The first time I had heard of Hunter S. Thompson was when I was living in San Francisco smoking pot on the sixth floor of an apartment building two blocks down from the famed intersection of Haight and Ashbury. You’d get offered a tab of E from a bum and an invitation to go sightseeing from a local hipster in the same two minutes. With so many fuck-ups around me it was hard to imagine that this Thompson guy was anyone of importance or just another martyr for the smoked out hippies of the generation. Committed to submersing myself in the American Dream of San Francisco I read up on the guy and learned his Gonzo style of writing and his complete disregard for the establishment. Although he wrote with the implication that he was constantly trying to prove he was a drug doing, fast car driving, I-fear-nothing, anti-establishment bad-ass, there was still something about his raw journalism that I was drawn to.