gonzo with the windo

monday do drugs
tuesday do drugs
wednesday do drugs 
thursday do drugs
friday do drugs
saturday do drugs
sunday rest
            and do drugs

this is not another piece on drugs
on drugs

it’s about stories

it’s about legends

it’s about the legendary

honorary hells angel
distinguished drug-user
number one gonzo journalist

hunter s(tockton) thompson

a man with faultless taste in guns, sunglasses and hats

a late, great, literary celebrity around whom improbable, implausible stories seemed to cluster like sheep, like flocks of candyfloss cumulus clouds, condensing on the metallic surfaces of typewriter keys and shotgun barrels as cold hard myths

here’s his daily routine

3:00 p.m. rise

3:05 Chivas Regal with the morning papers, Dunhills

3:45 cocaine

3:50 another glass of Chivas, Dunhill

4:05 first cup of coffee, Dunhill

4:15 cocaine

4:16 orange juice, Dunhill

4:30 cocaine

4:54 cocaine

5:05 cocaine

5:11 coffee, Dunhills

5:30 more ice in the Chivas

5:45 cocaine, etc., etc.

6:00 grass to take the edge off the day

7:05 Woody Creek Tavern for lunch – Heineken, two margaritas, coleslaw, a taco salad, a double order of fried onion rings, carrot cake, ice cream, a bean fritter, Dunhills, another Heineken, cocaine, and for the ride home, a snow cone (a glass of shredded ice over which is poured three or four jig­gers of Chivas)

9:00 starts snorting cocaine seriously

10:00 drops acid

11:00 Chartreuse, cocaine, grass

11:30 cocaine, etc, etc.

12:00 midnight, Hunter S. Thompson is ready to write

12:05-6:00 a.m. Chartreuse, cocaine, grass, Chivas, coffee, Heineken, clove cigarettes, grapefruit, Dunhills, orange juice, gin, continuous pornographic movies.

6:00 the hot tub – champagne, Dove Bars, fettuccine Alfredo

8:00 Halcyon

8:20 sleep

of course, it’s a fairy story.
it’s fiction. it’s a fabrication. it’s fake news.
it’s a lie.

well, it’s a story.

it’s actually a pretty great story. it’s from e. jean carroll’s 1993 pseudo-biography, hunter: the strange and savage life of hunter s. thompson, which alternates between fictional and factual chapters. there’s an interesting article about it [here].

at first i was disappointed. just a story. but it’s not just that. or it is, but just that isn’t just that.

because we are all just stories. memory is a misspoken mantra, a mistake on repeat. hunter s thompson, the man, died, and was cremated, and his granulated remains were fired out of a cannon from a forty-seven-metre-tall tower in the shape of a double-thumbed fist clutching a peyote button, to the tune of norman greenbaum’s spirit in the sky. really. unless that’s also a fantasy. hunter s thompson, the legend, lives forever.

I haven’t found a drug yet that can get you anywhere near as high as sitting at a desk writing, trying to imagine a story no matter how bizarre it is.

Hunter S Thompson