RIP HST

Hunter S. Thompson has died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. He was 67 years old. His books and writings have profoundly influenced my writing, my attitudes on journalism, and indeed, my lfie. A brilliant mind, a chaotic life and, if not a great man, at least an honest one.



I had logged on to the blog to write up a Best Movies of the 90's List, which would surely include Terry Gilliam's adaptation of Thompson's greatest and most famous novel, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, when I saw this news on Yahoo's front page.

It's not a massive surprise, I suppose. Thompson was an unpredictable, manic kind of guy, and a lifetime of drug, alcohol and overall abuse, really, left him with some health and even mental problems. He lived in an isolated cabin in the woods, with his wife Anita, son Juan and his large personal stash of firearms.

He was a paranoid man, but maybe you'd be, too, if you had lived Thompson's life. At the vanguard of a new, if not permanent, movement on journalism he dubbed "Gonzo," Thompson was on the front lines of a culture war. Many people interpreted his books as nihilistic or indecent, but really, he's not suggesting that everyone emulate his lifestyle. He's not saying that drugs are the perfect escape, so much as commenting on why people need an escape in the first place. He purposefully warps his vision to correspond to the warped world on which he reports.

It's all right there in the book "Fear and Loathing." A straight Thompson couldn't begin to report on the actual goings-on of the year 1971. Vietnam, political controversy, civil insurrection, race riots. He saw a world going mad around him, and decided that the only solution was to go mad himself.

Was this a wise decision for his health or reputation? Of course not. But that's what makes him a writer and not a politician. He concerned himself with seeing the truth and telling people about it in as entertaining and straight-forward a manner as possible, not with the consequences, foreseeable or not, of these actions.

And it's what makes his writing so alive. These are not experiences he observes and comments on. He's not like Today's Tom Wolfe, afraid to get any dirt on his pristine white suit, contenting himself to watch college students frolic in the distance before writing tawdry novels about their inner monologues. He's more like Yesterday's Tom Wolfe, hanging out in VW bugs with hippies asking them about the first time they dropped acid.

So, anyway, this is a long, rambling way of saying that I'll miss Hunter S. Thompson. The world's just a bit less interesting now that he's no longer in it.