The Istoriaphile’s Corner

I’m proud to say that a writer once cost me a job.  At one time, the U. S. Air Force  thought of making me a journalist so I could write for base newspapers.  I had passed all the tests easily and was interviewing with an editor of one of the largest papers in the command, a young Sargent in love with uniform creases and rules.  We were talking about veterans of various branches who became successful writers and I mentioned liking the work of an Air Force veteran named Hunter S. Thompson.  Steam poured out of the editor’s ears.  “Thompson?” he squeaked, “Thompson!   My college invited him to our Controversial Speakers forum and he showed up stoned!!”   Internally I had two thoughts: 1) Well, yeah, everyone knows Hunter hates doing those speaker gigs, he’s going to show up wrecked and 2) I believe I just blew this  interview.   The next day, the Air Force decided I would be a better Supply Clerk than Reporter and ended my adventures in Journalism.  I didn’t care.  To be rejected because of liking Hunter Thompson’s writing is a badge of honor for me, and I’ve missed his wild, unpredictable forays since his death…