Things To Do In Denver When You're Dead: A fond farewell to Hunter S. Thompson

Ever since that Sunday when Hunter S. Thompson sat in his kitchen/office and reportedly fired his final weapon, I’ve been continuously saying goodbye to a man I could never have hoped to meet. Obviously, he lived and breathed in an entirely different solar system than that of the ordinary suburban slob and, to use a blatant Thompsonism, that, I think, was the point. He was a larger than life character combining elements of Mark Twain, James Bond, Ernest Hemingway and Superman. Those, such as myself, who were inspired by his writing and his public persona (two halves of one masterpiece) tended to internalize parts of him and drew great strength from it. For a certain type of person, he was a superhero. Brave, dangerous, reckless with an unwavering belief in truth, justice and the American way. Hunter Thompson was probably the only person I ever saw look natural and deserving draped in the American flag and he seemed to know it. As an icon, he wore two hats: one being that of the staunch libertarian, screaming our civil rights like a war whoop, setting off sirens, blasting firearms and ingesting into his own private body anything he damn pleased. The other hat was of the astute, no-nonsense political insider and commentator. The kind of which may finally be outlawed from this country forever. These roles, together with his uncontestable ability to walk as tough as he talked made him a very important American and, yes, a deserving role model.

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

A good litmus test: If you think the above statement is irresponsible and inappropriate you never got it. If it elicits a chuckle or a smirk, you did. This is not to say that any of the above is good or right on it’s own but it is to say that anyone who absolutely, publicly condemns them is not to be trusted. Scratch the surface of any public angel and you will likely find a darkness much deeper than Thompson’s. With the good Doctor, you always knew where you stood. With many writers of his ilk, it is necessary to separate the man from the work but with Hunter Thompson, it was just the opposite. He was an offspring of the Lost Generation of the 1930’s as well as the Beat Generation of the 50’s. Admirers of Fitzgerald and Hemingway must separate the great art from the desolate, drunken, empty final years of their lives and most admirers of the Beat writers will likely find themselves a bit queasy when they investigate the actual lives of Allan Ginsberg, Burroughs and, sadly, even poor, dissipated Kerouac. This was not the case with Thompson’s forty-year career. Swigging from a big glass of Chivas, clenching his cigarette holder Macarthur-style, strong, fearless, uncompromised by life’s demands and fair by his own code, Thompson always stood tall as a man’s (and woman’s) man. For many, here was someone, not only to write like, but also to be like. It also helps that the post-mortem bios unanimously portray him as a fun, generous albeit demanding friend, father and husband. He was undoubtedly plagued by self-doubt, paranoia and avoidance but, given the persona he had to live up to every time, who could blame him? When you create a myth that good, you don’t want to screw it up. The last television appearance of Thompson’s that I know of was about a year ago on the Conan O’Brian Show. He was given his due and O’Brian was reverent and humble but it was troubling to see the Father Of Gonzo looking nervous, disoriented and slightly feeble, tipping his drink as the host helped him to his chair. I was worried that the nervous titters from the audience indicated ignorance of the icon before them. That they didn’t get it. When your identity is that strong and indelible, actually inked in Ralph Steadman’s caricature alongside his published prose, the risk of self-parody always looms. I think that is probably why Thompson never cared for Gary Trudeau’s cartoon Duke version of him and was so nervous about being portrayed in films. Both Bill Murray and Johnny Depp, by Thompson’s design, lived with him, shadowing him for months, playing Gonzo games of Truth Or Dare before attempting to emulate him on screen. Reportedly, both actors found the experience of proving to the Doctor that they had the necessary balls to associate themselves with him to be unnerving and life changing. Tellingly, both Murray and Depp remained close, admiring friends of Thompson’s from that point forward. As with the iconic American writers he now joins in history, being identifiable is just the tip of the creation. You can’t twirl a lasso while chewing tobacco and be Will Rogers; you can’t wear a linen jacket and a big white mustache and be Mark Twain and a cigarette holder, bowling shirt and white Converses will not make you Hunter S. Thompson although I can already picture the Off-Broadway actor attempting this while reading off sections of Fear and Loathing.

"There he goes. One of God's own prototypes. Some kind of high-powered mutant never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die." –HST

Although that could now easily apply to himself, that was how Thompson eulogized his attorney friend, the Brown Buffalo, Oscar Acosta in “The Banshee Screams For Buffalo Meat,” a mournful howl for his mysteriously missing friend and the overall death of the individual. In the winter of 1977, I was sixteen and this piece in Rolling Stone, complete with Steadman’s illustrations, introduced me to Gonzo Journalism. The bold truth lying just below the powerful writing and dry humor was immediate to me. I retraced and followed his career from that point on and never felt disappointed. Sure, his portrayal of the iconoclastic journalist, riding with Hell’s Angels, going transparently undercover through mainstream America, taking superhuman quantities of mind-altering drugs as a writing tool perfectly suited my anti-authoritarian sensibilities but the best part was that it was more than just a created character, it was really him. “You buy the ticket, you take the ride.” What could be more American or, for that matter, masculine than that? I absorbed it like a sponge.

And apparently so did many others. When I first heard a matter-of-fact statement of Thompson’s death “by a self-inflicted gunshot wound” on Monday’s morning news, I was worried that his passing was going to slip by with a mere mention. A forgone conclusion, breezed over as Abbie Hoffman’s suicide was years ago. As soon as I went online though, it was clearly not going to be the case. The God Of Google had already logged hundreds of “news” items regarding Hunter’s passing, By Tuesday evening, more than 1,800 and now, weeks later, over 3,800. An explosion of blogs saying goodbye to the man who’s telexed and later faxed “Dispatches From The National Affairs Desk” predated journalistic blogging by three decades. They were filled with tribute from people who were lucky enough to know him, fellow writers like Tom Wolfe and Norman Mailer who praised him as one of the great voices of their lifetime and from those like myself who were simply changed forever by him. Almost immediately, the mythology around his suicide began to sprout and I was relieved to see it. What went on with our aging hero in the snow covered isolation of Owl Farm? Why did a man who seemed to Eat Life kill himself? That was my immediate question and everyone else’s. The blogs filled with each breaking disclosure, every one of which set off a chain reaction of speculation. Did he really plan this for months or was he “suicided” like he expressed concern about to a friend the day before? Why would he put a gun in his mouth in mid-phone call with his wife? What was the meaning of that Rosebud-like final word, “councelor,” carefully typed front and center on Fourth Amendment stationary on his trusty IBM Selectric as his second to last act on Earth? Was he working on exposing a gay pedophile prostitution ring that ran through Washington’s highest halls of power? Was there some connection between Thompson and that bizarre GOP press conference Golem, Jeff Gannon aka James Guckert possibly aka Johnny Gosch? Did he really have hard evidence that the World Trade Center had explosives planted in the base of the towers? (BTW: Anyone who thinks that last one is laughably absurd should step away from the computer and pull their head out of their ass right now). Was Prince Bandar really his fucking neighbor? Jesus! If Thompson was simply in pain, suffering from incapacitation and drenched in despondency over the post-November death rattle of his beloved America and decided to master his own fate, I guess that’s okay as well. The only thing we know for sure is that he stipulated that his final remains be shot out of a cannon and maybe that’s enough.

Thompson will be greatly missed for many reasons and on many levels but, for me, the most unfillable void will be the one he leaves as political commentator. From “Fear and Loathing On The Campaign Trail ‘72” on, he was a voice to be trusted and listened to for the brutal unvarnished truth of the matter. A self-proclaimed “political junkie” he moved easily inside and outside the process. He served you up what you didn’t want to know, doing it with such skill and humor that you had to listen. He was not beholden to any affiliation and his perception cut through the spin, clouded only by his own toxic bloodstream.

HST On The Republican Party:
"Every GOP administration since 1952 has let the Military-Industrial Complex loot the Treasury and plunge the nation into debt on the excuse of a wartime economic emergency. Richard Nixon comes quickly to mind, along with Ronald Reagan and his ridiculous 'trickle-down' theory of U.S. economic policy. If the Rich get Richer, the theory goes, before long their pots will overflow and somehow 'trickle down' to the poor, who would rather eat scraps off the Bush family plates than eat nothing at all. Republicans have never approved of democracy, and they never will. It goes back to pre-industrial America, when only white male property owners could vote."

And most poignantly prophetic of all, observations posted September 12, 2001 on ESPN.com:
“The towers are gone now, reduced to bloody rubble, along with all hopes for Peace in Our Time, in the United States or any other country. Make no mistake about it: We are At War now -- with somebody -- and we will stay At War with that mysterious Enemy for the rest of our lives.

It will be a Religious War, a sort of Christian Jihad, fueled by religious hatred and led by merciless fanatics on both sides. It will be guerilla warfare on a global scale, with no front lines and no identifiable enemy. We are going to punish somebody for this attack, but just who or what will be blown to smithereens for it is hard to say. Maybe Afghanistan, maybe Pakistan or Iraq, or possibly all three at once. This is going to be a very expensive war, and Victory is not guaranteed -- for anyone, and certainly not for anyone as baffled as George W. Bush. All he knows is that his father started the war a long time ago, and that he, the goofy child-President, has been chosen by Fate and the global Oil industry to finish it Now. He will declare a National Security Emergency and clamp down Hard on Everybody, no matter where they live or why. If the guilty won't hold up their hands and confess, he and the Generals will ferret them out by force.

OK. It is 24 hours later now, and we are not getting much information about the Five Ws of this thing.

The numbers out of the Pentagon are baffling, as if Military Censorship has already been imposed on the media. It is ominous. The only news on TV comes from weeping victims and ignorant speculators.

The lid is on. Loose Lips Sink Ships. Don't say anything that might give aid to The Enemy.”

Who in the world is going to fill these shoes? Probably no one. We are alone now and we had better rise to the challenge.

Goodbye, American Dream. Goodbye, Hunter.