High Times and Hunter S. Thompson

I could barely move from my prone position on the bed. My head was pounding and my stomach was awash with a queasiness that meant one thing: I was in for a hangover from hell.

The room was dark, the TV was on low and from the other bed there was the glow of a lit cigarette. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw a bare-chested guy in jeans, lying on his back, blowing smoke at the ceiling. He turned to look at me. I had a vague memory of being carried up some stairs, over his shoulders.

Memories started to come back. Peacocks squawking in cages, Johnny Cash tunes on the stereo. Me taking a thick cigarette from a strong-jawed man with dark glasses, his face only inches from mine, and, later, crawling over the whitest carpet I had ever seen. A couple guys who