"The Edge... There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others --- the living --- are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later. But the edge is still Out there. Or maybe it's In." - Hunter S. Thompson, from Hell's Angels

Blood runs cold down the snow-covered mountains of Aspen today, seeping into the fiber of the American Dream as it goes. The fear & depravity continue to spread & pool along its path and, sadly, there is one less able hand to help staunch the bleeding.

Hunter S. Thompson is dead.

Many people are probably surprised he lasted this long but, by most accounts, nobody would've guessed it would end this way. A drug casualty? Probably. Vehicular accident? Possibly. A mishap involving guns or explosives? There was always that chance. A life-ending incident involving a combination of all three of those choices? Most likely.

But methodically and by his own hand? Who saw that coming? Or maybe it was plain as day & as big as the American Dream itself all along.

I remember the first time I met Thompson. It was a wild gathering, at his fortified compound near Aspen, with many of those in attendance already in various states of undress and drug-induced stupor. I had gone out onto the porch for a moment of solitude when I felt a strong presence approach from behind. I say approach, but stagger might be a more apt description. I turned to see who this staggering behemoth was - it was Thompson.

He was a towering figure back then, as he invited me to wander the yard with him. The sun was just setting and the peacocks were gathering out back, slowly returning from their daily jaunt. There we stood among the birds - majestic with brightly colored tails aflutter - when Thompson pulled his gun. He pointed it right at me and said the peacocks liked to dance, would I care to join them? I tried to protest but Thompson squinted his eyes and motioned the gun in the birds' direction, speaking but a single word - "Dance."

Needless to say I danced & the whole yard was soon buzzing with activity as the peacocks raced to & fro, all trying to avoid my high-steppin' moves.

Thompson laughed & said he couldn't believe I didn't call his bluff.

We returned to the porch, and I lifted a quart of Chivas from out of a nearby ice bucket and poured us both a healthy glass on the rocks.

I was seven years old at the time.

It would be many years before I'd run into Thompson again. I saw him at a swanky hotel party and he looked more than uncomfortable with the situation. He was sweating profusely and his eyes kept darting as he took it all in. A young waifish man sporting a black ponytail had cornered him & was profusely exclaiming, "I can't believe it's you! Hunter fucking S. Thompson! You're my hero, dude!"