I visit the home of Hunter S Thompson (the outlaw journalist), about whom I have been obsessing a good deal recently. He is still alive, naturally. Rather than his famous Owl Farm compound, I find he is living in an architecturally unique structure in a desert. It's a very organic-looking building, mainly composed of curved sheets of yellow sandstone with stout, dull steel pillars. It has hot tubs and bedrooms and enclosed areas hung with white sheets, all overlain slightly with wind-blown dust.
The great man seems tolerant of my company, although not overjoyed. I leave him fiddling around with some handguns and climb stairs to a high, amoebic tower (with flagpole) to survey the arid wastes around. It's very hot; I am wearing my old, distressed black jesus sandals. Later, in what seems like the dining area of the house, I reflect that I never checked if a flag was flying - and if one was, would it carry his famous double-thumbed Gonzo fist emblem?
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