Fear And Loathing In: Aspen

And that, perhaps, is the true horror. The fear and loathing are not just for what Aspen has become. They are for what it represents: the final, total, and complete co-opting of every authentic human emotion by the marketplace. Even rebellion is for sale. Even angst comes in a luxury package. You can buy a "Gonzo" t-shirt at a boutique for $95, a pale, lint-free relic of a time when madness meant something other than a marketing demographic.

Standing at the base of Aspen Mountain, looking up at the slopes dotted with brightly colored ants in perfect, expensive gear, you realize the truth. Hunter S. Thompson didn’t lose the battle for Aspen. The battle never ended. It just got bought out. The fear is the understanding that the barbarians are not at the gate; they own the gate. And the loathing is the unavoidable, heartbreaking realization that the American West, the final frontier of the imagination, is now just another zip code in the portfolio of the damned. The only thing to do is buy a ticket on the next flight out, back down to the flatlands, back to the real, ugly, beautiful chaos. Because in this perfect, sterile, million-dollar morgue, a man cannot breathe. He can only choke on the thin, sweet air of victory. fear and loathing in aspen

This is where the loathing begins, a slow, hot bile rising in the throat. It is the loathing of the spectator at the world’s most expensive funeral. Because this place, this beautiful, high-altitude morgue, was once the high-water mark of the counterculture. In the late 60s and early 70s, Aspen was a strange, beautiful zoo. It was a place where Hunter Thompson ran for sheriff on the Freak Power ticket, promising to tear up the streets and turn them into grassy bike paths, to ban cars, and to decriminalize drugs. It was a place where a man could be judged not by the size of his trust fund, but by the quality of his cocaine and the ferocity of his commitment to the madness. And that, perhaps, is the true horror