And what else would one do on an evening with the Godfather of Gonzo?
From The New York Post: CREDIT booze for bringing Christopher Hitchens and Hunter S. Thompson together. In his introduction to "Ancient Gonzo Wisdom," a collection of Thompson interviews due out in July, Hitchens, who covered a summit between Margaret Thatcher and George H.W. Bush, says he was denied a double gin at a cocktail party at the top of the slopes because it would be twice as strong at such a high altitude. So he hightailed it to Aspen's Owl Farm, where he met Thompson, who was just getting up. "Refreshments of all sorts were available without any references to health-impact considerations, as were numerous stimulants and analgesics," the razor-tongued "God Is Not Great" author recalls. "At some point, towards the advent of the rosy-colored dawn, it seemed important to go outside, set up some bottles and cans, and blast them into shards with high-velocity rifles. This may also have had something to do with reminding the Aspen sheriff's department to keep its distance."
How far these two actually "bonded" is debatable, since although drinkers this devoted to their dram are invariably sticky when deep in their cups, they tend to bond so keenly with their booze that the main function of their drinking companions is to keep the glasses filled while making approving noises and gestures. In any case, Hitch's anecdote will be old history to Slate readers, who will doubtless recall that Hitch wrote about HST and their drinking and shooting session in February 2005:
In early August of 1990 I went to Aspen, Colo., to cover what looked as if it would be a rather banal summit involving Margaret Thatcher and George Bush. (The meeting was to be enlivened by the announcement of the forcible annexation of Kuwait by Saddam Hussein, who would go on to trouble our tranquility for another 13 years.) While the banal bit was still going on, the city invited the visiting press hacks for a cocktail reception at the top of an imposing mountain. Stepping off the ski lift, I was met by immaculate specimens of young American womanhood, holding silver trays and flashing perfect dentition. What would I like? I thought a gin and tonic would meet the case. "Sir, that would be inappropriate." In what respect? "At this altitude gin would be very much more toxic than at ground level." In that case, I said, make it a double.
The very slight contraction of the freeze-frame smile made it plain that I was wasting my time: It was the early days of the brave new America that knew what was best for you. Spurning the chardonnay and stepping straight back onto the ski lift, I was soon back in town and then, after a short drive, making a turn opposite the Woody Creek Inn (easily spotted by the pig on its roof). And there, at the very fringe of habitation, was Owl Farm and its genial proprietor, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. Once inside these well-armed precincts, I could drink and smoke and ingest any damn thing I liked. I finished a fairly long evening by doing some friendly target-practice, with laser-guided high-velocity rifles, in the company of my host. An empty bottle didn't stand any more of a chance outside than a full one would have had within. It was vertiginous, for me, to be able to move from one America to another, in point of time and also of place, so rapidly.
“The enemies of intolerance cannot be tolerant." • "If it is an offense to justice to hold people who may have been victims of mistaken identity or of vendettas by other factions, then it is also an offense to justice to release psychopathic killers who believe that they have divine permission to throw acid in the faces of girls who want to attend school." • "Don't be such a lesbian!
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