Another Dead Legend
I truly hope nobody reads this here first.
Hunter S. Thompson, the author of widely popular counter-culture books and incredibly taltented sports-gambling advocate, is dead at the age of 67 from a self inflicted gun shot wound to the head.
What a shock that is. I had imagined that suicide was one of the things that Thompson saw as totally against the “fuck you” culture he had built, a weak way to leave the world. Suicide is for brooding rock stars and “the world is against me” poets, not for the king of Gonzo literature. Somehow it all seems incongruent to the life Thompson had lived and the opinions he had held.
Then again, maybe that’s just what we all are supposed to think. This is all new — no one knows exactly what happened yet, and it will be months before it surfaces in any semblance of order. Given his affinity to guns and shock, perhaps this is something he had planned for years. One last blast to leave the public with.
Thompson took some great risks in life, regardless of what the general populace thought, and came up with some great stories. This is the guy who went on the road with the Hells Angels during thier violent heyday. This is the guy who took to the 1972 campaign trail and revolutionized the thought of misfit journalism, unleashing his wit and anger on those who were running to be our commander in chief. This is the guy who took a suitcase of drugs and headed off to an anti-drug convention. He was a genius in his field.
I’m sure he wasn’t too worried about this sort of thing, but Thompson has certainly left behind a legacy. Like the “beat” writers before him, Thompson has carved a niche in modern literature that will struggle to be filled now that he’s gone.
It’s sad. Of all the ways for Hunter to go, this would be the most difficult for his fans.
Ultimately, though, he left life as he lived it — in control of everything around him, no matter how chaotic things looked.
Hunter S. Thompson