What Would Hunter S. Thompson Do?

Risky Business: On Holiday

Conquering the mountains with drugs and my pillow

My house has been shorn of sharp edges, like woolly yet aggressive sheep.

I’ve positioned every piece of furniture to ensure coddling. My interior design theme is Cushioned Fort.

I used to cook using an old-fashioned range, but why risk burnt fingers from the stovetop? Bending over to use the oven could lead to sciatica!

I pivoted to a countertop air fryer.

I love my cocoon and yet, as an American, I must Vacation.

I decided to hit the road in the teardrop camper.

No more King-sized bed, tilted to the perfect 5-degree angle. I’ll leave behind the amber glow of my bedside salt lamp, my whimsical quilt, and the artificial sound of raindrops.

Holy padded tent-on-wheels, Batman: I am facing a flimsy Queen mattress, overzealous AC unit, and insect companions!

This Princess is about to collide with a truckload of peas.

Why on earth would I undertake such punishing, Everest-like conditions?

I’ve watched Easy Rider one too many times and I want to devour all that life has to offer. Some jet to Paris, others climb Mt. Kilimanjaro, and some ski the Alps. Some buy Harleys and smuggle drugs to New Orleans.

I’m driving five hours to the Ozarks and believe me, that’s plenty.

Fortunately, Hunter S. Thompson came to me in a dream and told me what I’d need to survive on the road. First, he instructed: take your own damn pillow.

1 / Drugs, plenty of ‘em

I take drugs at home, of course. What senior citizen doesn’t?

They say you are a fool to do drugs when young, and a fool to not do them when you are old.

I have a stash of magic mushrooms I collected from the forest, and I plan on hitting up the CBD store before we leave town. Hunter advised taking pain meds, so I’ll grab the expired oxys and a full jar of ibuprofen.

I lost my salt-shaker of cocaine in 1993, but never mind.

Would I include a tank of nitrous oxide? Yes, yes I would — but they are hard to come by, and lifting it could throw my back out of whack.

2 / Lions, Tigers, and Bears

My sister and bro-in-law are meeting us at the campground and have agreed to a visit to the nearby animal sanctuary. I’ve heard great things from others about the quality of these furry kings of the jungle.

I hope they aren’t limp as noodles from the heat.

The staff herds visitors onto a tram, so it’s not one of those self-guided safaris where idiots roll down their car windows and feed the bears sandwiches, although that would be fun to watch.

Normally, I’d watch HBO's answer to Wild Kingdom, so this should be a step up.

3 / Nightly cocktail

I drink a cocktail at home and I’m not about to let this road trip interrupt my sacred evening ritual.

At my age, I can only reminisce about a Tequila Sunrise or a frothy mug of Guinness. Instead, I sip a single diet 7-Up, on the rocks. Do you think this is without risk? In China, they say ice-cold beverages cause stomach problems!

I’d love to drink a chilled diet coke, but caffeine and mushrooms don’t mix.

I’m not confident the happy hour will be serene. I normally lounge in the front yard, soaking up the deeply relaxing spirit of my Japanese dry garden.

In the campground, the view is likely to be crazed youngins screeching about finding a spider.

I’ll bring a package of bendy straws to gussy up my cocktail routine and hope for the best.

4 / Pretending I’m Thurston Howell the 3rd

Vacationing means not working, unless you are a workaholic with a fancy job like my former boss, a physician, or my sister, who runs a major arts fundraising org.

Overachievers.

My job, wannabe author, can be tossed aside like a used Starbucks to-go cup.

I shall gaze at the well-heeled of Bentonville, with their Sheepadoodles and blue-eyed Huskies lounging on the cafe sidewalks, and pretend I am one of them.

5 / Leave It to Beaver

Family time is precious because aging teaches us other people die. Although they annoyed us in life, their absence (usually) proves we were overly judgmental.

My sister has about a dozen stepchildren and I can’t keep them straight. One is a Mormon, one has six kids, one is a thrice-married, meth-addicted truck stop waitress, and one has adopted two foster children.

I have asked for a chart with names, ages, and defining characteristics, but she is unwilling to write anything down.

I try using my husband’s faux-listening technique, which involves zoning out while giving the impression of listening.

I suck at this, however. Usually, I involuntarily listen, feel exhausted, and want to guzzle a second 7-Up or worse, a diet coke.

6 / Deep in the heart of capitalism

We are spending part of our time in Bentonville, ground zero for Walmart.

The wealth is palpable. Museums abound. Fit-looking youngish people steer their mountain bikes through town and lounge about in the open air, guzzling alcohol as if they’ll live forever.

The bastards eat real ice cream right out in the open.

Walmart is the pinnacle of capitalism. You can find anything you want, cheaply, day or night.

In B’ville, you are always a stone’s throw away from a new toothbrush, a pool toy, a roast chicken… and I, billionaire, shall buy freely.

Look for me in the fake ice-cream aisle, high as a kite on mushrooms, trying to decide if I want a pint of low-carb Salted Caramel or Triple Chocolate Mayhem.

Carpe diem, friends.

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Jean Campbell recently started her first Substack newsletter to laser focus on getting her book, City of Lies: A Street Hustler’s Omaha Journey published.