Hunter S. Thompson on Gary Hart (fwd)

Francisco Lopez (
Mon, 23 Dec 1996 20:10:27 -0500 (EST)

From: Williams Institute <>

Christmas Greetings from Swiss exile!

Someone who was having trouble with his wife recently asked me when I
really got to know my ex-wife. I told him "about two years after our
divorce." I'm still getting to know her.

The same goes for my relationship with Gary Hart. I didn't really get
to know the real Gary Hart until he had abandoned me, after 38 FBI
thugs, sent by George Bush to destroy Hart (through me) and to exact
the most monstrous revenge out of me, broke down the door of my
peaceful Rocky Mountain home, beat the holy hell out of me in front
of my pregnant wife and 2-year-old daughter, kidnapped me, and took
me to Chicago to face trumped-up criminal charges for actions which
weren't even crimes. The more time that goes by, the more I get to
know Gary Hart.

Gary Hart is a good man. He is ALSO a bad man; a VERY bad man. He is
a true Democrat. He is also a liar, a sex fiend, a disloyal opportunist
and a Communist - though not necessarily in that order. Mind you, I was
not aware of all of his negative traits at the time he asked me to
help him re-enter the race he had been stupid enough to exit, after
Georgy Porgy set him up for a photo-bust with an MK-Ultra CIA sex slave
named Donna Rice.

I was never a big fan of Hart's, but I knew that George Bush was a
satanic, sadistic, brutal monster. Compared to George Bush, Adolf
Hitler was a true gentleman. And, how fitting that is; after all,
George Bush's father, Prescott Bush, personally financed the political
career of Adolf Hitler, as well as the Nazis' rise to power. If you're
interested in seeing the proof, you can download the forbidden George
Bush unauthorised biography at my web site, at:

Get it while you can, before Bush's band of scary men have it
removed. They're very good at removing things. They removed everything
my family and I owned from my home and office in Colorado - without
the benefit of a warrant.

Every day that goes by, someone sends me a little more information on
Bush, and now, the information on Hart has started to finally come in,
including all the information about the law offices his law firm has
recently set up in Russia. God, if only Billy Blythe (a/k/a Bill
Clinton) and Gary Hart had stayed in Russia, and Georgy Porgy would've
stayed in the oil fields of Texas. The whole world would be better off

Neither Hart nor Clinton were interested in visiting Vietnam during
the war, but Hart's got an office there now, like a nice capitalist

If you're ever in a pinch with the Reds, you can call on Senator
Gary Hart - ATTORNE AT LAW. Here are the addresses of his law
offices in Russia:

UL. Nikoloyamskaya 54
(Formerly Ulyanovskaya)
Moscow 109004
Tel: 7 501 258 5454
Fax: 7 501 258 5455

St. Petersburg
UL. Italianskaya 5
Offices 56/57
191011 St. Petersburg
Tel: 7 812 325 9300
Fax: 7 812 325 9301

Hart's law firm, Coudert Brothers, also has offices in New York,
Washington, D.C., San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Jose, Hong Kong,
Singapore, Beijing, Sydney, Bangkok, Jakarta, Ho Chi Minh City, Hanoi,
Tokyo, London, Paris, Brussels and Berlin.

In U.S. politics, even the losers get rewarded. Let's take U.S. Senator
William Cohen, the Republican from Maine, who just suddenly decided to
retire - allegedly with a little nudge from the Fifth Column. Now, Bill
Cohen was a good buddy of Gary Hart's. They even wrote a spy novel
together. They did a lot of other things together, too...for example,
they flew down to Managua, Nicaragua a few years ago on an Iran-Contra
fact-finding mission. The commercial airliner that they were scheduled to
travel on was shot out of the sky. Oh, I should mention that shortly
thereafer, the Managua International Airport was also blown up. Cohen and
Hart told me they had taken an earlier flight than planned, because they
had been informed that George Bush, America's cocaine kingpin, had
ordered them assassinated. When America's Gestapo broke my door down that
cold wintry night nearly a decade ago, the first thing their sticky
fingers went searching for were the voluminous files I had on this

I corresponded with Cohen after I came to Switzerland. He got a little
uptight when I started asking him for copies of our correspondence
pertaining to the Senators attempted assassination. He them claimed the
files had been "lost". Then, by chance, I met a young American student in
Germany named Jennifer Dingles who was working her way through university
there as a bartendress. She told me that she had grown up right down the
street from Cohen, and that Cohen's son was a good friend of hers and of
her brother's, as well. She then gave me some additional information
about Cohen which I can't print here. After I confronted Cohen with it,
he was shocked into silence. Now, he has been rewarded for his silence
with an appointment to Billy Blythe's (a/k/a Bill Clinton) presidential
cabinet. Everyone has their price, it seems.

I refused many offers from George Bush to maintain my silence. I refused.
My reward was having my entire world destroyed, and...when I shocked
Bushy Boy by surviving everything he could throw at me, he had me exiled
to Swiss Hell. Worst of all, not one American came to my aid. I guess I
should've stuck to the guitar. Well, then again, the reward for not
remaining silent that John Lennon received from Bush isn't quite what I
had in mind, either.

Now, I leave you with a little Christmas entertainment. Following this
message is an excerpt about Gary Gary Quite Contrary from Hunter





Whisky Business: Riding shotgun with Hunter S. Thompson

Editing the Doctor was not for the faint of heart

b y d a v i d m c c u m b e r


The view is ominous out my front window. The thermometer on the porch says
five below zero, and I can see that the wind is blowing Labrador
and Geo Metros sideways down Lewis Street, which means fall is just about

This time of year always makes people a little edgy, here in the Northern
Rockies, because we know that for the next five months even walking two
blocks downtown for a beer at the Owl Bar could mean a serious case of
frostbite. Most of the "locals" have lost their earlobes long ago. They
freeze and
fall off with a crack like a .22 shot. It's considered quite
fashionable -- a sleek, streamlined, don't-mess-with-me look,
sort of like a docked Doberman.

[Cintra Wilson pays tribute to the master of gonzo]

Actually, it is a time for self-examination - you ask yourself, why am I
here instead of, say, fishing in Belize, or even handicapping greyhounds
in Juarez? About eight o'clock this morning I was watching the snow,
listening to Hank Williams on the stereo and a barricade situation on the
scanner and wondering why my life had turned so weird. What was I doing
years ago, I thought, that made things go this way? I was a journalist
then, riding under Willie Hearst's brand at the San Francisco Examiner,
Monarch of the Dailies, one of the best newspapers in America.

Oh, God. Of course. That bastard Thompson. He was the one who ruined my
life - he and Will himself, who summoned me to his office in the fall of
'85 to give me a new assignment. Hunter Stockton Thompson had joined the
Examiner's stable of columnists a week before. David Burgin, the Ex's
editor, proudly announced that he would handle the column personally, but
that first week he'd tried to change Thompson's lead paragraph, and Hunter
threatened to kill him. The rumor in the newsroom was that Hunter had
shoved a .45 automatic up Burgin's left nostril.

Anyway, Hearst was looking for somebody more ... expendable than Burgin,
who might actually be able to get the Doctor's prose into print. Burgin
was new, and had his own reputation for weird violent outbursts, so I had
been trying to keep a low profile on the Sunday desk when the call came.

"I'd like you to become Hunter's new control," Will told me, and just then
Hunter burst out of the publisher's bathroom, poured two tumblers full of
Chivas Regal and handed me one, and, as he would say, the hog was in the

Nothing was the same after that. In six months Burgin was gone and
Thompson, to everyone's surprise, was still in the paper every Monday.

Nobody ever knew what sort of column we would be dealing with, precisely,
from week to week, least of all me. At first Thompson was billed as a
"media critic," but that was Burgin's idea, not Hunter's, and didn't begin
to cover the actual range of what he produced: everything from hard-eyed
political analysis to demented tales of doomed love, whiskey and dynamite.
He ran almost invariably in a column-and-a-half well down the side of page
D1, next to the Macy's ad - a perverse position that seemed to fit Hunter
nicely. He was used to writing much longer pieces, but somehow the
1,000-word format seemed to work.

The actual line-editing work was not arduous. Hunter is a wordsmith in the
finest sense. He loves the language and uses it like a weapon, but
elegantly. Occasionally transitions were a problem, when some electrical
impulse in his brain would take a sharp left turn and the column would
lurch from one subject to another. But nothing we couldn't handle.

Actually "editing" Hunter was for the most part a euphemism for flogging
him until he actually got hunkered down like some huge carrion bird over
his Selectric. There were the occasional squabbles with upper management
over his use of certain terms (I usually lost these battles, since editors
of large daily newspapers do not like receiving wads of letters from
elderly readers scandalized by the appearance of the word "pigfucker.")
I often fought the good fight, because it is just not quite as effective
substitute, say, the word "groin" when the sentence reads, "Then I jumped
up and stabbed him in the nuts with my fork."

I pulled out the Thompson file this morning and riffled through the
yellowing pages of newsprint, looking at the column headlines: Death to
Weird. The Gizzard of Darkness. Nixon and the Whale Woman. (That was one
my favorites: of all the reporters sent to cover the saga of Humphrey the
wayward whale, Hunter was not surprisingly the only one who met "an
Chinese woman who claimed to be the former mistress of Richard Nixon. She
lived on a houseboat that was moored in a slough near Antioch.")

I kept flipping: Bad Nerves in Fat City. Revenge of the Fish Heads. Let
Cheap Dogs Eat. Then, just as I got to The Time of the Geek, a little
Polaroid slipped out from between the pages: A pretty blonde woman in a
woodsy plaid shirt, smiling over her shoulder at the photographer. Oh,
Did I remember that one. Thompson and I were fishing around for a column
topic one Sunday night in May of 1986. "Let's call Bill Dixon," Hunter
said. "He'll have something for us." Dixon was campaign manager for Gary
Hart, who was generally considered a cinch to be elected president. We got
him on a conference call, and as he was smugly chatting with us about the
cover story the New York Times Magazine had done on Gary that day, his
waiting went off. When he came back on the line, his tone had changed
dramatically. "Holy hell," he said, "The Miami Herald has Gary cornered in
his condo with some bimbo. I've got to go."

So it was that we got a scoop on the story that killed Gary Hart's career.
In a few hours, when it became known that the "bimbo" was named Donna
Hunter told me, "Hell, I know her. She used to be Don Henley's girlfriend.
Gary met her out here at Henley's place, right down the road. I'll go see
if I can find a photo of her." And in the best tradition of Hearstian
journalism, Hunter went down to Henley's cabin, walked in (Henley wasn't
home) and rifled the place until he found ... this Polaroid. He got it on
the next plane to San Francisco, and we managed to beat the world on what
Donna looked like. And Hunter neatly pigeonholed the failed Hart as a man
"with the face of Abraham Lincoln and the soul of Jerry Lee Lewis."

It wasn't the only scoop he managed: Another of his Washington sources
the Watergate era tipped Hunter to the pending retirement of Warren Burger
from the Supreme Court. And so forth.

But my favorites were always the more fanciful accounts, like Nixon and
Whale Woman and Saturday Night in the City, which involved a midnight
to a sleazy tattoo parlor deep in San Francisco's Avenues.

The first two years of columns did produce a bestselling book, eventually
("Generation of Swine"). But not before Hunter poured boiling water on
innocent men from the window of Will's office. Not before he ran up the
largest room-service bill ever recorded in a 48-hour period at the Miyako
Hotel. And not before I nearly froze to death in a snowstorm just like
today's - riding in Hunter's red Pontiac convertible, top down, doing 80
down the backroads of Woody Creek, Colorado.

Ah well ... war stories. So what? The hell with my earlobes. I think I'll
walk downtown and have a drink. There's no whiskey in the house, and these
memories make a man restless, and thirsty.

David McCumber is the author of "X-Rated: The Mitchell Brothers" and
"Playing Off the Rail: A Pool Hustler's Journey" (Random House). He is
currently working on a book about being a ranch hand, to be published in
fall of 1997 by Avon.



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