Remembering Hunter S. Thompson: Hero, Lecher, Manic-Psychotic Doctor of Journalism

Originally Published on Music for America, 3/5/05.

On Sunday evening, February 20th, 2005, thousands of bullets were fired across the globe- in Baghdad and Kabul, hurtling towards the fleeing Taliban, driving concrete splinters from the decaying barriers protecting Sunni guardsman, in the forests of England and the African Serengeti, penetrating the coveted pelts of terrified woodland animals and severing ivory husks, in the urban ghettos of America, waking elderly from their sleep and distracting the red-eyed and blue-collared from their television sets…

but of all these stray slugs, zipping both overtly and discreetly between the spaces of our lives, the bullet that did the most damage this depressing Domingo was slung in Woody Creeks, Colorado, through the troubled yet active mind of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson.

Thompson took his own life in the comfortably sturdy confines of the fortified compound he called home. He shot himself through the head, probably with a revolver of which he was very fond. (considering the Doctor was fond of many a firearm) Another historic life wrapped up neatly- live by the sword, die by the sword, they say. Live by the gun…

And that’s it. One trigger pulled, and a mind meticulously catalogued in plain sight of the world throughout the last forty years suddenly vanishes. Don’t wait up, Bubba, I’ll be running late tonight. Very late.

It had been reported that Thompson had spent the last year of his life in and out of wheelchairs, having recently broken his leg. I would not dare trivialize the physical and mental horrors he must have been experiencing. But Doctor, for the sake of the morale of the free speech movement, which, like Mike Tyson, is battered and reeling against the metaphoric ropes of the unabashed capitalistic practices of today, couldn’t you have hung on a bit longer?

I can’t help but be continually reminded that, while the Doctor was certainly fond of firearms, he lived his life by the word, not the gun. More than ten books published in the last forty years: Hell’s Angels; Kindom of Fear; The Great Shark Hut; Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas; Fear and Loathing in America; Songs From the Doomed; Better Than Sex and The Rum Diaries, just to name a few. Not to mention a vault of uncollected freelance works.

King of Gonzo, if only you could read your post-mortem praise. Writers across the globe are sounding their trumpets for you; The New York Times; Salon.com; The Washington Post; The San Francisco Chronicle; Tom Wolfe; Ralph Steadman. If only you could feel the utter revelry we feel when reading your works, the emotional solidarity the pissed off liberals of America share with you. If only, if only, if only…

“We are At War now, according to President Bush, and I take him at his word. He also says this War might last for ‘a very long time.’ Generals and military scholars will tell you that eight or 10 years is actually not such a long time in the span of human history -- which is no doubt true -- but history also tells us that 10 years of martial law and a war-time economy are going to feel like a Lifetime to people who are in their twenties today. The poor bastards of what will forever be known as Generation Z are doomed to be the first generation of Americans who will grow up with a lower standard of living than their parents enjoyed"

-Hunter Thompson, September 17th 2001

Men like Thompson come from the generation that ushered in Civil Rights and Stadium Rock. Riding the backs of the Beatniks of the fifties, they solidified the existence of an American counter-culture. And if it weren’t for counter-culture, every friend you have would be a visor-wearing, football-loving, war-mongering douche bag.

Yesterday’s heroes are feeling old these days, folks. They’ve fought the good war; any good man deserves retirement at age sixty-five. Our heroes were given a mess and they created a movement, a movement which unfortunately later degraded back into a mess. But if mama taught me anything, it was that a clean room takes constant vigilance. Let your guard down for a week and you’re wading in dirty undies.

If the only three things a generation of foul-mouthed, horny, liberal rock-and-rollers were able to accomplish are Civil Rights, stadium rock, and counter-culture, (and the true list of accomplishments is longer) well that ain’t bad. In an age where government policy is silencing the creative and critical voices through policy, it is a very sad day when our idols cut out the middleman and become their own, final censor.

Fellow members of the doomed Generation Z, our response to this tragedy should be to grab that First Amendment torch Hunter held aloft so high and run with it. Because now, there’s one less creative genius in the world to look after our ungrateful asses.

“On my way out, I paused long enough to give him a quick beating on both sides of his ugly, truthless head…"

-HST