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TIME: Almanac 1995
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TIME Almanac 1995.iso
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1995-02-21
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<text id=90TT0208>
<link 90TT1552>
<link 90TT0644>
<title>
Jan. 22, 1990: An Evening With Hunter Thompson
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1990
Jan. 22, 1990 A Murder In Boston
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
PEOPLE, Page 64
An Evening (Gasp!) with Hunter Thompson
</hdr>
<body>
<p>By Sam Allis
</p>
<p> [Boston correspondent Sam Allis went to Colorado last week
to interview Hunter S. Thompson, the inventor of gonzo
journalism, author (Hell's Angels, Fear and Loathing in Las
Vegas) and defiant eccentric, at his home in Woody Creek. This
is what happened:]
</p>
<p> I gave up on the interview and started worrying about my
life when Hunter Thompson squirted two cans of fire starter on
the Christmas tree he was going to burn in his living-room
fireplace, a few feet away from an unopened wooden crate of
9-mm bullets. That the tree was far too large to fit into the
fireplace mattered not a whit to Hunter, who was sporting a
dime-store wig at the time and resembled Tony Perkins in
Psycho. Minutes earlier, he had smashed a Polaroid camera on
the floor.
</p>
<p> Hunter had decided to videotape the Christmas tree burning,
and we later heard on the replay the terrified voices of
Deborah Fuller, his longtime secretary-baby sitter, and me
off-camera pleading with him, "NO, HUNTER, NO! PLEASE, HUNTER,
DON'T DO IT!" The original manuscript of Hell's Angels was on
the table, and there were the bullets. Nothing doing. Thompson
was a man possessed by now, full of the Chivas Regal he had
been slurping straight from the bottle and the gin he had been
mixing with pink lemonade for hours.
</p>
<p> But then the whole evening had been like this. It began in
late daylight, when Hunter shot his beloved tracer pistol into
the air and then started training it at passing cars. One
tracer hit a tree and boomeranged back at us. Everyone thought
that was really neat.
</p>
<p> Then Hunter played his tape of a jackrabbit screaming. I
didn't know rabbits even made noise. Hunters apparently use
tapes like this to attract coyotes. I thought at first I was
listening to a baby crying. Then I realized it was not human.
</p>
<p> Then we shot Hunter's Olympic-quality pellet pistol at
exploding targets he had mounted over his fireplace. This event
was also taped.
</p>
<p> Then we watched a tape of a pro-football game and then
another of the famous 1971 Ali-Frazier fight. Thompson drank
Chivas from the bottle and noshed on desserts he had taken from
a fancy restaurant.
</p>
<p> Then the fight tape ended, and Hunter decided he didn't want
to do the interview with me. He decided he didn't like Q. & A.
Deborah reminded him that he had agreed to do it. I reminded
him that we had talked on the phone about it. He threw some
things on the floor.
</p>
<p> Then Hunter decided to try a few questions. But he needed
a wig to do the interview, and he couldn't find one. "WHERE IS
MY F------WIG?!" Deborah scurried off and found one. Then we
sat down to talk. I began with a soft pitch on the '80s stuff
he has written a lot about in his columns. He responded with
questions on his views about suicide raised by his lecture
audiences.
</p>
<p> Then Deborah came in to tell Hunter she was going to bed,
and Hunter panicked. Hunter, it became clear, is petrified of
being left alone, particularly with TIME magazine and a tape
recorder. Hunter Thompson is a scared little puppy beneath the
alcohol, tobacco and firearms. He bawled Deborah out for not
briefing him adequately on the interview and said that Sam
Allis was not to blame for this. He said this was NOT THE
DESIRED EFFECT. That's when he smashed the Polaroid on the
floor and decided to burn the Christmas tree.
</p>
<p> When Hunter tossed a lit match at the Christmas tree, it
exploded into flames. He took a few pulls on the fire
extinguisher and then joined us outside. The view from the
porch through the window resembled something out of Watts in
1965. The chimney was on fire. His five peacocks, whose roost
was separated from the living room by a thin pane of glass,
were not happy. Nor was Hunter, who yelled at me, "GET BACK IN
THERE, FOOL!" He had given me an iron prodder with which I was
to keep pushing the tree into the fireplace. "I'M NOT GOING
BACK IN THERE," I yelled back.
</p>
<p> The whole room was full of smoke, and flames kicked up onto
the mantel and on toward the ceiling. Thompson dashed back in
and did battle with the tree. Framed against the fire--his
wig askew, his lower lip drooping, his eyes glazed--this
50-year-old man-child was in his element. Meanwhile, a tape of
his favorite group, the Cowboy Junkies, played renditions of
Sleep Walk by Santo and Johnny and then Blue Moon.
</p>
<p> The video of all this is, quite simply, astonishing. I
begged him for a copy, but Hunter only giggled. He knew it
could be used in a mental-competency hearing. He was so pleased
with it when we watched later in the kitchen that he brought
out an earlier video he had made that involves him and an
inflated life-size woman doll in a whirlpool bath. It was about
then that Hunter called himself the "champion of fun." Deborah
was so struck with the line that she immediately wrote it down.
</p>
<p> It was now almost 3 a.m. Hunter was calm, his mania
temporarily exhausted. He smiled as he walked me to my car and
said, "I guess we will never see each other again."
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>