Via Michele, and Jeff. CNN’s got this obit.
Hunter S. Thompson. The man who defined gonzo journalism. The man who made stream of consciousness cool without beat rhymes. The man who taught us that drinking and peacocks don’t mix. You know, the bald guy who hangs out with the little Chinese gal in Doonesbury. He died yesterday of an appartent self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.
I’d like to rant and rave about his brilliance but quite honestly, I haven’t read any of his stuff in 25 years and considering my hobbies at the time…I couldn’t tell you most of what he wrote about anyway. When you were a young, actor, singer, dancer, you know, liberal arts major with almost no hope of a financially solvent future, you read Thompson because everyone read Thompson. Because now you “got” it when Doonesbury did a series of Uncle Duke strips and it was important that you “got” Doonesbury because otherwise…you were one of them…the straights…the unenlightened. The ones without the secret smile. Some of you more sober folks may have thought we were scheming secret schemes…relax, that smile mostly was our brain bubbling with thousands of little “Oh…WOWs.” building and building into a giant…cataclismic…sigh…where are the Doritos and who stole my beer? No major conspiracy…just good tequilla.
As I finish my first cup of coffee and say a little prayer for all the little freaks out there who are seriously distraught this morning, I’m just plain pissed off. HST was nothing if not defiant. For him to go out like this after a life lived flipping off the universe…