It’s old news by now that Hunter S. Thompson, gonzo journalist, took his own life over the weekend, which in hindsight should surprise precisely no one. I disagreed with most of what Hunter Thompson wrote about, and have never quite bought into his Great American mythos, but he did certainly have a way with words. He is also directly responsible for two developments I did like. First is the rise of heirs-in-style like P.J. O’Rourke, who is like Thompson, but with substance. The second is Warren Ellis’ creation in the Transmetropolitan graphic novels, Spider Jerusalem, who was either based on or channeled Thompson. Jerusalem is more likable in his ascerbic way because he lives in a fictional society that has a lot more worth criticizing than did Nixon’s America.
It is also worth noting that Hunter Thompson is truly a creation of Louisville, in more ways than one. He was born here circa 1939, grew up in the Highlands, and raised his first measure of hell at Male High School. He is more famous for Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Hell’s Angels, but the piece of writing that really put him on the map was neither of those, but the first true gonzo piece The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved, published in Scanlan’s Monthly in June 1970 and based on the writer’s virtually indecipherable notes from his adventures at the 1970 Derby.
Today’s Courier-Journal has pretty good coverage, including a couple of reprints from 1996, when Thompson was feted at Memorial Coliseum on the 25th anniversary of Fear and Loathing. First is a fairly straightforward account of the festivities, including the obligatory Thompson weirdness:
Thompson’s childhood friend, Gerald Tyrrell, who runs a local literary agency, The Dickens Group, recalled wild times with Thompson; read from his first two published works, Open Letter to the Youth of Our Nation and a poem, The Night Watch; and spoke of Thompson’s lust for knowledge.
Thompson, holding a drink in his black-leather-gloved hand and watching from the side of the stage, unleashed a fire extinguisher on Tyrrell and several other people who paid him homage.
Far more entertaining, however, is reporter Jeffrey Puckett’s attempt to track down Thompson for an interview:
I promised myself this wouldn’t happen. But here it is, long after dark, and the man I’ve been trying to interview for two days was last seen, awash in alcohol, driving a rented car in reverse up Broadway, heading who knows where but making pretty good time for a substance abuser driving backward.
For good or for ill, Hunter Thompson is a native son.
More roundup of opinion at Michelle Malkin’s blog.
One last note: AP reports that Hunter Thompson was 67, but the math in the 1996 C-J coverage would indicate he was actually 65. Maybe he lost the two years in a drug-addled haze.
February 21st, 2005 at 7:05 pm
R.I.P., Hunter S. Thompson
I didn’t agree with his politics but how could I be anything but saddened by the loss of someone who wrote things like this?
I wouldn’t recommend sex, drugs, or insanity for everyone, but they’ve always worked for me. When the going gets weird, th…
February 21st, 2005 at 7:08 pm
“For good or for ill, Hunter Thompson is a native son.”
I think I’d say, “for good.”
February 21st, 2005 at 8:33 pm
Now we know who to blame
Consider this my obligatory “Hunter S. Thompson is dead” post.
I live in Louisville, Kentucky, where Hunter was raised. To my knowledge, I never met the man, and from what I’ve read of him, that’s OK by me. I have, however, seen many wildly drunke…