
February 20, 2005
Hunter S. Thompson, the doctor of intellectual ramblings, has died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Synonymous with his creative instinct in books such as Hell's Angels and Fear And Loathing in Las Vegas, Thompson was widely known to the world as an offbeat talent with counterculture power for almost all of his nearly five decades of journalism.
Before I begin with a paragraph of credible injections and facts, it’s only fitting that I first consider beating the living soul from this thing called English grammar: it’s just how he would have preferred it. His inspirations included Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and William Faulkner among others. Some have called him a ranter, a menace... some have even compared his existence to that of a burrowing beaver, only showing his bushy haired tail often enough to express his trails of experience and floundering, Thompson lead the life of a pirate, seeking only slithers of spotlight and media frenzy. This bald-headed rare breed of flesh and bones lead the way for many new writers and minds alike, clearing the path with cries of “The Death of The American Dream.” It may be that the end of his life is only just beginning.
Hunter Stockton Thompson, better known to his followers as HST, was born July 18, 1937. Raised by his mother, Virginia Thompson, in Louisville, KY after his father’s untimely death in 1954, Thompson took a hoe to the creative journalism field and replanted it as a soul-bearing stream of consciousness. Mountains of fiction and non-fiction stories and assignments paid the bills, but letters were his love. Though not yet: only a fool would dip into that pot too quickly.
Originally a sports writer/editor while enlisted at Elgin Air Force Base, it was this Southern gentleman who had a taste for experimentation and free will that coined the term “Gonzo Journalism.” Gonzo journalism, though more of a natural floodgate than a taught trade, is the finishing arch of a full circle. Begin with a subject text of perhaps Jimi Hendrix’s fine finger layering. Inspiring smiles, frowns, tears, and chuckles in between the mix of random descriptions and analogies, close things up at the end of the paragraph with one more tangent about Mr. Hendrix. Picture the sewing together of every emotion of human affection (good or bad) inside a large pillow of life.
After his honorable discharge from the Air Force, Thompson hopped back and forth in every aspect of life. Bouncing from city to city like his first ever realized novel Prince Jellyfish, Thompson learned the ropes of journalism by rolling with the punches of life.
Living life day to day, consuming all the wine and spirits he could get his hands on, New York City, San Juan (Puerto Rico), Big Sur (California), and Middletown, NY were just some of the cities that helped mold this man of vivid descriptions in the late '50s and '60s. A Caribbean correspondent for Time (1959), he also wrote as a hired gun for nationally distributed magazines such as The National Observer, Rolling Stone, and High Times in the '70s. However, it was really the year Thompson spent with the Oakland, CA-based Hell's Angels motorcycle club that set the tone for his entire spicy-flavored career. Soon after the initial success of Hell's Angels, Thompson began his career as a walking, talking, smoking, and cursing political novelist during the documentation of his 1973 release Fear And Loathing On The Campaign Trail. Most notably to world, he created the venomous drug crazed novel Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. Whether it was the jump from book to big screen (also rent Universal’s 1980 release of Where The Buffalo Roam starring Bill Murray) or the incomprehensible drug abuse which solidified his standing as the pioneer of new journalism, it was his own. Gonzo journalism.
In the years to come he would release The Great Shark Hunt: Strange Tales From a Strange Time; Gonzo Papers, Volume One, Generation of Swine: Tales of Shame and Degradation in the '80s; Gonzo Papers, Volume Two, and Songs of the Doomed: More Notes on the Death of the American Dream; Gonzo Papers, Volume Three. But it was during the '90s that his career began to resurge with the release of The Proud Highway: The Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman. It may have been his knack for honesty and deceptive correspondence that truly grabbed his readers in this coming of age treasure trove of love letters, poverty stricken screams, and journalistic inquiries. This man who nearly became Sheriff of Pitkin County Colorado never gave into the pressures of government or aspects of swimming downstream.
It’s only fitting for this white-eyed Gen-Xer that he die of a self-inflicted gunshot wound on Kurt Cobain’s birthday. Ironically, rather than become the face on the evening news, the effective media outlets are boiling over President Bush uttering the words “it was a mistake” in response to drunk driving and marijuana use accusations. But if Thompson instilled anything in this reader, it’s that nothing can be gained by moping over a dead journalist. Funny how things work out though, as Thompson came full circle (like a needle and thread) in recent years before his demise, writing sports rants for ESPN. Thanks for telling it like it is Doc. You’ll be forever remembered.
HS Thompson is survived by wife Anita (Sandy) Thompson, son Juan, daughter-in-law Jennifer, and grandson William. My deepest condolences.
"So the difference I think, boils down to this: you can either impose yourself on reality and then write about it, or you can impose yourself on reality by writing it." – The Proud Highway, Hunter Stockton Thompson.
Brian Rutherford
It seems that when we look back at the genius of our time so many of those have taken their own lives or have sat in depression. Dr Thompson was just one in many, a man who finally could no longer bare the curse of being able to see all that was wrong in the world but nor being able to do anything about it. His unique outlook on life allowed for him to see what others were doing wrong, he attempted to forget about those not intelligent enough to make a difference and only tried to heighten his own understanding through the copious amounts of narcotics he took daily. But these were only short highs, they needed to be continually replaced and the effect would wear down, there was only one other place where he could go to forget the issues which were so blatantly clear to him but so blurred to others, a place where his high would never come down and he would never have to take another pill to keep him there. He went there on February 20, 2005 and who knows, maybe he has finally gone to a place where he feels neither fear, or loathing.
RIP Hunter, a man whos life never got weird enough.
Thats a great reply...All sincerity, Im right there with you hoping he is more at ease now.