The Hiking Writer

I wrote a tribute to HST over 2 years ago, I thought I should add it here.

Enjoy.

Hunter S. Thompson, 1937-2005

It was with great sadness that I read of Hunter S. Thompson's death at his own hands on February 20, 2005. Mondays often start poorly, but fuck me. My favorite liberal with the balls of a behemoth checked himself out. Upon reading the story, I honestly hoped that it was some sort of twisted accident, that the Doc was cleaning a gun while deep in his cups, a fifth of Old Crow or Wild Turkey on the kitchen table, his grey matter on the wall.

But no. As the news trickled out, it was revealed that Hunter had been in constant pain for the last year or so from various operations, and he made up his mind to pay the tab and check out on his own terms. Considering his physical deterioration, I imagine he felt that it would be better to go out with his faculties and rage intact rather than continue down the path of infirmity and the impotence of old age, not to mention what he thought of where the country is headed. I’m sure he thought we’d soon become the 4th Reich, with no soul and no conscience.

I regret him taking his life; I don’t begrudge him his choice.

I read Hunter Thompson for the first time when I was an impressionable 16 year old. The Great Shark Hunt contained his opus that would launch “gonzo journalism”; The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved. I had not been to a Derby yet, as many Louisville locals, and it was 1980, not 1970, when the article was written. Political unrest was no longer about Nixon and Vietnam, but about gas prices, Iranian hostages and the coming of Ronald Reagan.

But goddamn, it was one hell of a read. Interspersed with the insane illegal behavior was a humor that saw the soft underbelly of a respected Southern tradition and cackled like a loon when he penned its evisceration. And I understood the Louisville references, I identified with where he was. Hunter became the lense through which I experienced the event, and I saw things in a new, albeit strange light.

After Shark Hunt, I started to look for everything he’d written. I read Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail next, and understood presidential politics better than I ever had before. I read Hells Angels, and the Vegas book, and anything else I could get my hands on. By the time I was 18, I’d read almost everything he’d ever written. Every book, every article, always took me somewhere I’d not imagined in my milk-toast suburban existence.

Hunter’s work even affected my social life. Growing up in Louisville, and attending an all male high school, other like-minded individuals who enjoyed HST became my long term friends. In my younger days, WWHD could have been our motto when bored: What Would Hunter Do?

As I grew older, I continued to look forward to each new volume Hunter put out. I sometimes avoided the article collections, but even those had enough gems to warrant a read. I think we all knew Hunter wasn’t long for this world, and wanted to drink it in like a fine wine before the bottle was empty. Everything I’ve ever read abut the man spoke to the fact that indeed, if not completely the truth, Hunter's appetite for drugs and booze in his books was an approximation of that same hunger in the real world. But that was his appeal, to do whatever he wanted and still be sharp as a razor when he needed words.

In writing this tribute, I thought of so many different ways to honor HST, but I didn’t want it to be trite, or some ill-fated attempt at some gonzo fan-boy eulogy. I think I’ll just end it with Hunter’s description of the pageantry of Derby Day. The picture is perfect:

"The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved."

Welcome to the Derby, and add one bad mother to the afterlife rifle team.

Mahalo Doc.