The New York Times can't seem to get enough of Hunter S. Thompson retrospectives; here's an appalling one
from last week.He reached out his right hand and the drink was there, just there, ice clinking. Thompson opened the drawer to his left. It was filled with narcotics. As he looked inside, the sheriff said, ''I'll go into the other room while you do your drugs, Hunter.''
He sank a straw into a plastic container and took some cocaine onto his tongue. He returned to the drawer constantly in the course of the night, getting cocaine, pills, marijuana, which he smoked in a pipe -- the smoke was soft and tangy and blue -- chased by Chivas, white wine, Chartreuse, tequila and Glenfiddich. The effect was gradual but soon his features softened and the scowl melted and his movements became fluid and graceful. By midnight, the man who had emerged a bleary-eyed ruin hours before was on his feet and swearing and waving a shotgun and another show had opened in the long run of Hunter S. Thompson.
Sounds vaguely like college days to me, although of course we were not drinking the top-shelf brands of liquor. And most of us outgrew that phase.