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Hunter S. Thompson

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Well, damn.

HST was undoubtedly one of the strangest and most evocative writers that I’ve ever encountered. And one of the most alive.

We are all the poorer for his loss.

Here’s some brief words of wisdom from HST:

“I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me. ”

“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 music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. ”

“When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. “

And my personal favorite, from Kingdom of Fear,

“We are few, but we speak with the power of many. We are strong like lonely bulls, but we are legion. Our code is gentle, but our justice is Certain – seeming Slow on some days, but slashing Fast on others, eating the necks of the Guilty like a gang of Dwarf Crocodiles in some lonely stretch of the Maputo River in the Transvaal, where the Guilty are free to run, but they can never Hide.”

Damn.

I’ll raise a glass to you, you crazy old bastard.

Damn.

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About Deano

  • PJTimmons

    “…for I had always been an observer, one who arrived on the scene and got a small amount of money for writing what he saw and whatever he could find out by asking a few hurried questions……I felt for the first time in my life that I might get a chance to affect the course of things instead of merely observing them.”
    Hunter S. Thompson, “The Rum Diary”

  • Doug Cunningham

    ODE TO DR. THOMPSON

    By Doug Cunningham

    Those goddamned giant bats are viscious bastards this morning, dive-bombing mercilessly into my brain, relentlessly harassing and screeching into my soul as they beat their wings, furiously triggering the worst nightmares I’ve ever had. Trapped in this bizarre agony, a horror show plays across my consciousness on this foul, gray February Monday. Images of a Gollum-like mentally and morally misshapen shrub of a human being claiming to be “President of the United States” lecturing Europe on “values” and “freedom” flash strobe-like across my mind as the awful news pierces the macabe political performance flickering across my TV screen. Wretching from the very thought of such a gruesome spectacle, the blood of tens of thousands war victims washes up around me as mindless TV news anchors sputter inanities behind botox smiles through blinding bleached-white teeth that reflect only the banality of their worthless “journalism”.

    The good doctor is dead. The Shark Hunt is over. Fear and Loathing looms larger than at any time in history and Hunter S. Thompson’s shining light on the path of truth has been shot out forever.

    Jesus! What a kick in the balls! What a torturous, brutal blow to the solar plexus of consciousness! Hoping for hallucination, the reality nonetheless seeps in. It’s finally gotten weird enough for me.

    There is no justice in a world where neo-cons flourish and Gonzo’s godfather snuffs out his life. Hunter lived life his way, though, and apparently ended it his way, too. The electric energy and laser-like explosive power of his words will reverberate against the halls of power forever. Generations of swine to come will be exposed and assaulted by those words, by that Gonzo consciousness that will unmask them for what they are.

    We are on the edge of a socio-political /cultural desert and the drugs aren’t taking hold. If Richard Nixon represented the darkly venal and incurably violent heart of America, then George W. Bush is the deformed bastard child of perverse religiosity that magnifies that violent venality and blesses it with demonically twisted “righteousness”. Manifest destiny indeed…

    We are all standing by the urinal with the leader of the free world as he mutters “Fuck the poor.” Hunter Thompson was the menacing outlaw Doberman of a journalist always threatening to lunge straight for the crotch of the Nixons of this world. His life is over but his spirit still soars above the wreckage of our political and social landscape, even as the vultures of the right circle over the remains of the New Deal ,the Great Society and the counterculture.

    The freedom and truth expressed in the writings of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson dwarf the Big Lies of the Talibush. And Thompson was no sixties relic. That gunshot he fired doesn’t blow away his lifetime of courageous, outrageous rage against the machine.

    Standing in this valley of doom with the dark clouds rolling in around me I can see that high-water mark on the western horizon where the great wave of counterculture rebellion crested and rolled back, Hunter. I can see it. But I can also smell the rising tide of resistance that has just begun to build. I can feel the first faint tremors beneath my feet that will soon bring down the walls of Jericho and it was your horn that made the first and deepest cracks in that wall.

    Gonzo forever!

    Doug Cunningham

  • Bill

    A memorial blog with my thoughts on HST and his influence on me becoming a journalist.

    http://www.livejournal.com/users/docgonzo19/

  • Gman

    67 year olds dont kill themselves…the good doctor had many enemies. Its quite easy to fake a suicide, just ask anyone alive in 1994. *

    *see kurt cobain’s “suicide”

  • http://www.ee.surrey.ac.uk/Personal/L.Wood/ L Wood

    Maputo river in the Transvaal? Limpopo, I think. Maputo is the capital of Mozambique.

  • http://www.iamcorrect.blogspot.com Lono

    Gman,

    the good doc took himself out of the game. No one questions that, his lawyer, his son (who was there when it happeneed). It is strange and terrible… but true.

  • PJL

    “For the ones who had a notion, a notion deep inside
    That it ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive.
    I wanna find one face that ain’t looking through me
    I wanna find one place, I wanna spit in the face of these
    Badlands” -B Springsteen

    Howlin’ against the Machine with letters
    And thoughts
    Jumbled yet straight as an arrow that sails
    Through the heart of darkness ahead

    A bottle half opened, with eyes half closed
    A pistol fully loaded, when thoughts of Satan arose
    A lone wolf in a world of sheep
    Whose pen has, at long last, been put to sleep

    Fully cocked and loaded
    With turkeys wild, and John Daniels’ best
    Spitting vitriol into the pit of politics and all those who
    Live there
    Ragged, torn and beaten from battles long since lost
    Pistol still pointed at the swine racing in the dust

    A cloud of darkness sets now upon us
    As rivers rush where streams once serenely stood
    With Evil satanically smiling
    At the empty chair and typewriter bare

    Farewell, sad doctor of doom
    Poison pen now forever silent
    Sleep sound, and know your prose won’t soon be forgotten
    By those warriors left behind your titanic shadow misbegotten

  • james houser

    What you poor bastards will never understand is that the good Dr. was not writing for you. He was writing for himself, trying to understand The Truth. And what he kept finding pissed him off. It pisses me off too. And I think what Hunter thought was, “if it doesn’t piss you off you are a soulless cretin.”
    Even his alcohol soaked mind, even the mind of a hopelessly addled drug addict could see the banal lies and hypocrisy of what passes for leadership in this god-forsaken country. It’s the sober ones that scare me. A generation of Swine that debates the efficacy of torture over their lattes and drone of American Idol.