R.I.P. Hunter S. Thompson
“Let us hope that the whores of evil no longer loiter on the doorsteps of your path beckoning you into the brothel of despair, and that hereinafter you may present them with the most rigid manifestations of a firm and manly will. Ad astra per aspera.”
-Jack Kerouac.
frog says:
It is complete now two shots are neatly fired
A one-way street, he’s walking to end of the line
And there we meet the faces from his books and twisted mind
We say ’good bye, today a writer had to die
We say ’good bye today HST had to die
Underneath the chilly gray Aspen sky
We can make believe that Nixon is still alive and
HST is writing, hell angels they are driving by
We say ’good bye today a writer had to die
We say ’good bye today HST had to die
He told the press, don’t count on any second coming
God got his ass kicked the first time he came down here slumming!
He had the balls to drink, the gall to write and then forgive us!
No, I don’t wonder why, I know I like the books he left us?
Hey, hey, good bye
Today HST had to die
Apologies to Concrete Blond for ripping of their lyrics
fancy dave says:
When I die, it will be in my 'compound'. That's all I ask, really. Like, you know, my house just wouldn't cut it. I NEED a compound if I'm to die with dignity. Just me, my apocalyptic arsenal, my goodness-knows-how-many loyal retainers and hangers-on, the international media parked a short distance away at the 'compound gates' and a good, clean shot to the head. Is that so much to ask?
Sure, it smacks of Waco, but hey… I'm as Davidian as they come.
Giovanni says:
Yesterday, playing soccer, I told Gentlemen Jim that I would be writing to Hunter S. Thompson today to say thanks. Sure, plenty of people write to HST, most of them cocks like me, most likely many of them dope fiends - not like me, but I wanted to say thanks.
I've almost finished The Proud Highway, 1955-1967. HST letters. It was this collection that had a life-altering effect on me, woke my punk arse up and reminded me what I always sort of knew - that I had to stop fucking around and had to do what I want to do. Write.
This isn't my best work because I am exhausted.
Today I started at the Fremantle Herald, a very nice little newspaper with a circulation of about 88,000. I am slave labour (for now) but penned four stories today and have another four in the works. I was sharing a 2m squared booth with another writer. I effectively worked from 8:45am until 7pm, with one break. Tomorrow night I go to Bullsbrook to cover a rodeo. A rodeo.
It's bliss.
So thanks old man.
I guess the Nazi cockfight finally got him down. Dirty pool and judo in the clinches since 1963 is a long, hard fight. In Revelations there's a bit about the second woe passing, and it says the third woe cometh. In 1996, HST said the second woe had passed and that the third cometh. The rise of Bush and, more importantly, Bushism?
HST once posed the question - who's the better man, he who has braved the storming sea and lived or he who has stayed ashore and merely existed? Or something along those lines.
He wrote that aged 17 in 1955.
Now he shoots pool with Franz Fanon in heaven, or just plain shoots Nixon in hell.
Taco says:
I can't beleive I killed Hunter S. Thompson.
Trying to scam tickets to the Byron Bay Blues and Roots Festival on Friday, I sent an email to their media person outlining an idea for a 'Fear and Loathing' style article. I wrote (and I quote):
Don't try to tell me Gonzo journalism is a thing of the past. Hunter S.Thompson isn't dead, he's just emaciated.
Why couldn't I have killed someone I hated like Elizabeth Durack?
Fuck.
RIP you you twisted genius, you screaming maniac, you bright flaming miserable shit.
Giovanni says:
Me and Kilbot killed Elizabeth Durack. Thanks for reminding me. (This is not sarcasm).
Taco says:
I know you did and that's why I'm so jealous.
Why did I have to kill Hunter S. Thompson.
Hang on I just had an idea…
George W. Bush killed in freak tricycle accident.
Awesome
Alistair says:
Uh, the unfortunate thing is that the death-ray only works by accident. It has something to do with the purity of the unmotivated act and the cognitive inaccessibility of the space of coincidence and how they achieve terminal resonance levels within the orbital laser matrix, or something like that.
I was trying to train that thing on Bob Hope for years to no avail. I've completely given up on the pope.
[img]http://www.smh.com.au/ffximage/2005/02/02/pope_dove_wideweb__430×410.jpg[/img]
Though if there's a news flash tomorrow, I'll still take credit for it.
Regardless, I'm actually saddened by the death of Hunter. Even though he was turning into an ignominious over-publishing industry trying to eke sales out of everything he ever wrote, and which was threatening to wipe out the influence and importance of the major stuff, well, that major stuff is the gear, simply because it demonstrated that a basic gut-felt political conviction, if pursued right to the bitter self-destroying end, could challenge The Man, and The Man inside all of us. The (probable) suicide is a painful reminder of the crippling demands of uncompromising, unaccommodated and unaccomodating moral opposition to the general state of affairs.
(OK, phony & pseudy pontification and mindless alliteration over. Back to what you were doing.)
Giovanni says:
the 1955-1967 letters are hot
anyway
it was 'happier' man, not better - which I think sits better with me
selah!
Blazin Billy Zabka says:
if nothing else, he was an inspiration to follow the dream of taking as many hallucinogenics as possible…i'm living the dream baby, wheeeeeeee
killer says:
Two good obits for Hunter:
The story goes that, while covering the Kentucky Derby on assignment for Scanlan's Magazine, mentally spent and under deadline, Thompson ripped pages from his notebook, numbered them and sent them off to the printer, certain that it would be his last article. The piece, however, proved to be a success, and Thompson realized "if I can write like this and get away with it, why should I keep trying to write like The New York Times?"
<a href="http://jacksonspecific.com/index.php?itemid=48" target="_blank">Link</a>
"Running on a platform that included changing Aspen's name to "Fat City" and introducing stocks to the town square to punish dishonest drug dealers, he came within a handful of votes of winning office."
<a href="http://www.heraldsun.news.com.au/common/story_page/0,5478,12335970%255E401,00.html" target="_blank">Link</a>
Giovanni says:
Peafowl, of all things, was a page short and I was in the right place at the right time soi I whipped this up for 'em in about an hour.
…
Thompson, Hunter S.
"I have a theory that the truth is never told during the nine-to-five hours."
Louisville, Kentucky, January 12th, 1996.
The Mayor declares it to be Hunter S. Thompson Day.
Doctor Thompson, 59, is awarded the Key to the City. He stands 6’3” and has a slightly odd gait due to one of his legs being shorter than the other, and peers out through a pair of sunglasses that seems to never leave his face. The sun, he will write the next day, is bright like a fireball.
But who is this odd man in white shoes, this ‘Doctor’? Why is he the favourite son of this poor southern town?
Louisville, Kentucky. July 18th, 1937.
Hunter is born.
After a rocky youth, in which Thompson combines prize-winning essays with police trouble, he joins the airforce, aged 18. He becomes the sports writer for his Air Force base newspaper - the Courier - and is a source of sporadic agony for his commanding officers.
“The Courier hit the streets early this morning, and all hell broke loose within an hour’s time. The subject for all this angry yowling was a clever little column entitled ‘The Spectator’; composed each week by your friendly doctor.”
Hamilton, Bermuda. July 16th, 1960.
Marooned, Thompson is broke and seeking work. He writes to the editor of a Puerto Rican newspaper: “My name is Hunter S. Thompson and I would like to work for the San Juan Star. Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I’m a well-known voodoo journalist and not the sort of fellow to pay a car rental bill.”
A friend eventually sends him the money to get back to the USA.
On route to Bogota. May 26, 1962.
Thompson is travelling around South America as the National Observer’s roving reporter. He writes to a friend; “Fuck them all. These latins are all whores in their own various ways, even the presidents.” Later, he launches a stinging attack on the American press for their lazy coverage of the region. At 24, this young journalist gives both barrels to several major editors.
Woody Creek, Colorado. November 22, 1963.
Shocked by President Kennedy’s assassination that day, Thompson, then freelancing, writes; “There is no human being within 500 miles to whom I can communicate anything - much less the fear and loathing that is on me after today’s murder… today is the end of an era. No more fair play. From now on it is dirty pool and judo in the clinches. The savage nuts have shattered the great myth of American decency.”
San Francisco. March 17, 1966.
Thompson has just finished the book that would make him a star.
“I’m now trying to get a grip on myself after three weeks of running totally out of control. Got the book off on March 1, as planned, and then went into a wild spiral up and down the coast. Stuffing myself with every kind of drug and booze imaginable. Now my head feels a bit clearer and of course I am, dead broke again.”
The book, Hells Angels, is mad, urgent, brutal, honest and the first great milestone on the freak highway. It remains in print today.
…
As Vietnam burned more fiercely with each passing week, Thompson’s anger at the strangulation of the American dream became more pronounced. He believed the Angels to be the natural bastard offspring of an increasingly hard-faced and savage nation. Angry letters to Lyndon Johnson gave way to Fear and Loathing On the Campaign Trail, a seminal work in political idealism. Yes. Heartfelt political idealism.
Later work catalogued the crumbling facade of American society, the rise of Reagan, whom in 1960 Thompson called “A grinning whore who will most likely end up President.” and more importantly Reaganism.
The final years of Thompson’s life were spent mainly in and around his Colorado ranch, his views on what had become of his nation made brutally clear;
"We have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of the whole world - bullies and bastards who would rather kill than live peacefully. We are whores for power and oil with hate and fear in our hearts."
Then, on February 21st, he shot himself - one way or another.
The focus for fans and detractors alike seems to be on Thompson’s drug-fuelled adventures, his roller coaster binges, as though he was first and foremost some kind of party animal, a millionaire playboy for whom the millions came much later in life. Thompson was an angry young man, who cared enough about his fellow Americans and fellow human beings to get furious, and then to get dirty looking for the truth, or at least his truth.
______________________________________________
“So we shall let the reader decide for himself: who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived, or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed?”
Hunter S. Thompson
Aged 17, 1955.
killer says:
One last word on HST… this one from Popbitch.
>> Fear and Golfing <<
Farewell to Raoul Duke
Just prior to his death Hunter S Thompson invented a new sport, Shotgun Golf, with Bill Murray. His description:
"The game consists of one golfer, one shooter and a field judge. The purpose of the game is to shoot your opponent's high-flying golf ball out of the air with a finely-tuned 12-gauge shotgun, thus preventing him (your opponent) from lofting a 9-iron approach shot onto a distant "green". Points are scored by blasting your opponent's shiny new Titleist out of the air and causing his shot to fail miserably. After that, you trade places and equipment, and move on to round two."
Go out this weekend and play it in tribute.
Hi Honey, I'm *BLAMMMOO* says:
[url=http://http://edition.cnn.com/2005/SHOWBIZ/books/02/25/thompsondeath.wife.ap/index.html]ahh, that's one way to end a phonecall…[/url]