Truth hovers somewhere between intellectual enlightenment and glitzy commercialism, between polite give-and-take discourse and exploding old cars for kicks.
Real life does not separate into neat compartments like “fiction/nonfiction" or “liberal/conservative." I had always assumed that Gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson moved to Woody Creek, Colorado to buffer himself against intrusion by narrow minded meddlers he needed a somewhat isolated stomping ground to pursue his edgy predilections. Having said that, I also know that Thompson had a passion for politics, and, serious journalist that he was, he must have known about the Aspen Institute.
A word about the Institute:
Woody Creek, Colorado is not actually a town in the legal sense it is a territory just outside of Aspen, Colorado. Apparently there are a lot of colorful residents there, and music festivals, and of course, the Woody Creek Tavern. Aspen started out as a mining town for silver, until around 1893 when the price of silver went so low it was no longer profitable to dig for it there. Thousands of miners lost their jobs. Shortly after World War II, a successful Chicago industrialist named Walter Paepcke visited Aspen. It was his idea to set up a retreat for executives to unwind, get some exercise, and expand their thinking. Walter and Elizabeth Paepcke believed in a balance between mind & body, business & pleasure. They opened a ski resort that resulted in the increased popularity of skiing in the United States. They also founded the Aspen Institute. A quote from the Aspen Institute’s website says Paepcke saw this “as an ideal gathering place for thinkers, leaders, artists, and musicians from all over the world to step away from their daily routines and reflect on the underlying values of society and culture."
What did the Aspen Institute make of Hunter S. Thompson running for Sheriff in Aspen on the Freak Power Ticket in 1969? This is where I find it difficult to separate real people into compartments. On one hand, the Paepcke’s were disappointed when the Aspen City Council refused to approve the building of a hotel for visitors to their Institute. Thompson echoed the city's anti-growth sentiment during his campaign for Sheriff when he said, “We are reaping the whirlwind-big-city problems too malignant for small-town solutions, Chicago-style traffic in a town without stoplights." On the other hand, the 1980’s influx of the “new rich" to Aspen prompted Elizabeth Paepcke to lament that Aspen had “become a town of glitz and glamour . . . a nut without a kernel . . . my heart is broken." (Quoted from an article by Ted Conover in The New York Times Magazine, January 1, 1995). Thompson, of course, is famous for decrying the “greed-heads" who are “taking over" in Aspen. In a much-publicized incident, Thompson allegedly fired bullets over the house of his neighbor, millionaire Floyd Watkins, because Thompson perceived Watkins as a corporate fat-cat who didn’t care about the environment. While I’m sure the Paepckes would not have approved of Thompson’s method, I get the feeling that the Paepcke’s 1950’s sense of decency and Thompson’s 1970’s spirit of counter-culture could come together in agreement against the 1980’s materialistic lack of both decency and spirit.
Indeed. The year 2004 saw Thompson speaking and signing copies of his newest book, Hey Rube, at the Institute’s Aspen Meadows campus. Anita Thompson, Hunter’s widow, said in a recent email to 99 Burning’s Don Eminizer, “Hunter decided to do the Aspen Institute book signing for Hey Rube because he was personally asked to do it by his long time friend Walter Isaacson." Isaacson is President & CEO of the Institute.
Back around 1984, the one time I met Hunter Thompson, I remember telling him, “I didn’t want it to end," talking about his book, The Curse of Lono. Thompson had come to the University of North Florida on a speaking tour. Rather more subdued than I expected, Thompson spoke in a quiet, fast tone that had some audience members leaning forward in their seats to understand him. I had the impression that anyone unfamiliar with Thompson’s work would have been at a loss to interpret his combination of muttering and hand gestures as he indicated, for example, the snowy mountain on a Palm Beach coffee table he saw while covering the Pulitzer divorce.
The line of autograph seekers was apparently more subdued than Hunter expected.
“Man," he said. “This is a somber lot. I guess I should have drunk more."
We laughed.
I had my copy of The Curse of Lono open to the last page, where several rewrites of the final paragraph appear. It’s a unique way to end a book and I wondered who’s idea it was.
I asked Thompson to autograph that page. I explained, “I didn’t want the book to end, and the way that last paragraph keeps repeating, it sort of gives the illusion that it would go on forever."
“Yeah, God," he smiled faintly. “It didn’t know when to stop. What happened?"
I’m pretty sure he was just kidding.
I said, “I like it."
“It’s those damn computers," he said, low-key joking.
I didn’t know what to say.
“Those damn computers, huh," he repeated. “What do you do?"
“I want to be a writer," I said.
“I thought maybe you were a computer programmer," he said, again with the faintest hint of a smile.
“No," I laughed.
“Yeah, those damn computers."
I find myself asking, why didn’t I say more? Why didn’t I ask another question, make another observation, make a little more noise why didn’t I offer to buy him a drink? Maybe he wouldn’t – or couldn’t – accept, but I could have asked. I didn’t want that night to end, just like I never wanted each one of his books to end, and I never wanted his output to stop, and I always thought there would be another new HST Rolling Stone feature, and maybe he would come back to Jacksonville, FL one day – I just didn’t want it to ever end.
Maybe that’s selfish of me. It was Hunter’s choice to make, not mine, and I respect him.
Bill Ectric’s two books, Time Adjusters and Space Savers, contain short stories that blend the genres of mystery, humor, horror, science fiction, satire, and psychological drama.
On the web, Bill’s work has appeared on SearchWarp, Literary Kicks, Dogmatika, MysteryIsland, Syntax of Things, Empty Mirror Books, Lit Up Magazine, and Zygote In My Coffee.
He lives with his wife in Jacksonville, Florida. By day, when not writing, Bill mows the lawn and complains about the heat. By night, he sneaks around in the back yard, convinced that the garden gnomes are “up to something.”
Disclaimer: All information on this site is provided for informational purposes only! By no means is any
information presented herein intended to substitute for the advice provided to you by any health care or other professional
or organization.
tweet this!