My Literary Life With 'Dr. Gonzo,' Hunter S. Thompson

OK, someone has blown my cover. Yes, I worked with the late Dr. Hunter S. Thompson -- yes, the then-living legend who consumed acid and Wild Turkey in amounts large enough to kill bull moose -- while he was a columnist at the San Francisco Examiner in the 1980s.

I was a sportswriter and editor back then and Examiner publisher Will Hearst III (himself a former Rolling Stone staffer and HST fan) decided to experiment by inviting Hunter to write a political column and pay him $1,500 per column to do so (quite a tidy sum in those days).

I tend to play down my relationship with Gonzoman for a number of reasons. First, I am devastated by his shooting himself (although I always knew he would do that because he wanted to go out like Hemingway). Second, I teach school (but soon I will be back in the newspaper business) and can't really publicly discuss hanging out with a guy who spent most of his time driving fast cars and motorcycles while continually stoking up on acid and Wild Turkey.

I have many tales to tell about Hunter, and some will be blogged here from time to time. He actually showed up to the Examiner picnic once (1987, I think) and played in the softball game (I have an elaborate short story to tell about that one). Another time he flew in from the Owl Farm and I caught him sneaking around the newsroom, in the dark, at 2 a.m. I have edited his copy in a pinch (he would fax everything, sometimes purposely at odd hours in order to keep certain editors from seeing it, editors he loathed but did not fear) and I suspect that his female pals in Aspen actually wrote his stuff from raw, transcribed notes (just as the Rolling Stones guys had to do from time to time).

Hunter was different but not infallible. He was a hell of a writer but was caught in the netherworld between fact and fiction, between reality and disbelief, between nobility and peasantry. He never compromised, and I detest critics who say something along the lines of "Thompson delved in the dark worlds of alcohol and drugs and therefore limited his appeal." Shit, they don't know what the hell they are talking about. Those facets of his life actually helped develop the genius (though twisted).

Hunter was a blogger before the term was ever invented. Nobody understood him, and he was at odds with all. Yet, when I get the courage to do so, I will relate some of my literary observations and character notes about an American original, the one, the only HST.

Love to all, Rad.