Fun in Acapulco, Elvis is Dead

Revolution happens when one group takes power from the other. Once in power, the victorious regimes' authority brings them riches, which make the other groups jealous so they revolt.                                                                                                                     

Karl Marx said in Das Kapital, 

political and historical events are the result of a conflict of social forces caused by material needs.

Revolt rolls the dice of worldwide society, everything's about who controls the money.

The Mexican Revolution of 1910 lasted a year, the armed struggle transformed Mexican culture and government.

The revolution broke out because the election of 1910 was rigged by the despotic Porfirio Diaz regime, which had been in power for 31 years. 

Francisco Madero, who ran against Diaz, revolted against the Diaz regime the same year, 1910. 

Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata were generals in Madero’s revolutionary army, that, after a year of bloody fighting defeated the Mexican Army forces of Porfirio Diaz. 

The 2 revolutionaries handed the Mexican presidency to Madero on a bandeja de plata.

Villa and Zapata went on to become legends. And, it could be said of the duo— if you wanted to kick off a revolution in Mexico back in the day, you could count them in. 

The practiced revolutionaries would commit to a revolution at the drop of a peso. Revolution was their daily bread and only hustle.

It’s September 22, 1986, in Mexico City somewhere.

The tribe, Henry, Lucia, and Summer Wynd, wake up in their hotel room at 11 AM. Henry insists they travel to Acapulco by bus— a perilous journey in a large motor vehicle driven by a loaded bus driver through winding mountain roads. 

Summer Wynd pays the bill at the front desk of the Zocalo Hotel. It’s noon and the tribe hasn’t had coffee. They leave their small bags at the bellman’s station in front of the hotel and walk a few blocks to Maria’s Rosquillas y Cafe. 

Standing at the counter of the small coffee shop they enjoy hot churros brushed with cinnamon and sugar washed down with brewed Mexican coffee of unparalleled taste.

Lucia pays for brunch and picks up a dozen churros to go.

The bellman whistles for a taxi, the hack shows and double-parks the cab at the entrance of the hotel, getting out and opening the front trunk of the VW Beetle and loading the bags.

Lucia sits shotgun in the taxi next to the hack. Saying,

Central de Autobuses del Norte, despacio!

It’s a hot, humid afternoon in Mexico City, 33*Celsius. As usual, traffic is heavy. 

After driving 30 minutes, the cab stops behind the rows of Mercedes Benz buses parked side by side vertically at the back of the station.

Buses to Acapulco leave every 2 hours. Henry buys 3 VIP Express tickets. The luxury bus has a stewardess who sells beer and snacks. It’s a 5-hour drive to Acapulco with only a few stops.

With an hour to wait until their bus leaves, the tribe secures their bags in peso lockers. Then, buying a box of bean tacos and some iced Fresca, which they carry to a  shaded tree-lined park near the bus station. 

As they sit around a cement picnic table it's clear no one's hungry. Summer Wynd breaks up the tacos and churros bought earlier into bits to feed the pigeons who are gathered around a sign that reads, 

                          NO ALIMENTES A LAS AVES, 

                                EL FINO ES 1000 PESOS

Don’t feed the birds! They ignore the sign, tossing morsels of donuts and taco shells to the pigeons. Lucia says, 

the hungry pelomas are like rats with wings!

A flying rat shits on Henry’s head. Lucia wets a handkerchief at the water fountain, cleaning his hair and saying, 

darling, the Chinese believe it’s good luck when a bird poops on you! Vexed he answers, 

luck like this, I don't need! Let’s find our bus.

They unlock and open the peso lockers, taking out their small bags and Henry’s cased portable typewriter. Then walking to a brightly painted Mercedes Benz bus with a designation banner over the front window reading, 

                          ACAPULCO VIP EXPRESS

Seats are first come first serve, the threesome is early so they stake out a window and 2 aisle seats next to one another in the back row.

In 20 minutes the bus is full with passengers, gringo tourists, and middle-class Mexicans. 

The driver who isn’t loaded yet backs the bus out of the parking stall, maneuvering the large motor vehicle through tight city streets until he reaches Highway 95, the yellow break road to Acapulco. Henry comments,

we're on our way to Acapulco where Elvis's film, Fun in Acapulco was shoot!

In the film, Elvis is a humble and freaked out ex-trapeze artist slash lifeguard in 1963 Acapulco who sings to make ends meet. As the film rolls on he finds he is forced to fight off women who're hot for his body and local bullies. 

The bus is 30 minutes into the trip as it cruises the flatlands. The luscious stewy is wearing a once piece fluorescent green uniform— a short skirt, white patent leather go-go boots, and a wedged cap with her hair wrapped inside.

She pushes a trolly down the aisle loaded with cans of soft drinks, beer, bottled water, and a choice of mixed nuts, been tortillas or chips.

The tribe buys 9 cans of Corona, willing to drink warm suds, worried it will be the only opportunity they have to buy beer. Proof they were alcoholics, something they knew but were remiss about.

The stewy moors the trolly in the back of the bus, then walking back down the aisle to the front of the bus. Henry, who's sitting in an aisle seat, feels an urge to grab the sexy stewy’s rotund ass, which moves fluidly from side to side as she ambles, but he knows better. 

Mature males of all ages on the bus are eyeballing her intently, wanting to grope her fine ass.

In 2 hours the bus reaches the outskirts of Cuernavaca, stopping in a rest area off of Highway 95 with a gas station, restaurant, convenience store, small pharmacy, and restrooms.

The girls make a run for the lady’s room. There's an appalling smell inside, maybe a dead iguana or rat is decomposing in a drainpipe. The toiletry and walls are covered with brown film. They go into separate stalls, closing the doors, hovering inches above but not sitting on the toilet seats, afraid of catching a strain of an awful Mexican funk.

At the sinks they spritz water on their faces, drying with their own handkerchiefs because there are no paper towels available.

Outside the ladies' room in front of mirrors, they refresh their make up. Looking gorgeous was paramount for them, something glamorous women cared about. 

Henry walks into the convenience store. There's a small drug store in the rear. An old man with grey hair wearing a white laboratory coat is standing behind the counter. He approaches the pharmacist, knowing you can buy morphine in Mexico with a fake script or no script at all. Saying,

I’d like a bottle of codeine tablets! The old man doesn’t understand so he tries Spanish,

tabletas codeína, codeína! The guy smiles, turning and taking a brown bottle of codeine pills from the shelf saying, 

doscientos pesos, Henry hands him 200 pesos.

Back on 95, the bus reaches Ciudad Iquala de la Independencia at the base of La Sierra Madre del Sur— a mountain range extending 1000 kilometers into Southern Mexico from Michoacán east through Guerrero. 

Henry pours codeine tablets out of the brown bottle into one hand, swallowing 1 as he tells the girls,

take a codeine pill, it'll make you feel good, sleepy maybe, and help with motion sickness. We're going to be moving uphill on a winding road for the next 100 kilometers. 

As he comes on to the codeine, he nods out, dreaming of  John Huston’s 1948 film The Treasure of Sierra Madre. Fred C. Dobbs, Bob Curtain, and the grizzled prospector Howard in the Sierra Madre Mountains, living in harsh conditions, fighting off banditos, and panning for gold. 

Eventually, the hapless prospectors hit pay dirt, accumulating a fortune in gold dust which is tossed into the wind by peasants who have stollen the miners mules, thinking the gold dust is sand.

The engine of the Mercedes bus hums as the beer-bellied Mexican driver jacks the large steering wheel from left to right, occasionally swigging from a flask of tequila. 

The more he sucks on the flask, the more chances he takes passing slow-moving vehicles.

There's a football-sized sticker above the buses’ front window of the Virgin Mary framed by the words,

                            ILLUMINATE MY PATH!

The holy sticker was blessed by a Franciscan Padre and it possesses an aura that radiated beams of holy light.

La Virgen María was the stewed driver's co-pilot. Consequently, he could pass cars at will, faithful the virgin was clearing the path as she poured out sacred laser beams.

The loaded driver’s reckless driving terrifies Lucia and Summer Wynd. They're fearful the bus will crash head-on into a truck or tumble down a ravine. Lucia is visibly shaken as she says to Henry,

you knew the bus trip would be dangerous! Are you loco dick clown? 

Finally, her green twig snaps, she gets up from her seat, walking directly to the borracho bus driver, speaking to him in Spanish with a Mexican accent, 

My uncle is El Presidente of The Black Hand Mafia in Acapulco. Drive with care pendejo or I will tell him to send a hitman to cut your fucking head off! Comprendes?  

It was a persuasive lie, she was Cuban, not Mexican. The beer-bellied bus driver believed her, driving the remaining 80 kilometers to Acapulco like a nun pushing a cart of eggs. 

At Terminal Central de Acapulco the beer-bellied driver's perspiring, standing outside the bus wishing the departing passengers luck.

As Lucia walks off the bus he bows graciously to her saying in Spanish,

Madame, I hope you had a pleasant trip. I beg of you, please don’t speak ill of me to your uncle, who I know to be great, great man!

Leaving the bus station they walk a short distance to  Acapulco Bay in the central city, howling with laughter all the way. 

Lucia was an actress in Cuba, she had supporting roles in many Cuban films of the 70s, such as—Life is a Whistle, Vampires of Havana and The Last Supper, all the while servicing Fidel Castro to help make ends meet. Summer Wynd says to her, 

You're so talented darling, the driver was pissing his pants.

As they walk on the sidewalk across from the bay Henry’s thunderstruck as he sees Hotel Las Hamacas down the road.

He had stayed there with his deaf nanny Nil in the 60s, a 2-week vacation on his rich Uncle Victor Lucowski’s dime.

Looking at the girls excitedly with big eyes he says, 

my God, Hotel Las Hamacas! My deaf nanny Nil and I had so many mind-blowing times there. We tasted many firsts— booze, ganja, sex, and LSD. Lucia who is still pissed about the dangerous bus ride says to him,

did you fuck Nil Henry? He chuckles answering, 

of course, I was a virgin and she was wild sexually, deafness enhanced her sensuality.

The tribe walks into the lobby of Hotel Las Hamacas, schlepping their small bags and Henry’s portable typewriter inside. 

The hotel is more like a motel— a 2 story L shaped residence partially wrapped around a swimming pool.

It was originally built in the 30s, then demolished and rebuilt in the 50s. The hotel hadn't changed much since the 60s when Henry and Nil had stayed there.

The tribe likes the hotel because it’s centrally located and across the road from the Acapulco bay, which had a sand beach.

Henry books a room with a kingsized bed for 3 days at 500 pesos a day. The room price includes a scrumptious Mexican breakfast of homemade hard rolls, churros, fresh sliced fruit, and coffee with milk.

They walk to their room, 103. The patio opens to the swimming which is shaded by palm trees.

After they settle in the hotel room, Henry begins typing a story on his portable typewriter as Lucia and Summer Wynd put on their bikinis. 

The girls walk through the lobby to the beach which is across the street, where they rent beach chairs and umbrellas from a vendor.

They’re not at the beach to suntan, they're there to be looked at, to people watch, and to get loaded on pina coladas served in fresh green coconuts. 

They sit in their beach chairs under large umbrellas sipping pina coladas and chatting as they watch the activities in the bay— water skiing, jet skiing, and parasailing. 

Beachgoers walking on the shore eyeball Lucia and Summer Wynd, whose skimpy bikinis barely cover their bodies. Both are incredibly built with movie star good looks.

They enjoy the attention of the gawkers, egging on the male beachgoers by tonguing the straws in their drinks and ploddingly crossing and uncrossing their legs at times. 

Henry shows at the beach on his way to Sanborns— a department store selling souvenirs and beach goods with a pharmacy and cafe. He would get a bite to eat and check out what opiates were available at the drug store. He says to the girls, 

cool it Lolitas, you’re supercharging the serene beach scene. I’m going to Sanborns, want anything? Summer Wynd says, 

buy a couple of fifths of mescal, you know, with the worms at the bottom of the bottle. 

Sanborns is a few blocks up the road, he walks inside going directly to the pharmacy. After grilling the druggist he realizes he can't buy opiates without a script in a chain store pharmacy. He will have to score at a run downed drug store.

William S. Burroughs's book Queer chronicles his junked up times in Mexico City.  

Henry is unconsciously reliving Burroughs's experiences in his book Queer as he searches for script-free codeine in Acapulco drugstores. 

William Burroughs was too hip to live in Acapulco. The following excerpt is from his book Queer, about an experience scoring morphine in 50s Mexico City with his junky friend, Old Dave, using a legitimate dope script.  

One time Old Dave and I tried to fill a script which he had obtained quite legitimately from the Mexican government. The first pharmacist we hit jerked back snarling from such a sight saying,

no prestamos servicio a los viciosos! (We don't serve dope fiends!) Finally we entered a tiny hole-in-the-wall farmacia. I pulled out the receta, and a gray-haired lady smiled at me. 

The pharmacist looked at the script, and said,

two minutes señor.

We sat down to wait. There were geraniums in the window. A small boy brought me a glass of water, and a cat rubbed up against my leg. After awhile the pharmacist returned with our morphine.

On the way out of Sandborns Henry picks up a couple of fifths of Ozono Rojas mescal which has worms at the bottom of the bottle.

Back at Hotel Las Hamacas, he goes to room 103 and the girls are waiting for him. They are in bed naked, laughing, and roughhousing.

The twosome is rolling drunk, too loaded to go out. Henry calls room service on the hotel room phone,

room service? This is room 103, I want 3 well-done steaks, a large Caesar salad, refried beans, yellow rice, corn tortillas and 6 bottles of iced beer. 

Lucia and Summer Wynd get out of bed, going to the bathroom and showering together, trying to sober up. After drying they change into underpants and tank tops.

When room service arrives the bellman wheels the trolly to the patio so the tribe can eat outside. 

The girls hadn’t eaten all day, they relish the meal, practically licking their plates clean.

After eating Lucia clears the dishes from the folding table. Henry brings a bottle of mescal, placing it on the table and pouring booze into hotel tumblers. They drink wildly, downing shots and guzzling beer.

Eventually, they leave the patio and go inside where they sit on the bed, drinking more and watching MTV on the tube. 

As the Sheryl Crow video, Strong Enough plays, they recite a particular stanza over and over, screaming so loud the sound of the song is inaudible.

I have a face I cannot show

I make the rules up as I go

Just try and love me if you can

Are you strong enough to be my man?

At 2 AM the tribe has passed out in bed, still dressed. The television is on MTV, Robert Palmer is singing with a group of drop-dead gorgeous models, Addicted to Love.

Hunter S. Thompson, Weird to Most

Myths and legends die hard in America. We love them for the extra dimension they provide, the illusion of near-infinite possibility to erase the narrow confines of most men's reality. Weird heroes and mould-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of 'the rat race' is not yet final. HST

The word Hunter sounded strange in his mother's ears, like an uncontrollable wild beast.

Hunter was born on July 13, 1937, which made him a          Cancer on the cusp of Leo. His father Jack was an                insurance adjuster, his comely mother Virginia Ray was a  housewife. 

The Thompson family lived in a brick house in a middle-class neighborhood in Louisville, Kentucky. Hunter was the block bully and bad-boy, he was 6ft tall by the age of 15. Everything about him was big: his hands, his head, his feet, and his torso. But it was his otherworldly, totally unconventional nature that got under people's skin.

Thompson was ungovernable as long as his friends and family can remember as a teen and into his adult life. He was always in control of the play, the props, and the players. He invented the games, and once in gear, he wouldn't cool his jets. 

Hunter was a good-looking kid, but, his looks hardly fit his manner or his unstoppable rebel-yell obsession.
When he walked into a room full of people the feeling was amped up to high voltage. He took great pleasure in blowing convention to bits.

While he was growing up at home, the neighborhood parents felt sorry for Virginia Ray who had given up early on trying to control Hunter, the 1000 pound enigma.   

Hunter never put on faces for people, he never tried to hide his thoughts or fit in. His goal from the start was to throw a spanner in and topple the regime.

The Thompson family wasn't affluent, they lived in a white neighborhood in a small stucco house.  Allot of his rebelliousness came from his enmity towards Louisville preppies; tobacco and thoroughbred horse heirs who wore Top-Siders, Polo shirts, and khaki pants with names like, Muffy, Buffy or William Poohurst III. Many of them lived in mansions up the road from the Thompson's modest brick house. 

At 17 Hunter had a BSA, with swastikas taped-on each side of the tank. He had nothing against Jews, the bent crosses were there for shock value. He would rev the engines and do wheelies in the preppie neighborhood wearing a Nazi helmet his father brought back from World War 2. 

People would complain to the cops about the noise he was making on the BSA and when the cops showed, they weren't sure what to charge him with other than weirdness in public.

Nonetheless, Hunter as exotics go, with his good looks and bad boy image to boot, was a wanted poster for Louisville girls. As the old standard goes, good girls are attracted to bad boys, but he was more interested in sowing the seeds of anti- right-wing metamorphosis than getting laid.

In time the hellraiser would discover his machine gun and his touchstone, writing--- writing that would implode the world of journalism.

TEARFUL YOUTH IS JAILED AMID BARRAGE OF PLEAS

The judge asks Hunter's mother, who begged for leniency, 

should I give him a medal for what he did?

Hunter and two other youths were charged by police of robbing Joseph E. Monnin of 175 E. Bonnyside, rolling him in a park. 

He was a junior in High school when his father died, his relationship with his father, an alcoholic, was hardly good. His father never beat him or yelled at him because Hunter was never home, and when he was home, dad was passed out in the den recliner, smashed on Schlitz beer. His lousy family life made him angry and that anger would later be channeled into Gonzoism.  

In Louisville, Kentucky the two biggest industries were liquor and tobacco, industries that supported  Southern Republicanism and the ghost of  Jefferson Davis racism for years. The frame of mind of the right-wing dullards of Louisville was the antithesis that morphed Hunter into the political hack who roasted white bread America.  

He could feel this hypocrisy as a teen and he gave his life to fighting it with words, that bent, squeezed and pleated every drop of juice out of him.

Hunter was a warrior for natural law, truth-seeking and the fairness of liberal realism that was built stone by stone on what is evenhanded and free for all humans, all races, the weird and the truth sayers. 

He joined the Airforce at 18 to get out of Louisville and after basic training, he was assigned to the Air Force Press Corp., where he showed talent as a sports writer but refused to be guided by policy.

A friend describes Hunter's time in the Air Force thusly,                                                           

Elgin Air force pass was isolated, 50 miles from Pensacola. I played basketball at Elgin when Hunter was the sportswriter for the base paper and he wrote the craziest stories, a little something would happen in the gym and he would make a great big story.

In The Great Shark Hunt Thompson touches on his Airforce days,  

At one point I was writing variations on the same themes for three competing papers at the same time. Sports columnist for one in the morning for one baby, editor for another in the afternoon. In the evening I worked for a wrestling promoter, writing incredible twisted 'press releases' which I would re-release in the other rags in the morning...

A blurb on his discharge from the Air Force in the base paper read like this, 

Elgin, AFB, Florida...A reportedly fanatical airman has received his separation papers and was rumored to set out in the direction of the gatehouse at high speed in a muffler-less and brake-less car.

The kid from Louisville was now ready to take on the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA and he had plenty of bullets care of the USAF. Not real bullets, journalistic bullets.  

Hunter moved to NYC in the mid to late 50s and got a job as a copy boy at TIME magazine as a result of his USAF stint as a journalist and the recognizable (though twisted) talent of his portfolio. 

A fellow copy boy and close friend, George Mc Garr tells a story of a poetry reading in the village by Frank O' Hara and Gregory Corso.  

Thompson says to Mc Garr, 

you remember Gregory Corso the fucking guy who wrote Boom? He's reading tonight in the Village.  

They buy two shopping bags of beer to get in the right psychogenic and cognitive space for the reading and head to the Village. 

At the coffee shop, the two eager upstart writers sit like Indians, cross-legged in the middle of the floor, pop a couple of bennies, ready for blast-off. The reading would start with Frank O'Hara followed by Corso.

Jack Kerouac was setting in the front row as Hunter and Mc Garr are waiting for Corso with great exceptions, expecting a guy like Hell's Angel Terry the Tramp to get up on stage and high rev his chopper as he extrapolates his creed. 

When Corso gets up on stage in the words of Mc Garr, 

so, up comes the miserable mincing little fag! We are wasted by this time and when Corso starts reading we start kicking the beer cans we had set in orderly rolls, across the wooden floor. The ringing tinny sound, of course, was very disruptive to Corso. Like two well-oiled lumberjacks we were indifferent to Corso and by this time, very despondent… crest-fallen. To add insult to the sound of beer cans rolling on the floor, we shout one-sided dialogue at Corso. The Beats weren't used to this kind of ill reverence, audiences treated them as deities and worshiped them. Corso left the stage. A drunk Kerouac got up on stage, saving the day and began resighting Dr Sax, unintelligible. This saved the show for us and the gentle green moss beatniks. 

By the early 60s, Hunter was living in a basement apartment in the Village, complete with furnishings from Goodwill, black walls and ceilings. He would score cocaine from  Puerta Ricans and invite people to hang out with him in his black coca cave. Most people were scared of him and Mc Garr was the only one who would set foot in his apartment. 

Hunter thrived in bizarre writing spaces and latter in Aspen he lined his writing pad in the basement with pink polyester, mohair and covered the floor with fluorescent green shag carpet. 

Sometime in the 60s Hunter left NYC for the West, GO WEST YOUNG MAN, GO WEST. With the coming of the Beatles and The Rolling Stones, the times were catching up with him. His star was beginning to shine as a syndicated columnist, submitting articles to Popular Mechanics, Esquire, Argosy, and The Observer.  

He wrote straight enough to get published, but his writing was always, as was his way, full of subtle and subliminal twisted weirdness between the lines. About 15% of his work found publication at this time, not enough to support him as a writer. 

Hunter then moves to Big Sur where he meets Sandra Dawn Thompson Tarlo, she was from a wealthy family that disinherited her for her liberal values. Sandra looked like Edie Sedgwick, she had long legs that wouldn't quit, perky tits, blond hair and she always was suntan.

She had studied English Literature at Stephens College and could see that Hunter was bound for glory as a writer. She was a sucker for bad boys as well and she was in love with the badest boy of all.  

Sandra was the only woman in the world that could stick it out with Hunter, through the acid, booze, madness, uproar, turmoil, infidelity and insane driving. 

They lived in Esalen, an artist community in Big Sur which was founded by, Jo Hudson, Joan Baez, Dennis Murphy, and the other early Aquarians who lived there. 

Sandra worked as a maid in San Francisco to bring in money so Hunter could write. Joan Baez loathed Hunter who would hunt at night for small pray to put meat on the table. Baez found this to be barbaric and not in line with hippie values. Baez was into nonviolence and he always carried a gun, like Bukowski he was no hippy. 

Hunter and Sandra stayed in the servants quarters and Jo Hudson tolerated Hunter because she could see he had talent as a writer.  

By the late 60s, Thompson had left Esalen and was a full-time writer for The Observer, sent on assignments to South America to write articles. It was during these times that Gonzo Journalism was born. 

While not on assignment, Hunter elopes to Indiana with Sandra, of all fucking places, driving from California day and night in a 58 Cadillac V8 convertible. The marriage was consummated in the back seat of the Cadillac between Texas and Arkansas in a state park.  

During the early 70s, he was doing his famous chemical regimen in earnest, acid, cocaine, Jack Daniels whiskey, Bloody Mary's, ganja, and Dun-hills always smoked in a cigarette holder. 

The period was the advent of his Gonzo look, aviator glasses, baseball or hunting caps. And, he had an obsession with low top Converse All-Stars, natural color, and would buy them by the gross.

While living in Haight Asbury he began work on his first novel, The Hells Angels. The novel was researched on the scene as were all of his books until his death.

The late Sonny Barger, then president of the Hells Angels, commented on what it was like when Hunter rode with the gang, putting it this way,    

He wanted to write a book and I thought I could put up with it. I didn't think he was no more odd than any of us. He rode with us for a year. He wore a plaid type shirt and a pair of jeans, and a knitted cap at times. And those brown lace up boots that you might wear as a hunter. He dressed like a hunter. He didn't ride and live like a Hells Angel. He would show up on weekends in his Nash and take a few notes. He always liked to pack a big Magnum gun and he liked to shoot it off. One time we went to Bass Lake there was some kind of big scene and the locals didn't want us at the lake. The police showed up and formed a line to stop us from moving foreword. We began to move on the police, and Hunter went and hid in the trunk of his car.

Back in San Francisco things were getting weird. Sandra had a new baby, Juan, and Hunter couldn't get an advance for his book so they were broke most the time. Then Hunter got a letter from The Nation offering him $100 per article. The editor of The Nation read Hunter's book in progress and thought it was great stuff.

Sonny Barger saw it like this,

Hunter wrote a article about us (Hells Angels) in The Nation. It wasn't a bad article the guy is a hell of a writer. He is one of the greatest writers I have ever read, that doesn't mean I like the guy. He asked us if he could write a book about us and I said yes. The cost would be a keg of beer at the end of the book. We never got our keg. The Angels beat Hunter up because they thought he was mouthy. It doesn't take much to dis them.  But Hunter did put up a good fight and held his own, he was a good fighter.  So that garnered some respect for him with the Angels, at least enough to finish his book and hang with them longer. I don't think we affected Hunter's philosophy at all. I saw him shoot his guns out the window of his house in San Francisco.  He had his whiskey and his speed, he had his bike before he met us. He was a wide open rider, that means he got on turned it open, would go till it stopped and got off. He didn't have any control, he was sitting way up in the air to begin with.  A BSA doesn't sit like a Harley. The bottom line is I bought my wife a BSA for her first bike. After a month she traded it for a Harley. She sold the BSA to a attorney, attorneys are big pussys to the Hells Angels.   

When Hunter's book, The Hells Angels, was finally printed, it looked like a pulp fiction novel and cost $4.95. Later when Hell's Angel, Terry the Tramp was shown the book he said, 

$4.95, where's our share? And Hunter said some bullshit like, it takes a long time to write a book and you don't get no share! 

WRONG ANSWER!  Terry the Tramp punches him in the face with a right hand which is as big as a basketball and full of skull rings. As Hunter runs back to his car, Terry the Tramp cracks him a few times with his bullwhip. 

Hunter had balls though, he never paid the Hell's Angels a penny or bought them the keg he promised them. 
Sonny Barger summed it up saying,

Hunter is still making money off that book about us, it is required reading in English 101 in California.

No one will ever know why the Angels didn't kill Hunter or put a contract out to kill him. They put a contract out on Mick Jagger because he blamed the gang for what happened at the Altamont concert. Where a fat naked Black dude was bludgeoned to death by the angels who The Rolling Stones and Bill Grahmn had hired to do security.

Hunter's book, The Hells Angels, was printed on Viking Press and sold well, the royalties allowed Sandra, Juan, and Hunter enough space to live life without worrying about money.

By the time Hunter began writing for Rolling Stone Magazine in the mid-70s, he was full-blown Gonzo. And, It's common knowledge that he was a thorn in Jan Wenner's, the publisher and editor of the magazine, side.  Hunter knew he was at the top of his game, so he made outrages demands on Wenner.

The money he made from the Rolling Stone allowed Thompson to buy his famous Aspen house, the house where he would write his greatest novels, major titles such as The Great Shark Hunt, Fear, and Loathing in Las Vegas, Generation of Swine. And in the end, he committed suicide there.

Hunter's house in Aspen was the source of many a sterling and off the wall story about his scandalous eccentricity. 

In 1975 Thompson ran this ad in the Aspen Times, announcing his candidacy for sheriff.

SHERIFF CANDIDATE

HUNTER THOMPSON

DISCUSSES LAW

AND ORDER (in Aspen)

_______________________________

1. Sod the streets at once.

2. Change the name of Aspen  by public referendum to "Fat City"

3. Install, on the courthouse lawn, a bastinado

The platform may seem like a joke to some, but it’s an exemplar of Jeffersonian influence. What might seem as absurdum at first bite, really reflects the possibility of taking a big bite out of the apple, considering the perils we face at present with the carbon greed network that's destroying our environment.

The following is a description of the events of Hunter's candidacy written by George Plimpton.

National newsmen like a caravan crowd at geek sideshow are gawking at the independent candidacy of writer Hunter S. Thompson for Pitkin County Sheriff. And, amongst the law-abiding local citizens, there are those who, silent majority mouths agape, fear that Thompson is a half-mad cross between a hermit and a wolverine.

In the end, the results were as follows Carol Wilmer 1533 votes, Hunter 1065.  

That is how close Hunter came to being elected Sherif of Pitkin County….WHAT A TOWN FAT CITY WOULD HAVE BEEN IF HUNTER HAD WON, EVERY HIPPY IN THE WORLD WOULD HAVE BEEN CAMPING OUT IN A TEEPEE IN IN THE CITY.

Hunter was very loaded one night as he was setting off J26 explosive putty in his yard, a sound his neighbors never got used too. Sheriff Wilmer, a cowboy and Hunter's friend, would come to Thompson's house, drink a few shots with him and then leave for town. 

That night Hunter set the charge in reverse and the resulting explosion threw him backward, breaking both his legs. From then on he needed a wheelchair to get around his Aspen home. 

For a man's man, being paralyzed, even for a view months, was too much. He started telling friends he was sick of writing, and if they heard an explosion in the yard again it was going to be him imploding.  

His daily chemical bag of tricks, LSD, cocaine, ganja, orange juice, and vodka began depressing him and didn't work anymore. 

No one knew what to believe when Hunter was talking so no one took him seriously. 

One night the implosion he forecasted went off and Hunter blew himself into pieces. 

He went out like a man, spectacularly, putting on a heavenly show, rigging a Chinese star cluster of fireworks, to J26 explosive putty.

The ending of this story could be a multiplicity of ace preeminent about the man, but let's end it with one single sentence, a quote from the good doctor that makes perfect sense to real writers.

I haven't found a drug yet that can get you near as high as sitting at a desk and writing!