Time almost Interviewed Hunter S. Thompson.
I last visited my home in LA & Denver 20 years ago. In less than a year after that visit, 9/11 changed worldwide travel forever. In my bag is Hunter S. Thompson's, The Rum Diary, and I knew where he lived, Aspen, and where he drank at The Woody Creek Tavern. My best friend lived only an hour away from Aspen in Coal Creek Canyon. Rather than tell my then-wife about my intentions to interview the legend, I decided to keep it to myself, you know, “best-laid plans” and all that. Aside from seeing my children and family, interviewing Thompson is my central concern.
Before cell phones, I had my digital camera and a tape recorder to aid in a spontaneous interview. I decided not to ring his literary agent or publisher but to merely show up at the Woody Creek Tavern late and hope for the best. Thinking I had a grasp on Thompson's personality and unpredictable behavior, I believed showing up and from Australia might be a positive outcome.
This trip was an eye-opener for many reasons. My last visit to the US was in the summer of 1996. We traveled this time to recover my father's car in Las Vegas because he had mysteriously died in April, and putting his affairs in the order needed to be done. After regaining my father's car in Vegas, we planned to take the vehicle across the States to Erie, Pennsylvania, where he lived before he passed. This didn't turn out the way we planned. Father's car, a 90's Oldsmobile, turned out to be a piece of junk, and flying across the country didn't meet our budget. But that's another story.
International travel has never been the primary concern. Since childhood, our family traveled where the work was, and remaining in one place only happened once our family put roots down in Denver. My life after that always included flying on airplanes, trains, and automobiles. This last trip from Australia to the US was different. Landing in airports, we seemed to be targeted by border patrol at every port. We were taken aside, questioned, and our bags thoroughly searched. From all appearances, I found it interesting that we were a small family of three, father, wife, and a 9-year-old child. At face value, one wouldn't expect an innocent, small family to be targeted in such a focused manner. I felt like we had traveled back in time, crossing the border between East Berlin and West Berlin. The Zeitgeist knew the coming changes on the planet and experienced some unconscious dress rehearsal.
When we finally arrived in LA, the place's sheer energy felt overwhelming. Over the last four years, my life has been sheltered and contained. I lived in the Dandenong Hills in a wonderful house and taught in a small school. Life in a bubble in a small protected existence, each day plodding one after the other. Now I was home, and the rules had changed. Feeling this familiar vibe of positive/negative energy, and a foreign chaotic frequency, confused my mind.
Yes, I felt I was home, but has it changed so much?
*
Either people love LA or despise it, and I'm of the former persuasion. My experience in LA was felt amongst an air of a false haze, a cult-like view of existence. I joined Scientology in 1977, where my life changed in good and bad ways. Scientology's hook is that you're saving humanity, “saving the planet,” and this was a perfect vehicle for anyone with idealistic sensibilities to achieve “meaning” in life.
The good experiences in this cult were meeting my first wife and having two beautiful children. On this trip, I intended to connect to my kids and ex-wife because I had never genuinely de-briefed after leaving the cult alone, where my friends who left simultaneously had each other. This is an important point. The psychological effects after leaving a cult can be disastrous if no one you can relate to exists. My ex had her family and her partner, while I had nobody. So this trip would hopefully end any lingering thoughts and doubts about my leaving the church. We drank a few beers and related our experiences on a beautiful California summer night. Intense at times and undoubtedly sad, we talked to midnight about our life in Scientology, the insanity of our behavior, and the death of our pure and innocent intentions for being there in the first place.
The next day, with all three of my kids in tow, we headed in the rented car to San Diego. I wanted to give my American children the feeling they were on holiday. We arrived at the motel, and surprisingly, the pre-booked room was big enough for the five of us. Once settling in, my oldest son found my brand-new Sony Video Camera. He set it up on the tripod and pointed it straight at me while resting on the bed. I decided to ham it up and tell of our experience in Japan, trying to leave the country.
The story is representative of the entire trip. On the bus returning to the airport after our overnight stay in Tokyo, we were suddenly stopped by the police. The bus door opened, and three Japanese police officers entered, yelling orders in their language. These cops were after something/someone, but they could not understand their demands without speaking their language. Looking around at the other passengers, we saw that all were rummaging for their passports, so we followed suit. We were seated at the back of the bus. Finally, the little officer reached our seats, and I handed over our papers. It seemed to me he was scrutinizing our passports with undue enthusiasm, wanting to find something or anything out of order. He finally handed the keys back, looking disappointed. Our bus continued to the airport, and most passengers appeared upset and confused.
Again, on this trip around the planet, every port of call was the same: undue focus on sure travelers, especially my family. This is not paranoia, but I couldn't deny it then and can't deny it to this day.
Our stay in San Diego turned out to be a memorable experience. We all had an expensive dinner at a top-notch restaurant. I remember my sons, 9 and 14, getting on well together. My oldest took on the natural big-brother role and carried the little one on his back while walking back to the motel because he became too tired to walk any further.
The next day, the youngest asked me about all the “old men” sleeping in the streets. I can't remember my answer, but it wasn't the answer he was looking for.
Leaving LA and my kids wasn't easy. Our next stop is Denver, Colorado, and on the jet to the city of my childhood, my thoughts danced around memories of past loves, my old friends, and my wish to interview Hunter S. Thompson.
*
After leaving LA, I deemed LAX Dante's 9th level of Hell. Our flight was due to depart at 10:00 am, at Gate 14, to Denver. While having a coffee, we didn't notice that the gate number had changed to 10. I asked an airport employee if this change was correct, he said to go to gate 14 because 10 is a mistake. Carrying bags in hand, we raced to Gate 14 to find it closed! Turning around, we reached gate 10 to find the gate just wrapping up. I begged the guy at the desk to make an exception and let us on the plane. “No go,” he said. “You should have been here at least 30 minutes early to catch the flight.” I wanted to reach over, throttle the little creep, and throw him through a window. However, there was no arguing with this impish man in uniform, so we arranged another flight.
As LAX is the 9th level of Hell, 3 flights to Denver that day had been canceled. I decided to drink beer in the lounge after the 2nd cancellation. After 4 beers and a few more hours, the 3rd scheduled flight had been canceled, too. I set my family in one place and went on an expedition to find another airline headed to Denver. Finally, I found that Alaska Airlines had a flight at 9:00 pm. Booked the tickets and ended up on the plane but sat on the tarmac for another hour. We landed in Denver at midnight at an empty airport. My friend gave up on me and obviously returned home. I caught a taxi to an expensive hotel by the airport. They gave me a 30% discount for the inconvenience, but the room for one night was $400.
My old friend picked us up at the hotel on July 3rd, 2000, at 12:00 noon exactly. We stopped for lunch in the city, drank a few beers, and caught up.
The weather was hot, but I noticed to heat was much different from the sun in Australia. In Denver, it felt clean and didn't sting. In Australia, it stung like the rays were penetratingly dangerous. I remember smelling the mountain air once on the winding roads headed to Coal Creek Canyon. The clean air returned my memory to childhood scenes of love and danger, and so young, inexperienced, you believe you were indestructible.
The next morning, Independence Day, my friend and I jumped in his truck and imbibed in the local plant life. Since we had known each other since 12, we had much to discuss. Mainly we spoke of the past and our families now and the future. Later I met his grandkids and caught up with his 3 children, all grown up. I realize it's a cliche, but time does fly, especially when you get a little older.
Lost in conversation, we lost track of time. He looked at his watch and said,
"We need to meet the family for the 4th of July parade on the main street in Coal Creek. We must get there fast because the parade starts at 9:00 am and ends at 9:05 am.” I found this funny and typical of his dry sense of humor.
Later that afternoon, I broached the subject of Aspen and interviewed Hunter S. Thompson. He hesitated and said, “Well, we must go there now because I have things to do.” This was 2:00 in the afternoon, and I knew from my readings that Hunter never rose before 3:00.
So we headed over to Aspen.
*
My friend owns a rugged 4-wheel drive designed to travel through ponds and climb rugged terrain. When I was enjoying the winding, flat paved roads, he veered off on a dirt path, headed in an unknown direction. When I asked him where we were going, he remained silent until we reached the bottom of a steep mountain.
“You're not serious, man?” I asked as I looked up the hill, unable to see the summit.
“Hold on, Craig.”
He immediately down-shifted and punched the accelerator. We seemed to be almost vertical, flush with the mountain. For a second, I thought the truck would tip over backward, crushing the cab's roof and our bodies. He continued to change gears, pushing on the gas and steering hard to avoid large rocks in our path. After around ten minutes, we leveled off on the mountain's summit. He turned the engine off, and through the windshield was the greatest expansive view of the Rocky Mountains and the flatlands of metropolitan Denver I had ever seen!
“Jesus, man. You can certainly drive this thing.” I said.
He smiled, reaching in his pocket, retrieving a small pipe, and filling it with Denver's finest.
“Here, have some; it's good,” he said.
“No, man, I want to be straight if we run into Hunter Thompson,” I said.
“Who is this guy, anyway?” he asked.
Reaching in the back seat for my bag, I found a copy of Thompson's, The Rum Diary. Thumbing, through its pages, found a quote:
“Like most others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top. At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles - a restless idealism on the one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other - that kept me going.”
“Sounds like you, man,” he said.
“No, hardly, but I was hooked when I first read his book, Hell's Angels. “
“Okay, Craig. Going down the mountain is a little harder than going up.”
We reached the bottom without incident and found our way to the main highway. Before long, we were traveling down Aspen's main drag. I felt a tiny disappointed because, though it wasn't ski season, it was Independence Day and the streets were crawling with tourists.
We finally found the bar where Thompson frequented, the Woody Creek Tavern. Once pulled into the small parking lot, there wasn't a parking space to be found. All except the handicapped space at the front door. My friend pulled in and turned off the engine. I was just about to say something when he reached behind him and pulled out a Handicap pass for the elderly. He placed it around his rear-view mirror and said, “It helps when you work for the government.”
We entered the bar, and it was packed. I approached the bar and ordered a couple of Coors Light. My old friend hated crowded places, so I knew it was only a matter of time before he wanted to leave. I looked around the place, particularly in the dark corners of the pub, and couldn't find anyone that matched Thompson's appearance. I knew he would stand out because this was his drinking hole, and he would be holding court.
I caught the bartender's attention. “Can I ask if Hunter Thompson has been in here today?”
The bearded man looked at me suspiciously and asked, “Who wants to know?”
“I'm a writer from Australia, and wanted to ask him a few questions for an article I have in mind.”
“How do I know you're from Australia? You don't have an accent!” he said.
I pulled out my Victorian Driver's Licence. He looked at it and smiled. “Hey man, can I ask you? Do Australian women really sunbathe topless on your beaches?”
Smiling, I somehow expected this question because I've been asked it before.
“Yes, they certainly do.”
“Then what in the hell are you doing here!?” he burst out laughing.
“ Visiting and looking for Thompson?”
A woman at the end of the bar was hailing him for another drink. He served her and walked back to my end.
“Sorry, man. Thompson hasn't been in here for over a week. He's out of town, doing some shit. That's what I've heard.” he said.
My heart dropped. In my mind, the voice repeated, “It's all timing. It's all timing...”
My friend heard this, which was his cue to get out of this crowded bar.
I told him to stop at a liquor store to grab a six-pack. On the way home, I drowned my disappointment, but ultimately, my friend's entire family gathered. We barbecued and played Volleyball. It was a great time had by all, especially my son.
That night, I woke to him crying in the next room. “What's wrong, Sam?”
I don't want to leave Denver, but I love Melbourne. I wish I could put the two together.” he said through his little boy's tears.
At that moment, I understood exactly what he was trying to communicate. Home is where the heart is; sometimes, the heart can be in two places simultaneously.
This would be the last time I would see my friend again. He passed away some years later under circumstances that I care not to relate to. Let's say I miss him.
Our trip back to Melbourne reflected the soon-to-become “sign of the times.” At every port, I was searched and interrogated like a terrorist, an enemy of the state.
When I look back at this excursion, I think of Hunter S. Thompson. I think about this quote:
“It gave me a strange feeling, and the rest of that night I didn’t say much, but merely sat there and drank, trying to decide if I was getting older and wiser, or just plain old.”