Rest in Peace Dr. Hunter S. Thompson
It’s a fucking dark day for journalism. One of our kingpins has offed himself and the world is shaking like a zillion startled babies. The moon is almost full and the cow has missed his mark, landed on Mars and made it his home. Hunter S. Thompson is dead. The pioneer, shit, inventor of Gonzo journalism, from all reports, has taken his own life in the wee hours of Sunday, March 20th, 2005.
Melbourne Herald Sun
New York Times
San Francisco Chronicle
Louisville Courier-Journal Obit
Louisville Courier-Journal Guestbook
Hunter Articles linked from Drudge Report
ESPN Column Archive
I don’t really know where I got my first taste of Hunter S. Thompson. I know “Where the Buffalo Roam” was my father’s favorite movie, and I didn’t really get it as a youngster. I might not have known he was a real person, but I was aware of dude for pretty much my whole life from seeing the movie and hearing my parents and their friends talk about his shit. But it wasn’t until I finally read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas in it’s entirety in 1993 (I tried in high school, but once again, really wasn’t ready for it) that the dude really took hold of me. Like some of the greatest drugs he proselytized in the book, Thompson’s writing shook me into the nether regions of my soul, a curious boy bouncing from wall to wall in search of something as exciting as this writers one weekend in Vegas.
The shit was insane. I mean, I just happened to read Fear and Loathing (at the request of my friend Joris) at the height of my “lets see how much acid, ecstasy and mushrooms we can take on top of all this pot, liquor and beer” phase, and it fit like a glove and popped me right out of my seat. Like, I’m not trying to be Hunter S. Thompson here, I’m just saying, fools were getting fucked up. Coming down on valiums hard after one of those nights just to fucking wake up and not want to kill anybody. And here I was reading this book thinking the whole time, “we gotta hit the road.” I was the most motivated that I ever was.
I pretty much hit the road big in the 90’s. And throughout those ten years read all of Hunter’s shit. The Curse of Lono, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, Generation of Swine, old Rolling Stone articles all that shit. The man made my head spin on more than one occasion and definitely inspired me to keep going when the times got weird. As he said, “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” And like somehow I turned real pro at rolling with the times when the shit got weird. You have to when you write about music for magazines like Murder Dog. Shit gets fucking real weird.
Lots of Great Links
I’ve always kind of flown by the seat of my pants, but at times, Hunter’s words fucking helped me to just actually put said pants on.
And now here’s the news that the man, the one man I figured I still had a chance to meet (John Peel , Malcolm X, John Belushi and Martin Luther all being dead), has shot himself in the head in his Aspen home. Is it true? Did you really kill yourself? Did you bet too big and win on the NBA All Star Game? Who was there? What the fuck happened Mr. Thompson? What?
Hunter S. Thompson you fucking fucked me, like everybody else. Rest in Peace.
Here's a couple MP3's to help you get through all the shit.
Short Texas - White Cup
B-1 - Hogg