The Grasshopper Diary

There’re a lot of great things that come from hanging out in bars. There’s … well, okay, maybe there’s only one thing that’s great and that’s the stories. But, really, isn’t that reason enough to spend countless hours and dollars, and more than a few very countable brain cells, leaning against the bar and telling tales?

We all love a good story.

Seeing the trailers and advertisements for the next Johnny Depp movie, “The Rum Diaries,” brings one story to mind. The Rum Diaries is a novel penned by Gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson, a not so fictional account based heavily on the author’s own trials and tribulations in Puerto Rico in the late 50’s. It’s simply a novel because Thompson was too drunk to remember all his details, so he had to “fill in the blanks” a bit with stuff that sounded about right. So, he got drunk, wrote and rounded the story out.

To protect the innocents, of which it’s usually difficult to find in a Thompson story, he and his publishers called it a novel. Wink, wink.

Thompson spent the last half of his life living outside Aspen, Colorado. A few of those years in the 80’s coincided with my friend Amy living there, a young lass on her own for the first time, chasing her boy across the country and trying to make ends meet as a bar waitress.

An occasional customer of the bar was Hunter Thompson himself, and one early afternoon presented such the set of circumstances to create a timeless bar story. So, here goes, as straight from Amy’s mouth to my keyboard, with only about 15 years separating the two.

Thompson walks in and takes a seat at the bar. He orders a beer and four or five cocktails, including, remarkably, a Grasshopper. I mean, c’mon, who orders a Grasshopper anyway? You can’t make that kind of thing up, and it’s definitely an anchor to the story. This significant, mindful detail gives credence to the entire story.

Anyway, Amy’s friend, the bartender, says sheepishly, “Uh, I don’t think I can give you all those drinks, sir.” To which, Thompson replies, “Son, how old are you.”

The bartender says something, some number in the low- to mid-20’s.

Thompson slides his sunglasses low on his nose making direct eye contact, leans in and says, “Boy, I’ve done more drugs today than you’ve done in your entire life. Now, give me my fucking drinks.”

And to that, Thompson got his beers and all his cocktails, including the Grasshopper.  You can't argue logic.

True story.

At least as far as we both know.

Today, we raise a toast to Gonzo. Barkeep! Grasshoppers for the house!

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