Receive Weekly Email and Text Message Updates:
Sign up for latest info on concerts, dining, promotions and more!
Go!

Related Stories ...

Most Popular

SLIDESHOWS

National Features >

  • Village Voice

    The Great Walls of Chinatown

    With the exception of the electric rice cookers, this Bowery tenement could have come straight from the Nineteenth Century.

    By Elizabeth Dwoskin

  • Houston Press

    Getting Off

    DUI attorney Tyler Flood wins 80 percent of his trials--even if his clients were 100 percent drunk.

    By Mike Giglio

  • Miami New Times

    Park or Die Tryin'

    From the homeless parking mafia to the meter fairy, finding a spot in Miami has taken a turn toward the surreal.

    By Gus Garcia-Roberts

  • City Pages

    The Baddest Men on the Planet

    Straight from the Sam's Club tire shop, Brett Rogers prepares to meet Fedor Emelianenko in mortal combat.

    By Bradley Campbell

Be Social

  • rss

Dr. Thompson, I Presume

Published on February 24, 2005

In 1990, I moved to Aspen,Colorado, knowing nothing about the place other than the skiing was supposed to be good and Dr. Hunter S. Thompson was supposed to live nearby. That was reason enough for me. I got a job bartending at the Hotel Jerome, the four-star dorm for the rich and famous that the good doctor was rumored to frequent, but rumors being rumors, I never saw him there. Then, a few months into my tenure, at the end of a long Sunday shift, I had decided to call my girlfriend back home. The pay phones were in the hotel’s basement, three in a row, side-by-side in a tiny hallway that ended at a cigarette machine. About 10 minutes into the conversation, my girlfriend asked if I had managed to find Thompson yet. Before I could get around to telling her I unfortunately hadn’t, a man appeared at the end of the hallway. He was too tall and too wobbly, dressed for danger in thigh-high rubber fishing waders, a patchwork mackintosh raincoat, and one of those furry, Soviet military ushankahats. It was a startling vision, but there was something familiar about the face. No sooner did I realize who it was than Thompson rushed down the hallway, grabbed the phone from my hand, let loose with a blood-curling “AAAAGGGHHH” into the receiver, tossed it back to me, calmly bought a pack of smokes and swaggered off as if nothing had happened. I wasn’t even sure it had happened, so I hung up and followed him upstairs, where he was sharing a table in the bar with 17 or 18 empty glasses and some menacing-looking chap in a suit and tie and baklava ski mask pushed high onto his forehead. If there was ever a couple to be avoided, it was this one, but it took all of two minutes for some oblivious Midwestern gal to ask Thompson if he would mind taking a picture of her and her family. “MIND?” screamed Thompson, “HAVEN’T HAD ONE FOR YEARS!” Then he grabbed the camera, jumped up onto the table, sent a beer glass flying and started bellowing: “SMILE! SMILE FOR THE RUSSIANS. SMILE FOR THE GODDAMN RUSSIANS!” I never saw him again.