It was December of 1996 at the Louisville Memorial Auditorium when I had my one and only encounter with Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. The event was a tribute to the good doctor with such luminaries as Johnny Depp, Warren Zevon, and just about anyone in Louisville who ever knew Hunter or lived through him vicariously. When I arrived and found my seat near the front row, I soon discovered it was easy and, in fact, even encouraged to just go sit on the stage if you wanted.
I quickly made my way backstage, past the curtains, and sat next to a couple of friends while I waited for the fireworks to begin. It wasn’t long before Thompson emerged like a demonic presence, screaming, gulping Wild Turkey from a Mason jar, and blasting anyone within an inch 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 as scared as a puppy about to piss, but I managed to discharge 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 nervously handed him the musket. Juan then blasted his father with a stream of frozen CO2 while Dr. Thompson danced around like a Labrador Retriever under a fire hose.
It was a wild evening with Johnny Depp chugging from a bottle of Chavis Regal, Warren Zevon playing his litany of Hunter-inspired tunes, Roxanne Pulitzer dressed tightly in black, and Hunter’s mother Virginia puffing on a cigar from her wheelchair. 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 sense of 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 my book. 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.
Sadly, Dr. Thompson took his own life in February of 2005. I remember the anger I felt over what I felt was a cynical career move, only to discover the deep depression and physical problems he suffered as he got older. A couple of days after his suicide, I pulled my copy of “Hell’s Angels” off the shelf and read Juan’s inscription. His words read like a comforting epitaph.
