fear and loathing in aspen ... Mr. Thompson has cashed his check ... the man who was a beast hid from his own humanity ... a kingdom of fear ...
"Hell, they already have this story nailed up and bleeding from every extremity." Dr. Thompson
"There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance: that imitation is suicide: that he must take himself for better, or for worse. " Ralph Waldo Emerson.
There isn't an easy way to die. There never has been.
A car crash. A coma. A gunshot. We are all, in our own ways, waiting to die. Which is a terribly pessimistic way to look at things. Will I die tomorrow? While probably not on everyone's lips as they yearn to fall asleep, is perhaps in the back of everyone's mind. Waiting. Will I be attacked by a mugger. A wild animal. A heart attack. A stroke. Ask your grandparents, growing old has some drawbacks.
What will death be like: Quick? Painless? Painful? Agonizing?
We don't know. And, likely, the waiting will kill us -- literally. In his suicide note, George Eastman said it succinctly: "My work is done why wait?"
But suicide is always the hardest. It comes in many forms. I can't say that I understand what it's like to be tormented by drugs, but you have to think drugs are a form of suicide. Like it or not, but Jimi Hendrix committed suicide. So did Rick James, for that matter. Jim Morrison did likewise. As did Layne Staley.
Now, some of the most interesting humans have not wasted time waiting for the final send-up, they did it when they wanted to. Kurt Cobain. Frieda Kahlo. Vincent Van Gogh. Marilyn Monroe. Slyvia Plath. Virginia Wolfe. Whether or not going out on your terms is a reason or not, it is beside the point. For these people, some form of life was too difficult to keep going. For those who choose it, it's the final act of selfishness.
I've had friends do this. I've known a 12 year old who couldn't take it. A 40-year-old father of two that had enough. A school teacher in high school. A 15-year-old girl that thought it was too hard to be good looking. A 16-year-old who wanted so very much to be wanted, but couldn't quite figure out how.
For all of them I've mourned, but never cried. It's tragic and it's terrible and it opens up a wound that may never heal. But it never feels painful enough. It always feels like I've been lied to. Like someone stole something.
And that leads us to Hunter S. Thompson. I won't pretend to know the reasons why he is dead. I won't pretend that I don't understand. I'll just remember him. A drug-adled genious. A tenious superstar. A man of acerbic wit. A man of lucid thought and memory. A man who wrote great fiction based on reality. An inspiration. A selfish bastard.
I realize it's harsh to say that. I admired him greatly. And, I feel that, in death -- regardless of the circumstances -- we should grant a person the dignity of honoring their life and turning that giant spotlight away from their faults and flaws even if they killed themselves. But, as with Kurt Cobain, I have a hard time doing this. It's like a punch to the solarplexes: I just don't think I can ever understand why.
It was because of him that I write. He made me want to be a sports columnist. To share my ruminations on sports and politics with the masses. I own 7 of his books, two movies about him and consider myself to be a fan in the truest and most sincere form. When I read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, it spoke to me. Not the drugs, the parts in between. When he wrote about Louisville, Kentucky, it made me homesick in a way that only people from there could feel. When he wrote about sports, I imagined a world where sports writers didn't even care about the outcome of the games -- only what they meant. When he wrote about politics, I understood his fiction was reality disguised by clever words and actions. His guise. His ruse. It was all it was. Underneath all of that was a viciously honest critic and a hopeless romantic.
Much in the same way Jack Kerouac before him made me want to read. The way Kurt Cobain inspired me to find out who I was and forge a new identity regardless of others. The way Johnny Cash inspired me to play guitar. The way Joe Strummer inspired me to look beyond the words politicians say and into what they mean.
Hunter made me want to create. I mean, for crying out loud, he's why my internet name is dr. gooch. And, yes, in the early stages of creation, I stole. But, imitation is the sincerest form of flatterly, is it not?
Whether or not we like it, though, this is how Hunter chose to go. In a way, I guess that should suffice. I should let it go at that. I mean, how else was this man going to go? Could you picture an 80-year-old Dr. Thompson in a nursing home suffering from Alzheimer's? Could you picture Jim Morrison playing checkers in a day room with Jimi Hendrix? What would Kurt Cobain be like at 40? What would have become of Marilyn?
But some people prefer to burn out than fade away. Maybe Hunter subscribed to Neil Young's words, much like Kurt before him. Much like Ernest Hemmingway, I guess he decided that it was time for the great American writer to go.
And for that, we all should be saddened.
"The Edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over." Hunter S. Thompson
"There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance: that imitation is suicide: that he must take himself for better, or for worse. " Ralph Waldo Emerson.
There isn't an easy way to die. There never has been.
A car crash. A coma. A gunshot. We are all, in our own ways, waiting to die. Which is a terribly pessimistic way to look at things. Will I die tomorrow? While probably not on everyone's lips as they yearn to fall asleep, is perhaps in the back of everyone's mind. Waiting. Will I be attacked by a mugger. A wild animal. A heart attack. A stroke. Ask your grandparents, growing old has some drawbacks.
What will death be like: Quick? Painless? Painful? Agonizing?
We don't know. And, likely, the waiting will kill us -- literally. In his suicide note, George Eastman said it succinctly: "My work is done why wait?"
But suicide is always the hardest. It comes in many forms. I can't say that I understand what it's like to be tormented by drugs, but you have to think drugs are a form of suicide. Like it or not, but Jimi Hendrix committed suicide. So did Rick James, for that matter. Jim Morrison did likewise. As did Layne Staley.
Now, some of the most interesting humans have not wasted time waiting for the final send-up, they did it when they wanted to. Kurt Cobain. Frieda Kahlo. Vincent Van Gogh. Marilyn Monroe. Slyvia Plath. Virginia Wolfe. Whether or not going out on your terms is a reason or not, it is beside the point. For these people, some form of life was too difficult to keep going. For those who choose it, it's the final act of selfishness.
I've had friends do this. I've known a 12 year old who couldn't take it. A 40-year-old father of two that had enough. A school teacher in high school. A 15-year-old girl that thought it was too hard to be good looking. A 16-year-old who wanted so very much to be wanted, but couldn't quite figure out how.
For all of them I've mourned, but never cried. It's tragic and it's terrible and it opens up a wound that may never heal. But it never feels painful enough. It always feels like I've been lied to. Like someone stole something.
And that leads us to Hunter S. Thompson. I won't pretend to know the reasons why he is dead. I won't pretend that I don't understand. I'll just remember him. A drug-adled genious. A tenious superstar. A man of acerbic wit. A man of lucid thought and memory. A man who wrote great fiction based on reality. An inspiration. A selfish bastard.
I realize it's harsh to say that. I admired him greatly. And, I feel that, in death -- regardless of the circumstances -- we should grant a person the dignity of honoring their life and turning that giant spotlight away from their faults and flaws even if they killed themselves. But, as with Kurt Cobain, I have a hard time doing this. It's like a punch to the solarplexes: I just don't think I can ever understand why.
It was because of him that I write. He made me want to be a sports columnist. To share my ruminations on sports and politics with the masses. I own 7 of his books, two movies about him and consider myself to be a fan in the truest and most sincere form. When I read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, it spoke to me. Not the drugs, the parts in between. When he wrote about Louisville, Kentucky, it made me homesick in a way that only people from there could feel. When he wrote about sports, I imagined a world where sports writers didn't even care about the outcome of the games -- only what they meant. When he wrote about politics, I understood his fiction was reality disguised by clever words and actions. His guise. His ruse. It was all it was. Underneath all of that was a viciously honest critic and a hopeless romantic.
Much in the same way Jack Kerouac before him made me want to read. The way Kurt Cobain inspired me to find out who I was and forge a new identity regardless of others. The way Johnny Cash inspired me to play guitar. The way Joe Strummer inspired me to look beyond the words politicians say and into what they mean.
Hunter made me want to create. I mean, for crying out loud, he's why my internet name is dr. gooch. And, yes, in the early stages of creation, I stole. But, imitation is the sincerest form of flatterly, is it not?
Whether or not we like it, though, this is how Hunter chose to go. In a way, I guess that should suffice. I should let it go at that. I mean, how else was this man going to go? Could you picture an 80-year-old Dr. Thompson in a nursing home suffering from Alzheimer's? Could you picture Jim Morrison playing checkers in a day room with Jimi Hendrix? What would Kurt Cobain be like at 40? What would have become of Marilyn?
But some people prefer to burn out than fade away. Maybe Hunter subscribed to Neil Young's words, much like Kurt before him. Much like Ernest Hemmingway, I guess he decided that it was time for the great American writer to go.
And for that, we all should be saddened.
"The Edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over." Hunter S. Thompson
posted by dr gooch at 21.2.05
1 Comments:
you are a man of great articulation, Sir Gooch. This piece certainly sums up my feelings, and gives me a look into your own personal view. While I may never know the warmth of a south Kentucky sunrise, nor the sting of a loved one lost to the bullet of a gun turned inward, I can at least take comfort in the words of one of my greatest friends and know, for a fact, that each day truly is worth living.
I trust things are well. Take care, pal.
--Jubes
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