Who will watch for the giant bats now?
There's something profoundly unsettling about the proximity of the phrase "self-inflicted gunshot wounds" and the name Hunter S. Thompson, a gnawing disquiet that today gives no comfort, no peace, just wraps itself in the facts like a dirty old flag and reaches for another drink. The Aspen Times reports: "Sheriff deputies and an ambulance responded to a call around 6 p.m. for a self-inflicted gunshot wound at Thompson's residence, a neighbor said. By 6:30 p.m., Thompson's home at 1278 Woody Creek Road was sealed off by a sheriff's van [...] An unidentified man leaving the property said "there are a lot of hurt family members up [at the house]."
Speigel described it as "something prosaic and tragic" - and certainly many postings from fans and friends across the net express a great deal of shock, even disappointment that he didn't, as Lono wrote, go out with a headline "like this: "Gonzo journalist shot by police after consuming hundreds of hits of LSD and attempting to paint murals on Aspen police cars" or something cool and strange like that". In a 2003 Salon interview Hunter S described how he "consider[s] myself a road man for the lords of karma" - I guess today those who care are feeling rather like the roadkill under those wheels. There are no nice or easy ways of making suicide, for those who must survive it, anything but traumatic and appalling - and beware those who would say they have oil to appease those waters: only the raw truth of human existence touches us in such times, all else is distraction. Frankly, when a genius like HST decides to chew on a bullet, then its beyond doubt we are all living dangerously - and the smart, soothing words just will not come, not now. There is genuine sadness for his family, a real sense of mourning and loss, and a giant hole in the gonzo depths of creative writing at a time when men like Hunter S are needed more than ever. A casualty of one's own war perhaps, in death I salute you. Let the good times roll. - Andy Lonsdale
From JR:
Hunter S Thompon inspired many with his honesty, tenacity and humour. He touched a raw nerve with the guardians of society and knew how to inform and entertain as no other journalist could.
His was the voice of the counter culture, intense, drug fuelled, anarchic and ironic. His wit and intelligence burnt a hole in conservative American values and he was true pioneer, a cowboy with a typewriter, a gun, a bottle and a bag of cocaine.
Many of us gained many insights and laughs from Hunter's work and life, he was a true original, uncompromising, narcistic and often hilarious. I wish his family, friends and readers all the best and thank him for his words. He will be sorely missed. - John Reeves
Notice: This site is wearing black for the rest of the day. Hell, what is there to write about, while snivelling shits who call themselves the leaders of men roll in their own filth and call it democracy, those like HST who galvanise what is good in humanity are sidelined and rewarded with an obit in the New York Times. Anyone who wants to write some words today about Hunter S can have it published here, email it to the address below.
dead_media@lycos.com
Item posted by AutoEditor at 8:45 am ::
