Wayne Ewing was friend, Road Manager, and biographer to the late Hunter S. Thompson and is, in my opinion, the only documentarian to ever successfully pierce the thick, well-considered wall that Thompson kept between himself and the rest of the world. If you haven’t yet seen it, stop what you are doing right now and buy “Breakfast with Hunter” it’s a must-see for any Thompson fan.

Wayne took time out from editing “Breakfast with Hunter 2: The Kitchen Tapes” to put together a piece about his old friend specially for us here at Outsider’s Almanac. You can read other great memories of Hunter by Wayne on his bi-weeklyish vodcast at HunterThompsonFilms.com. We know you’ll enjoy this.

The Aspen Times has a picture of a bobcat on the front page this snowy January day after “Blue Monday” – the third Monday in January, considered the most depressing Monday of the year by the media. The bobcat in today’s news was crouching in the snow in a field not far from my unfortified compound somewhere near Carbondale and he appeared quite cuddly, unlike the evil-looking example below.

Bobcats remind me of another Blue Monday. The evil version above is like the one I met more than a decade ago, back in the nineties at Owl Farm with my friend Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. And that memory suddenly answered the question that I have been pondering about Hunter for more than a month.

“What did Hunter like to do outside?” asked another comrade, Brian Buckman – the force behind great web sites like the Outsiders Almanac and my own HunterThompsonFilms.com.

Since Hunter spent most of the last twenty years of his life glued to a high chair between the stove and counter in his kitchen, I did not have a ready answer. But today it came to me after seeing the bobcat.

Hunter loved to go outside and shoot, especially to kill something that he felt threatened him.

“People, they know that I will shoot,” the Beast would declare late at night with pride. And it was certainly true, as I knew from having to deal with an innocent victim of his trigger finger. (see my vlog “Never Call 911”).

The bobcat was certainly a victim, but whether innocent or not you will have to judge.

Outside on the porch of Owl Farm that January Blue Monday it was cold, so cold even a starving, yet still cagey bobcat might be forced to take a chance.

My brother Andrew and I were at Owl Farm that night, along with Deborah Fuller – Hunter’s secretary since the early eighties – and a journalist and photographer from London. The Brits were there to talk about the release in England of Hunter’s long lost novel The Rum Diary, now finally to be released as a film starring Johnny Depp in 2010.

Hunter was quite crafty about having his picture taken. From the beginning, he had an instinctual sense that branding himself properly was a key to success and fame. Thus, the Gonzo symbol, the cigarette holder, the Tillie Hat, etc. were all elements of his well known image that had to be arranged properly before any photograph could be taken. Deborah and I were charged with making sure he looked just right, and he constantly threatened terrible retribution if we failed.

“If my glasses are crooked, I’m going to hurt you,“ he would always promise.

Thus, I took the presence of a professional photographer with three cameras hanging from his neck as essentially a threat that night in the Owl Farm kitchen. If the picture in the London Observer or the The Sun wasn’t just right, I would pay.

Suddenly, there was a loud commotion on the front porch where the peacocks were huddled in their walk-in cage under a heat lamp. A huge THUMP was followed by the peacocks screeching wildly. I figured that a slab of snow must have slid off the roof and startled the birds. Deborah immediately went to investigate, and I was close behind.

On the front porch, the peacocks were going crazy inside their cage. The door to the cage was open, as usual so they could come and go, but there was something else inside with them now. A mangy bobcat was leaping from the floor of the cage, trying to grab one of the screaming peacocks whirling on their perches above.

“You asshole! Get the fuck out of here,” screamed Deborah as she charged at the bobcat.

You could see how this fearless woman could protect Hunter all those years, and even take a bullet for or from him (see once again my story “Never Call 911”). But, the bobcat seemed to have no fear whatsoever. Instead of running away, the cat charged Deborah, coming after her quickly and driving us both back into the living room. The Cat was either rabid or simply crazed by hunger and the cold.

“It’s a bobcat,” screamed Deborah to Hunter. “Get the shotgun!”

I slipped back onto the porch, thinking I could drive the bobcat off before Hunter got the gun and ended up pictured on the front page of London newspapers turning a cat into pink mist and alienating every animal lover in the United Kingdom. The peacocks were still screaming, but the bobcat wasn’t in their cage or on the porch. Then I saw him peeking around the side of the woodpile just off the front of the porch.

At that moment, I heard the unnerving sound of the pump action on the 12 gauge Marine Defender behind me as Hunter came out the front door screaming, “Where is he? Where is the son-of-a-bitch?”

Unfortunately, I hesitated just long enough for him to know I was lying when I replied lamely, “I don’t know.”

His voice took on a tone of threat I had never heard before as he swung the chrome plated barrel in my direction and screamed, “Tell me where he is, or I’LL SHOOT YOU!”

“He’s right there. Behind the wood pile,” I shouted, instantly, giving up the bobcat whose head disappeared behind the woodpile just as it exploded in a torrent of wood chips from the double O shot of the Marine Defender. That was one quick cat. He ducked the shot and simply disappeared.

Hunter was livid.

“Protecting a ‘poor pussycat.’ You sentimental fool. It was a bobcat that killed my beloved Screwjack,” he declared with angst. Giving me a look of disgust, he pumped the Marine Defender once to clear the weapon and went inside.

Screwjack was both the name of his black house cat, and a satirical short story about his love affair (literally) with a black cat (Here’s a supplement from my “Breakfast with Hunter” DVD in which the writer P.J. O’Rourke and the actor Don Johnson take turns reading Screwjack).

He was a gorgeous cat as you can see from this post card picture that Deborah took and then sent to a few friends on his death. The theory of his demise was that vermin from bobcats with whom he tangled infected him with a deadly disease.

Unfortunately, Screwjack was pretty elusive, and in all my years of filming Hunter I took few, if any shots of his black cat. However, Screwjack does have a cameo appearance in “Breakfast with Hunter.” You can hear him distinctly whining in the background as Alex Cox and Todd Davies flee the kitchen after their infamous Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas script conference that led to Terry Gilliam directing the movie.

Back on the porch, I thought about the error of my ways and figured perhaps I could redeem myself by shooting the bobcat. Taking another shot gun from the arsenal, I stalked the property in the cold, hoping to see the varmit and blast him away. After an hour or so, feeling like a bad imitation of Bill Murray in Caddyshack , I quit for the night. At least I didn’t blow up the 500 gallon propane tank with an errant shot.

The next afternoon I got a call from Deborah.

“He shot the bobcat,” she proudly declared.

“How did he do it?”

“I was walking over to the main house and saw the bobcat sitting in the bushes above the firing range,” she said. “ So I went into Hunter’s bedroom. He’d only been down for a few hours. But still I whispered in his ear: ‘If you get up now you can shoot the bobcat.’ And, Damn if he didn’t pop right out of bed, grab a rifle, and kill that bobcat with one shot from the front porch. Then he went right back to bed and fell asleep.”

Usually, it took Hunter hours to get going in the morning – an ugly ritual documented by more than one observer. But, given a score to settle with a bobcat, anything was possible, including getting Hunter into the great outside.

Copyright 2010 by Wayne Ewing
Screwjack’s picture courtesy of Deborah Fuller

Don’t lose hope dear internetting ones, we still have every intention of launching the full Outsider’s Almanac website in the near future, it just won’t be quite as soon as we had hoped. We’re pretty insanely busy these days, between writing projects, client needs, body/mind/spirit rehabbing and the pursuit of winter in it’s many splendered and distracting forms, but you should expect to see the site live by around April 1st, 2010.

We’ve got our sites on making Outsider’s Almanac the most exhaustive and user friendly site for all Outsider activities by combining tutorials with expert articles, videos, web based and mobile communication apps, up-to-the-minute live and critical information on sites and conditions, gear reviews, site reviews, events, and so much more.

Like you, we love the Outside, it’s beautiful out here, and boy is it easy to get distracted. We wouldn’t want it any other way.

For low these past 8 years now a group of degenerates near and dear to my heart have been hosting Chicago’s version of the SantaCon, the inimitable (and superbly intoxicated) SANTA KONG. Yes, it’s as intimidating as a 3 story gorilla and almost as virile, too. Yes, you will get drunk, very drunk. And, yes, I will once again be serving my patented weapons-grade egg nog from a gas can.

If your idea of a good time is to travel around America’s third largest city in school buses full of drunken Stana Clauses, reigning lovable havoc on unsuspecting, but typically appreciative bystanders and then sleeping off your holiday cheer for a day or two, well then Virginia, the SantaKong is just the thing for you.

Here is what Disco Dave has to say about the event:

BASICS:
Synchronicity’s 8th Annual SantaKong begins at 2:00 PM Saturday – December 12th, 2009 at Quencher’s bar. Quencher’s is located at 2401 N. Western Avenue, on the corner of Fullerton & Western. This year the Kong will be using cheaper school buses, as opposed to trolleys from years past. This enables everyone to get jolly for nearly twice as long, without breaking the bank. Everyone will spend the first hour at Quencher’s decorating and festi-fying the buses. (Oh and drinking.) Please bring Christmas decorations and other Holiday swag to make our school buses as obnoxiously cheer-tastic as possible.

To join us, just Paypal $26 to pocketbook@synchroni-city.org. https://www.paypal.com

If you do not have a Paypal account, see the FAQ’s below.

YOU MUST WEAR A SANTA OR OTHER HOLIDAY-THEMED OUTFIT. IF YOU DON’T DRESS UP FOR SANTAKONG – YOU ARE LAME!

As usual, your $26 payment covers a massive quantity of beer and whiskey, which will be festively available at any and all times we are on the buses. You are still welcome, of course, to bring your own alcohol. In fact it’s kind of a tradition.

The Bus departs from Quencher’s at 3:00, and will return to the Quencher’s neighborhood at approximately 11:00-11:30 P.M.
FAQ’s:

WHAT IF I CAN’T BE AT QUENCHERS BY 3:00?
No worries, you can also plan on meeting up with us at The Twisted Spoke (501 N Ogden Ave) for our 4:30 departure.

If that doesn’t work out for you, please look for us at the corner of Lincoln, Halsted and Fullerton for our 6:00 departure from there. If you miss us at there, you’ll have to give us a call.

HOW DOES THIS WHOLE THING WORK NOW, EXACTLY?
The buses provide you and your Santa friends with safe and sober transportation from bar to bar around the great city of Chicago. Intermittently you’ll be bringing your unique brand of cheerful revelry to public settings like Daley Plaza, Macy’s, the Billy Goat Tavern, Emmitt’s, and even an Ice Skating Rink!

DO I REALLY HAVE TO WEAR A COSTUME?
Yes.

I DON’T DO PAYPAL . . . . CAN I STILL KONG OUT?
Maybe.

We will be taking some cash payments on the day of the event. However, an RSVP is strongly suggested, and there is limited space on our buses. If you do not Paypal us in advance, Synchronicity cannot guarantee you a spot on our buses. We strongly recommend you Paypal us your $26 in advance to guarantee your spot. Setting up a Paypal account is easy and free. All you need is a bank account and an email address, and you can both send and RECEIVE money.

ANYTHING GOES ON THE BUSES, RIGHT?
No, no and no. You must obey all state and local laws while participating in SantaKong. That means you may NOT use illicit substances on the buses . . . not even weed. Without the humor and good graces of our friendly drivers – we have no SantaKong. Please do not put our driver’s jobs or the event’s future in jeopardy. Obey all state and local laws while you’re on the bus.

WHAT IF I’M TOO WASTED TO DRIVE HOME?
Luckily, Quenchers has the advantage of being located close to several cheap CTA options, such as the Western Bus the Fullerton Bus, and the Blue Line, all three of which run on a 24-hour schedule. Also, cabs are everywhere in that neighborhood. PLEASE DO NOT PLAN ON DRIVING HOME FROM SANTAKONG. Your friends may be sad that you got splattered all over the Dan Ryan, but they’ll also be pissed off that your stupidity ruined a perfectly good SantaKong.

I HAVE A QUESTION YOU HAVEN’T ADDRESSED:
No problem. Email me at dave_h@illmeasures.com

Downtown the Disco Elf
for
Synchronicity

http://www.Synchroni-City.org

I was searching the internets, digging around for great beer themed vacations when I hit beertravelers.com and stumbled on a tradition from the small South Dakota town I grew up in, Brookings.

Brookings was generally not a very exciting place, just a regular little prairie town filled with good hearted honest folks of a mild temperament.  However, once a year in late June or early July Jim’s Tap, the best bar in town, hosts a Harley Ride Through Night when a bunch of bikers come to town and ride their bikes from the back beer garden through the bar and out onto main street.  I think it began as a stopping off point for folks on their way to Sturgis but the dates seem a bit early in the season for that these days.

Now, it’s been a good fifteen years since I’ve seen the spectacle and, as I remember, it seemed to get less and less renegade with each passing year but the earliest memories are pretty strong.
Long lines of gleaming bikes up and down both sides of main street, turning the sleepy little drag into a river of steel. Scantily clad women with a wild streak, strung out on the back of choppers lifting their shirts up above the bald heads of barrel chested ex cons as they boomed down the boulevard.  Jeez, I should get a job writing songs for The Boss:

Just watched some videos on youtube of the ride through and its definitely lost the hard, sometimes frightening edge, but why shouldn’t it, the edge is a harder and harder thing to find in this world.

All the same, I’m sticking to my memories and am inclined to believe that they are mostly true. Considering this tradition was started in 1971, I think it’s fair to say that the early population of enthusiasts included some folks who chose the road less traveled.
For what it’s worth Jim’s Tap is also a damn fine bar for a South Dakota town. Ever since I was wee one they’ve offered what they call “around the world” where in a brave soul pays something like $20, probably a bit more now, and gets 12 different brews from different parts of the world.  If you finish it before getting kicked out you get a t-shirt to boot.  I remember it being a popular past time of the ball players when I was a bat boy.  Anyrate, enough of the maudlin reminiscence, if your ever in Brookings get drunk at Jim’s. Tell ‘em I sent ya, I’d be curious to know if anyone in the place would know who the hell I was.

Last night I was sitting around chatting with my roommate when he reminded me of a story involving a mutual friend of ours. As it happened my roommate and our friend were spending a fall evening at a local pub getting good and drunk. On the way home they we’re laughing riotously about something or other and our friend, out of jubilation, slapped a pumpkin off of its perch on a step, causing it to roll, unbroken mind you, into a neighboring yard. The two ruffians continued walking along until about half a block later they heard a commotion behind them and turned to see a barefoot and shirtless, mulleted and mustachioed man sprinting at them as he hurled insults and slurs. Before they knew what was happening the man was on top of them punching our friend repeatedly in the face and screaming that he wanted five dollars for the offense of knocking a pumpkin into his yard. Apparently there was some contentious haggling that followed but in the end the man did receive his five dollars and all parties went on their way.
The man clearly overreacted, something men are often want to do. It got me thinking about how men overreact, over engineer, over everything just about everything and how that applies to the season that is upon us and particularly Halloween. Here then are some results of my search:

This one’s a bit long but the idea is awesome: