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Monday, February 21, 2005

Hunter S. Thompson, 1937-2005, R.I.P.


It goes something like this:
"You probably already know this, but Hunter Thompson died. Killed himself."

I did not know this when the news came via a phone call.

A few minutes later, my kids are still asleep in the back of the car on the way to the grocery store.

The sky is overcast; it is balmy out. A perfect day for the topic of death.

My eyes well up.

"Fuck me," I think.

"Why am I about to weep over the death of a man I've never met?"

I'll tell you why: because after reading Hunter Thompson, he changed the course of my life.


It'd be silly for me to try and put into words what this man meant to me or how his idealogies helped me chart a path through my own twisted life.

I will say this: If you have not read RUM DIARY or FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS, go read them.

Now fuck off.

I've got some beer to drink you god damn bastards.


gslax said...

We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of uppers, downers, laughers, screamers... Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can. The only thing that really worried me was the ether. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge, and I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon.

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