Dr. Hunter S. Thompson once wrote something to the effect that only a truly serious man can laugh, through out most of his life I would guess he did just that, but at some point last Sunday night Hunter found the edge, crossed the line and started taking himself too seriously. I didn't know him personally, so my grief is dull. I knew his work, and it meant a great deal to me.
I first read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas while in High School, I bought the hook hard, my male adolescence needed to believe in someone, and it was only possible to put faith in someone as absurd as HST. I went pretty mad for sometime after that, reading all of his catalog save "the curse of lono" which will be re-released soon, and it got me over the hump, kept my attention and had me distracted while I grew up to the point where I could be okay with whatever the truth of it all was.
I was smart enough not to believe in all that he appeared to stand for, I took the parts that fit and used of them for what I could. It is Hunter I owe for my love of F. Scott Fitzgerald, also for Frederick Exley. I can forgive him the guns, and slight pigishness. I don't even fault him for his choice of ends, he wasn't for leaving this world with out a bang, I do hope that Juan was prepared a bit for what he had to find, and I imagine he was.
This past Sunday, instead of hearing the news of his death I was far disconnected from all society has to offer, by a chance of entertainment I was reading to my girlfriend, from Hunters collection of letters. The particular letter I was reading aloud was written to George, a collections attorney from New York, concerning an unpaid London Hotel Bill, he promised George in the beginning and ending of that letter, that this one, would be very different. I'm not sure how the collection offer turned out for George, but when something or someone else, most likely himself, came by to collect from Hunter on Sunday, February 19th, 2005, and I'm sure it was very different.
"...one of God's own prototypes-a high-powered mutant of some kind who was never even considered for mass production. He was too weird to live and too rare to die.... "
Thanks for all your help Hunter, but as it turns out no one can make the pigfuckers honest.
1 comment:
Today rests the soul of Hunter S. Thompson. Toward the tip-top of his admirerarchy (that's hierarchy of admirers) rests one blogger named Buckie. Heavy condolences are in order.
Collection of letters = presidential archival historian collection letters =
everybody else
"Freedom from Tyranny" = presidential pipe-dream targeting far-away Ay-rabs
"Freedom from debt" =
everybody else's pipe-dream pleading to Capital One
oink oink went the 'publican piggies
broke broke went everybody else
bang bang went Hunter, and that fucking sucks.
Post a Comment