So Long, Hunter

I didn't learn of Hunter S. Thompson's death by suicide until nearly 3:00 this afternoon. We were in Monterey the past two days and paying no attention to the TV or USA Today. Sometime yesterday, February 20, Hunter put a loaded weapon to his head and pulled the trigger. At the time Hunter made the decision and carried out the act, we were in the Monterey Bay Aquarium or walking on Cannery Row or maybe watching Meet the Parents in the hotel. Out in Colorado, Hunter loaded the gun and put it to his head and pulled the trigger.

And another icon is gone. I came to HST late, as I've come to most things in my life, but when I found him I went whole hog, read his ouvre, including his fabulous collection of letters, The Proud Highway. Of all HST's work, I think his letters to colleagues, friends, enemies, lovers and employers are his best stuff. The letters, which begin when HST was quite young and run into the early 60's, are lively, intelligent, insightful, hilarious, obnoxious, and disrespectful by turns.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas and the Gonzo Papers as much as the next HST fan does, but the letters really appeal to my literary tastes. HST wrote the best fucking letters! Even on mundane subjects like a shoddy gunsight, he was electric.

I'm on my way to a serious beer buzz here. I never met Hunter Thompson, of course, yet of all the famous people I can think of, I feel -- from reading many of his published works -- like I know him. He would probably laugh at that statement.

Why did he do it? That's the hundred thousand dollar question. He had a new young wife, Anita, an outlet on ESPN, fame, and presumably, wealth. He could do what he wanted when he wanted. He successfully avoided the great American yoke of a full-time JOB. He made money as a writer and speaker. He was a living icon.

Maybe that was it. Maybe, like Hemingway, HST was depressed at the erosion of his gifts, physical as well as imaginative. He did nearly all of his brightest work in his twenties and middle thirties and then lived on his fame and reputation.

Regardless, I always felt that Hunter was a champion of the underdog, a champion of clear-eyed thinking, particularly about America. Who saw the grotesque contradictions in the American Dream better than Hunter?

Needless to say, I'm sad tonight, as I'm sure thousands of HST fans are. In an age of professional falsehood, Hunter was someone true and real.