Hunter

“There he goes, one of God's own prototypes...a strange, high-powered mutant, never intended for mass production...too weird to live, too rare to die.”

Hunter S. Thompson, famous American journalist and satirist, died last night from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. He was 67. Thompson gained praise for his first book Hell's Angels, an account of his travels with the infamous motorcycle gang. His fame peaked in 1972, when he published Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, his best-known book. He continued to publish books and write articles for newspapers and magazines until his death. Some notable books include The Great Shark Hunt, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, and Better Than Sex. His most recent article was for ESPN's Page 2 website and was published last week.

“The Edge...there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”

Thompson called his style of writing “gonzo journalism.” It was a loose mix of straight reporting and wicked satire. In “The Kentucky Derby is Degenerate and Depraved,” he was sent to cover the famous horse race in Louisville, Kentucky. Instead, he covered his drunken adventures in the stadium. The article said more about the Kentucky Derby than any description of racetracks and horses ever could. In “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail”, he described America as “a nation of 220 million used car salesmen, with all the money we need to buy guns, and no qualms at all about killing anybody else in the world who makes us uncomfortable.” I don't know if he wrote that 22 years ago or just last week.

“If there were any justice in the world, George Bush and Spiro Agnew would be working the wrong end of a driving range in Baltimore for something like $1.50 a bucket.”

Thompson was never afraid to ridicule politicians, famous figures, and even his own friends. He wrote articles celebrating the Chicano movement in California, and he made a famous Chicano lawyer look like a psychopath. He praised Bill Clinton as the savior of America, but his best image of Bill is the good ole' boy from Arkansas diving face-first into a plate of home fries. Even as he advocated hard drug use, he made Tim Leary and Ken Kasey look like fools.

“I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me.”

And now he's dead. He didn't die in some crazy stunt. He wasn't killed by some thug he pissed off too many times. He didn't even die of some weird disease. He put a gun to his temple and blew his head clean off. And then his son found him on his living room floor.

“Buy the ticket, take the ride. And if it all adds up to be more than you can handle, well, maybe chalk it up to forced consciouness expansion.”

Hunter S. Thompson wasn't some recluse who stayed holed up in his bedroom writing novels all day. He was an energetic man who directly experienced everything he wrote. When he wrote Hell's Angels, he didn't write about an interview conducted in some newspaper office. He wrote about months spent on the road with bikers who beat the piss out of him. When he wrote articles about the police killing of a prominent Chicano activist, he wrote them in a living room in south Los Angeles, in a Latino neighborhood where LAPD helicopters circled overhead. Hunter didn't just research his stories. He plunged in and became his stories.

“Richard Nixon is so twisted he needs servants to screw his pants on every morning.”

Many remember him only for the drug-filled stories in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, but Hunter was a social commentator rather than just a druggie. His vicious, hilarious caricatures of Ronald Reagan, George Bush and especially his arch-nemesis, Richard Nixon, are funnier and sharper than his descriptions of acid trips and drunk driving. He hated Nixon more than anyone else. His articles on Nixon are some of the nastiest and funniest words ever written. And all the things he wrote about Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew apply to George W. Bush and Dick Cheney today. Every generation will have a Nixon waiting to hand the whole country over to right-wing neo-fascists, and every generation needs a Hunter to pull the country back from the swine.

“This is the same cruel and paradoxically benevolent bullshit that has kept the Catholic Church going for so many centuries. It is also the military ethic-a blind faith in some higher and wiser 'authority.' The Pope, The General, The Prime Minister. All the way up to God.”

His books were amazing, and his life was an inspiration. Not an inspiration to take drugs or commit petty crimes. That was his trip, and I don't think he ever wanted us to take it with him. He taught us to take our own trips. He taught us to live our lives on our own terms and fuck what anybody else thinks. And he taught us that you should always stand up for what you believe and never accept anyone else's definition of success. Thompson taught us to never be popular, to always be true, and always be right.

“You better take care of me, Lord. Because if you don't, you're gonna have me on your hands.”

And now he's topped himself like a damn coward. The man who never ran out of energy, who never felt defeated, took himself out before his time was through. What happened? Was his body ruined from years of drinking and hard drugs? Was he having trouble with his family? Was he just afraid to grow old? Whatever it was, it wasn't any fucking excuse. I'm angered and disappointed. Betrayed. The man who lived life with no illusions, no inhibitions, gave up and checked out. The author who fought for the outcasts lost the fight with himself. Hunter's writing seems cynical and fatalistic, but the subtext carried a basic love of and faith in humanity. And it makes me angry to think that he lost that faith and love and didn't have the strength to find them again. Hunter went out like Hemingway, and I'll remember him the same way: A brave and unique man for most of his life, but a miserable coward at the end.

So fuck you, Hunter. And thanks for the memories.