Hunter S. Thompson and the end of gonzo journalism
When I was a child of 16 I read "Fear and Loathing" and thought it was the coolest book I had ever read. I jumped on the Hunter S. Thompson bandwagon, hard.
But over the years as I've matured and become a bit more wiser, and foolish, I realized I no longer found the man even the slightest bit interesting. He was another baby boomer, fixated on his own pleasures, boozing, drugs and that whole idiotic celebrity schtick.
So I wasn't to surprised that he died and not at all shocked that he did himself in. From what I've read it seems he was ill, but not so ill that it would warrant taking his life. So he put a hole in his head because breathing the air was becoming a drag and he wanted to do it his way.
Great.
Now, when my Dad died there was a whole bunch of us around his bedside. There was much weeping, hugging and then after a while, storytelling. Then we went home to try to make sense of it all. To pray for his soul, to pray for strength and to get on with trying to start our lives without him and praying that we never reach the point where we forget what he looked like, how he sounded when he spoke, what it felt like to hug him. Pretty typical of most people who experience the passing of a loved one under "normal" life experience.
Then I read this story.
Seems the family was in da house when he capped a .45 in his head. Actually wanted them all there. So after they heard the big bang his family trudged up into his office to see what the too-doo was all about. There sat daddy in his office chair with a bullet in his noodle. Nice going.
I'm sure there was screaming, wailing and gnashing of teeth...before they sat Hunter upright in his chair and and started swilling Chivas Regal.
Quote the wife:
"This is a triumph of his, not a desperate, tragic failure," Anita Thompson said by phone, recounting that she was sitting in her husband's chair he called his catbird seat in the Rockies.
She added: "He lived a beautiful life and he lived it on his own terms, all the way from the very beginning to the very end."
Anita Thompson, like her husband's other close relatives, understood how Hunter Thompson wanted to make his ultimate exit.
"I always knew that Hunter was going to die before me," Anita Thompson, 32, said of her 67-year-old husband. "I'd accepted that. I just did not know it was going to be like this. I would rather have him back."
Yet Anita Thompson quickly came to embrace Hunter Thompson's gesture with a .45-caliber handgun...but upon seeing Hunter Thompson's body, she embraced him. "Since he'd done this, I did not want to make it difficult for his spirit," she said. "I wanted to make it loving."
Triumph? Beautiful life? She knew he was going to die before her? Naturally, she was 35 years younger than Hunter! However triumphant his exit from this mortal coil was...she'd rather have him back! But she quickly embraced his "gesture" by embracing his dead body.
I hate being judgemental on these sort of things because it is personal to those experiencing the moment, but holy crap...what a load of new age, self-gratifying hogwash it all is.
Why would she feel the need to make his passage from life into eternity peaceful and loving if his act was a triumphant one? He went on the ultimate magic carpet ride! He didn't care about his family...it was all about him, period. He didn't need, nor, want the loving send off. Remember he lived his life the way he wanted...from beginning to end.
He was "fear and loathing" personified...to quote him:
"In brief, I find that I've never channeled my energy long enough to send it in any one direction. I'm all but completely devoid of a sense of values: psychologically unable to base my actions on any firm beliefs. I seem to be unable to act consistently or effectively, because I have no values on which to base my decisions. As I look back, I find that I've been taught to believe in nothing. I have no god and I find it impossible to believe in man. On every side of me, I see thousands engaged in the worship of money, security, prestige symbols, and even snakes. I'm beginning to see what Kerouac means when he says, "I want God to show me his face": it is not the statement, but what the statement implies: "I want to believe in something." The man is more of a spokesman than most people think...and he speaks for more than thieves, hopheads, and whores." (from the American Society of Authors and Writers)
Sigh...I pray that in the instant before the lights went out for old Hunter that he had the opportunity to embrace the Eternal Fire to purify his soul...
In remembrance of the days, when in my youth, I thought you more than a self-indulgent boob, I pray that you rest in peace Hunter...and in that instant found something to believe in...that God showed you his face...
But over the years as I've matured and become a bit more wiser, and foolish, I realized I no longer found the man even the slightest bit interesting. He was another baby boomer, fixated on his own pleasures, boozing, drugs and that whole idiotic celebrity schtick.
So I wasn't to surprised that he died and not at all shocked that he did himself in. From what I've read it seems he was ill, but not so ill that it would warrant taking his life. So he put a hole in his head because breathing the air was becoming a drag and he wanted to do it his way.
Great.
Now, when my Dad died there was a whole bunch of us around his bedside. There was much weeping, hugging and then after a while, storytelling. Then we went home to try to make sense of it all. To pray for his soul, to pray for strength and to get on with trying to start our lives without him and praying that we never reach the point where we forget what he looked like, how he sounded when he spoke, what it felt like to hug him. Pretty typical of most people who experience the passing of a loved one under "normal" life experience.
Then I read this story.
Seems the family was in da house when he capped a .45 in his head. Actually wanted them all there. So after they heard the big bang his family trudged up into his office to see what the too-doo was all about. There sat daddy in his office chair with a bullet in his noodle. Nice going.
I'm sure there was screaming, wailing and gnashing of teeth...before they sat Hunter upright in his chair and and started swilling Chivas Regal.
Quote the wife:
"This is a triumph of his, not a desperate, tragic failure," Anita Thompson said by phone, recounting that she was sitting in her husband's chair he called his catbird seat in the Rockies.
She added: "He lived a beautiful life and he lived it on his own terms, all the way from the very beginning to the very end."
Anita Thompson, like her husband's other close relatives, understood how Hunter Thompson wanted to make his ultimate exit.
"I always knew that Hunter was going to die before me," Anita Thompson, 32, said of her 67-year-old husband. "I'd accepted that. I just did not know it was going to be like this. I would rather have him back."
Yet Anita Thompson quickly came to embrace Hunter Thompson's gesture with a .45-caliber handgun...but upon seeing Hunter Thompson's body, she embraced him. "Since he'd done this, I did not want to make it difficult for his spirit," she said. "I wanted to make it loving."
Triumph? Beautiful life? She knew he was going to die before her? Naturally, she was 35 years younger than Hunter! However triumphant his exit from this mortal coil was...she'd rather have him back! But she quickly embraced his "gesture" by embracing his dead body.
I hate being judgemental on these sort of things because it is personal to those experiencing the moment, but holy crap...what a load of new age, self-gratifying hogwash it all is.
Why would she feel the need to make his passage from life into eternity peaceful and loving if his act was a triumphant one? He went on the ultimate magic carpet ride! He didn't care about his family...it was all about him, period. He didn't need, nor, want the loving send off. Remember he lived his life the way he wanted...from beginning to end.
He was "fear and loathing" personified...to quote him:
"In brief, I find that I've never channeled my energy long enough to send it in any one direction. I'm all but completely devoid of a sense of values: psychologically unable to base my actions on any firm beliefs. I seem to be unable to act consistently or effectively, because I have no values on which to base my decisions. As I look back, I find that I've been taught to believe in nothing. I have no god and I find it impossible to believe in man. On every side of me, I see thousands engaged in the worship of money, security, prestige symbols, and even snakes. I'm beginning to see what Kerouac means when he says, "I want God to show me his face": it is not the statement, but what the statement implies: "I want to believe in something." The man is more of a spokesman than most people think...and he speaks for more than thieves, hopheads, and whores." (from the American Society of Authors and Writers)
Sigh...I pray that in the instant before the lights went out for old Hunter that he had the opportunity to embrace the Eternal Fire to purify his soul...
In remembrance of the days, when in my youth, I thought you more than a self-indulgent boob, I pray that you rest in peace Hunter...and in that instant found something to believe in...that God showed you his face...
posted by Pancho at 5:15 PM
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