: The Forgotten Summer of George McGovern, directed by Stephen Vittoria, premiered in September 2005. The film featured Gore Vidal, Gloria Steinem, Warren Beatty, Dick Gregory, Gary Hart, Frank Mankiewicz, Howard Zinn, Jim Bouton, Sen. Jim Abourezk, Rev. Malcolm Boyd, and Ron Kovic. No Hunter S. Thompson.
Bob Discusses Hunter and the Secret Service
In the eighties, Hunter was in great demand on campus. His appearances were contingent upon his receiving, prior to taking the stage, a brown paper bag with thousands of dollars in small bills inside.
I had watched videos of some of these gigs with Hunter at the farm. They generally followed the same format: opening remarks, usually timely and provocative; Q&A, with the As ranging from brief to epic; and then a closing riff.
While viewing the tapes, Hunter, as with everything, analyzed his performance, praising himself or delivering brutally honest self-criticism. I remember one review during which Hunter kept stopping and rewinding and then replaying the tape at the same point. “What are you doing?” I asked. He said, “Watch. You’ll see when the whisky overcomes the cocaine.” Hunter played the tape and marked to the minute when he started slurring his words.
Before his performances, Hunter, offstage, would snort enough gag to jump-start a diesel engine and then walk out into the lights. There was always a bottle of Chivas and ice and water onstage, and during his performance he’d swill a lot of Scotch. At best, his mumbling was hard for the uninitiated to understand. And during his appearances, when the Scotch caught up with—and then passed—the gag, well, incomprehension was the order of the day. During this VHS viewing, he said, “See? Right there! I can’t talk anymore. Even I can’t understand myself. I have to remember to schedule a two-minute break to walk offstage, snort up, and get the chemicals in balance. The students deserve that.” That was Hunter. Considerate to a fault.
I got a call one evening in 1987. Hunter asked if I would meet with him and a Secret Service agent the next day at the Holiday Inn in Aspen. The agent had requested an interview with Hunter at Owl Farm. Hunter countered by suggesting a meeting in a room he rented at the motel. He wanted no agents, no agencies, at the farm. Lessons had been learned.
Apparently during a show at Marquette University in Wisconsin, Hunter had stated to the audience, “You’re mostly Jesuits, and Jesuits understand guilt.” He went on to condemn George H. W. Bush, Reagan’s vice president, as the most guilty man in Washington. “In fact,” Hunter said, “he’s so guilty that he should be tarred and feathered, tied to a rail, and dumped outside the Capitol.”
It is the mandate of the Secret Service to investigate any real or perceived threats against those who are protected by the agency. This includes the VP. After the Milwaukee office read about Hunter’s suggestion to the students at Marquette, the Milwaukee bureau called the Denver office, and agent Larry Hoppe drew the assignment.
Hunter had brushed up against scores of Secret Service men when he was covering Nixon, McGovern, Carter, and others. Having sized him up, they liked him, and Hunter got access to the candidates.
No doubt Larry Hoppe had read Hunter’s file, but policy is policy, and formalities are requisite. I left the brilliant Colorado sunshine at 10:00 A.M. and started down the dark corridor to Hunter’s room. My eyes had yet to adjust to the gloom, so I sensed rather than saw a male figure approaching me. “Dr. Thompson?” he said.
“No. I’m Bob Braudis, Pitkin County Sheriff.”
“Larry Hoppe, U.S. Secret Service. Are you here for my interview with Mr. Thompson?”
“Yes” I said. “Room 162.”
I knocked at the door, and it was opened by Deborah Fuller. I introduced Larry to Deborah and we entered to find Hunter rising from the Inn’s armchair in his true gentlemanly fashion. “Good morning, Dr. Thompson. Larry Hoppe, United States Secret Service.”
“You got ID, Larry?”
Hoppe showed his tin and credentials. He gave Hunter the background leading to this interview/interrogation and explained that he first had to complete a questionnaire of the “suspect.”
“Full name, please.”
“Hunter S. Thompson”
“S stands for Stockton?”
Smile. “Yes, sir.”
Place of birth, date of birth, current address, etc., standard cop fare. Then the agent asked about level of education. Hunter said college, and Larry asked where. “Columbia,” Hunter said. My brows rose, but I stood mute. News to me.
“Major,” the agent asked.
; “Chemotherapy,” Hunter replied.
Larry wrote it down. “Do you have a Colorado driver’s license?”
“Yes.”
“Might it be expired?” posed agent Hoppe.
“Well, let’s see,” Hunter said as he fumbled for his wallet. Then: “Goddamnit, Deborah! You let my license expire!” Larry had done his homework. He asked about weapons and Hunter gave him a partial list, the legal version of his inventory. The conversation became less formal. I assured Hoppe that Hunter was no threat to Bush or the social fabric. Soon Hoppe opened his briefcase and removed two or three of HST’s bestsellers and requested that Hunter sign them. Hunter, of course, obliged proudly and cordially.
I found it ironic that an investigator would end his interview with a request for a favor. But how many times would this opportunity arise?
Hunter and Hoppe kept up a correspondence for years, through Hoppe’s retirement. Hunter attracted a full spectrum of fans and recognized quality and sincerity.
Hoppe left the Inn. Hunter, Deborah, and I went to the restaurant. Hunter ordered everything on the menu, nibbled at some, had it all boxed, and went home. I went back to work.
Cleverly Tells of the Lisl Auman Crusade
The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.
The Kitchen Readings Page 15