The honest truth is that Hunter Stockton Thompson actually kicked it sometime around 1990, soon after his arrest and trial (acquitted) on trumped up drugs and sexual harassment charges (which, incidentally, included the allegation of tweaking a female companion’s breast with ice tongs, an act which I have never performed. Ever.). And, as the nation’s 28th most renowned expert on the good Doctor, let me be the first to say, good riddance. Truth is that HST was, at one time, a great American writer, thinker, satirist and icon, but the “lazy, drunken hillbilly with a head full of acid and a heart full of hate” abandoned us (and really himself) just when we needed him the most. Sure, RMH was the perfect foil for HST: small, dark, flawed, and pretty darn evil. But Nixon was so . . . so. . . what’s the phrase?. . . FUCKING LONG AGO, that the invective Thompson spewed toward him and all he stood for is, frankly, while hysterical, pretty much lost–in the sense of having any real personal resonance–on anyone under the age of 50. We (by that, I mean American bipeds with a shred of intelligence and dignity) could really have used the laser guided observations and acerbic wit of the Good Doctor to help frame the current battle between the forces of Good and the forces of 43 and his merry band of roving lunatics. However, by the time we got deep into this current pickle, HST had reduced himself to a babbling, gun-toting infant, barely able to string together a coherent thought (the occasional dead on quote being nothing more than the proverbial room full of monkeys plinking out the Bible on Selectrics) holed up in his own physical and spiritual bizarro world. The way I see it, our Icon flat out gave up, the well ran dry, and he reduced himself to a decade and a half long series of mindless jabbering broken only by an occasionally mildly interesting news story (anyone remember the shotgun “art”?) and pathetic and downright gawdawful sports columns published out of sheer pity by ESPN.com on its Page 2.
No, folks, my mourning started 15 years ago and ended Sunday. I mourn the man who brought us Hell’s Angels, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and all of those brilliant–genius–shorts from the world of sports and politics. Alas, even for me, these reads were less topical than the unfettered joy of pure entertainment. The tragedy is that Hunter Stockton Thompson never gave our generation the unique blend of modern cultural relevance AND a gut splitting good time that is early work provided to his first edition readers.
So, there it is folks. No fancy links, no cover art. Just the truth, Ruth.
Res Ipsa Loquitur, let the good times roll.
February 23rd, 2005 at 12:27 am
Say there, Elvissmith, didn’t mean to post right on top of you like that and limit your time right up top, you crotechety bastard. Is that the SARS talking? I suspect that the good Dr (a mail order Ph.D it turns out) shared many of your views, and that is why he chose to cash in. There has been a good bit of romanticism over the last few days, and perhaps I am as guilty as the next guy, but geez…. There are a whole lot of authors out there that haven’t done anything for me lately, but it doesn’t mean I’ll be glad when they are gone.
February 23rd, 2005 at 8:27 am
Less glad than unmoved. I was sad 15 years ago. Now I just don’t care. It’s a dog eat dog world out there, sonny, get used to it.
February 23rd, 2005 at 10:46 am
There are good obits (about the HST elvissmith prefers), from Ralph Stedman and Tom Wolfe.
February 23rd, 2005 at 11:36 pm
Dr J, those were some good obits. We should all be so lucky. I take elvissmith’s point. I guess I hadn’t considered HST in some time (which is part of ES’s point), and I have been enjoying a look back at his work. That work was more personal to ES, as I believe, but have not yet confirmed that ES actually taught a lit class specific to HST.
February 24th, 2005 at 8:50 am
It’s the truth. Freshman lit at Duke for 2 semesters, Fall of ‘91 and ‘92. Resulted in the dumbfounding of 40 some odd Frosh.
February 24th, 2005 at 9:54 am
I’m not surprised. Duke blows.
In which fake-gothic, constructed-in-the-1930s classroom building did you teach your class?
February 24th, 2005 at 12:58 pm
Does not.
Round 1 I was fortunate enough to be on the decidedly un-goth east campus where the buildings (originally Trinity College) were constructed in the 1200’s or so. Round 2 was was in some godforsaken flying butressed stone veneered structure on the main campus, but I can’t for the life of me remember which. Res Ipsa.
February 24th, 2005 at 1:51 pm
Say there E, what’s with all of the latin? Noli me tangere.
February 24th, 2005 at 4:37 pm
I think it’s French.
February 24th, 2005 at 5:38 pm
Ah, at last, someone with the nerve to speak the truth about the good Hunter S. And that being, that he was essentially the Jerry Garcia of journalism, a once-vital innovator stripped of all drive and worth by an out-of-control chemical dependency.
And, unfortunately, in both cases, those around them were so blinded by star power and caught up in the tired hippy bullshit myth that drugs are a pathway to enlightenment that they not only didn’t take steps to intervene, but actually went to extraordinary lengths to enable what anyone could see was the slow death spiral of lives completely beyond the point of no return.
HST died a stumbling, incoherent gallon drunk–period. And–particularly given what I’ve been through in my life–I’ve fucking had it with page after page after article after sound bite of misty musings about his “character” or his “untamed spirit.”
Bullshit. HST was an full-blown addict who desperately needed help, could have easily gotten it, but was surrounded by a bunch of star-struck pussies who sat passively at the foot of their idol as he drank himself into the grave.
His talent was squandered and now he’s dead. The end.