3/25/2005 issue of Rolling Stone

[truth]

If you don't have one think about grabbing a copy. Amazing pieces from amzing people that knew HST. A keeper issue for sure.

[powderfinger]

My old deadhead 2nd cousin alerted me to it just the other day. Highly recommended lots of great accounts.

[Lane Meyer]

HST was and always will remain one of my idols. Anyone who can consistently crank out such brilliant prose while hurtling down the road of life seemingly out of control and under the influence of so many substances will always have a fond spot in my heart.

That said, I found the RS issue fascinating and ripe with fantastic accounts of the good doctors misadventures. Highly recommended reading.

[truth]

..........and this is ski related cause?

I said so. Now sit down and STFU.

[Bear Ass]

..........and this is ski related cause?

He lived in Aspen....

[Free Range Lobster]

I have this issue, its utterly amazing and funny as hell.

I've been in tears laughing for 3 evenings straight now!

[Lane Meyer]

From the article by Johnny Depp

In December 1995 I was vacationing in Aspen, Colorado.... The fucking town is just lousy with "beautiful people." My first instinct was to stay inside and drink grog, or as the twinkling jet set refers to them, "hot toddies." My time in Aspen was spent as far from the madding crowd as humanly possible until, in spite of my self-induced seclusion, I ran into Alan Finkelstein. Alan, being no stranger to fun, sprang the news on me that Dr. Hunter S. Thompson lived nearby, and would I like to meet him that night at Woody Creek Tavern?

A few of us wandered out into the snow and waited for lightning to strike. Somewhere around 11 p.m., an unusually loud noise stole my attention and then demanded the room's attention -- a hush on one side, fearful murmurings on the other, were replaced by mounting screams, as what appeared to be an electric saber swung wildly near the entrance of the bar. A deep, raspy voice was hollering for people to get out of his way, threatening to shock the living shit out of any swine who lingered in his path.

Tall and lanky, wearing a woolen Native American-looking knit hat that trailed down past his shoulders, the ubiquitous aviators tight to the face attached to that smile -- a massive hand shot toward me. I placed my hand in his firm hold and gave back what I got. The beginning, I knew, of a long and deep-rooted friendship.

He plopped himself into a chair, laid his armaments on the table -- a giant cattle prod and a hefty Taser gun. We had a few rounds, talked about this and that and connected on more than a few levels, not the least being the discovery that we both hailed from the same dark and bloody ground, the great state of Kentucky. That fact alone sent Hunter into eloquent tirades ranging from Southern chivalry to hillbilly moonshine-running to our fellow Kentuckian Cassius Clay. Within no time, the group was invited back to Owl Farm, Hunter's fortified compound just up the road from the tavern. Upon arrival, we were greeted by Hunter's assistant, Deborah Fuller, who would later become known as the Vitamin Queen, because of her painstaking and meticulous nursing of Hunter -- and myself when I moved into the house. Her daily delivery of B's, C's, D's and E's and general TLC kept us as healthy and alive as was within reason, bless her.

Hunter and I hunkered down in the kitchen, better known as the "command center," babbling ourselves silly, when I paid him a compliment concerning a smartlooking nickel-plated shotgun hanging up on a rack. Before I knew what was what, I found my hands wrapped around a rather large propane tank, and he was meticulously instructing me to duct-tape a fist-size box to the side of it. While in the process of this bizarre ritual, I inquired as to the box's contents. "Oh, yeah...that??? Uh...nitroglycerin." Panicked, I instantly and deftly heaved the cigarette I was smoking into the kitchen sink and continued the job.

At roughly 2:30 a.m. we strolled out to Hunter's back yard. My larger-than-large propane bomb sat approximately fifteen yards dead ahead. The Good Doctor was off to my right coaching and coaxing, giddy with anticipation. Shotgun firmly in hand, I pumped a shell into the chamber and leveled the beast at our preposterously explosive target. Pitch-black night, a thousand million stars in the sky, dead calm, the neighbors safely tucked in for a pleasant nighty-night and then, BLAMMO! A direct hit and the target exploded into an eighty-foot fireball. "Good shooting, man!" Hunter feverishly screamed. "That was one hell of a shot.... Hot damn! Yes!"

[Lane Meyer]

From the Good Doctor himself:

To all employees without exception

Why is the staff so fucking lazy? It's getting so I can't even walk fast through the hallways any more without stumbling over some freak on the nod.

Is it drugs? Has it come to that?

If so, by God, we're going to clean it up pretty damn fast. My attorney has worked out a series of disciplinary measure that will zap this thing where it lives. Henceforth, anyone caught with narcotics, crazy pills or other stupor inducing agents will be dragged down to the basement and have his scrotum torn off.....and, conversely, any offender without a scrotum will have one permanently attached to her.

We feel such measures are necessary, even vital, to the health of this organization. This is the unanimous opinion of the Sports Staff, & as editor, I mean to enforce it.

We will play no favorites. Beginning on the day after Christmas, any employee caught nodding out, jacking off, or otherwise squandering company time, will pay the penalty.

This is a business -- not a goddamn dude ranch, and any salaried person who feels he/she cannot abide by these new regulations, had better get out NOW.

There will be no second warning. Copies of this notice will be posted in every corridor and they shall not be defaced.

Sincerely,
Raoul Duke
Sports Editor

(Excerpted from RS 970, March 24, 2005)