So M. and I stop in at the Hotel Jerome bar in Aspen for a mid-afternoon drink, and there he is: Hunter S. Thompson: lanky, sunglasses, little hat, worn leather briefcase for manuscripts. Only as we all know, Hunter Thompson died a few months ago. We figured that we were witnessing a flowering of the Hunter Thompson-impersonator phenomenon.
Key West has its "Papa Hemingway" lookalike contest, so maybe Aspen will follow suit. Johnny Depp can serve as celebrity judge.
LEFT: The real Hunter Thompson.
Since I rarely visit Aspen, I don't know when the restored high Victorian spendor of the Jerome Bar was junked up with flat-screen TVs permanently tuned to ESPN. What happened to dignified drinking?