Some people say today is Gonzo Day, others will tell you it’s the International Day of Fear and Loathing, but I call it Dr. Hunter S. Thompson’s Birthday. Born on this day in 1937 in Louisville, Kentucky, the iconoclastic journalist and author’s utterly unique and electrifyingly energetic style of covering and reporting the “news,” as it were, would forever change journalism. And fiction. It was often hard to tell where one left off and the other picked up. Like most true acolytes of alcohol, Hunter S. Thompson loved booze in all its many forms. On any given occasion he could be found drinking beer, wine, tequila, rum, gin, liqueurs, Margaritas, Bloody Marys, Daiquiris — anything. So long as it had booze in it, there wasn’t a beverage he wasn’t willing to spill into his bloodstream. It was whiskey, however, that was his lifelong love. As a young man his call was Old Crow, but as he matured he fell under the trance of Chivas Regal Scotch and Wild Turkey Bourbon. He preferred Chivas when driving or relaxing (he called Chivas on the rocks his “snow cone”) and Turkey when it was time to crank up the fun or turn out pages. Like many of us, he used a progressive system: he’d start the day with beer and cocktails, then slide into straight liquor. He made a habit of ordering three to six drinks at a time—he had little patience for the vagaries of the wait staff, he wanted what he wanted and he wanted it right now. He once described himself as “a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow—to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whiskey, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested.” True Story: Hunter hit his stride early. At his first meeting with his New York publishers, they watched in amazement as young Hunter poured down 20 double Wild Turkeys in three hours (on their tab, of course), then walk out as if he’d been sipping tea.
