Grand Rapids....come for the churches, stay for the Nascar and Deer Hunting.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
SHIT
Damn it all to hell. Hunter Stockton Thompson passed away. Well, I suppose passed away is a rather subtle way of putting it. More like forcibly removed important portions of his gray matter with what I would guess to be a large caliber weapon, given his penchant for firearms. Small surprise that in his will he requests that his ashes be shot out of a cannon at his funeral. A friend of his is quoted as saying: "his afterlife ambition was to become cannon fodder...literally."
Some people have a way with words...others not have way. Hunter had way my friends. Big way. Way Way. Way with a huge huge W. The first step in his journey to become cannon fodder has left a large gaping hole in the journalistic community at a time when there is no time for wounds. Oh sure, that hole will fill in over time as all things do, but there will always be a slight depression, a dip in the road of journalism so to speak. That dip used to be a bump. The kind of bump that sends the coffee flying and makes you wish you had your seatbelt on. The kind of bump that says:
"We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive..." And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming: "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?"
and thats just the opening paragraph.
You see...the thing is, Hunter S. Thompson wrote in such a way that even if you didn't have a frame of reference for his outlandish cavortings, even if you didn't agree with his political leanings, even if things just got a little too weird, you could still relate to what he was saying...on a gut level. There was that certain special something he had when he told his stories that let the reader know that it was seat belt time boys and girls...strap em on cause you're in for a long ride and you will get bounced around a bit. You are committed. Committed in the way that the pig is to bacon, not the way the chicken is to the egg. From Hell's Angels to George Bush, HST had them all pegged and exposed every raw nerve for all to see. Then he sprinkled a little salt around to drive his point home.
Only Hunter S. Thompson could run for sherrif of Pitkin County Colorado on the Freak Power Ticket. The republican sheriff he was running against had a crewcut. What did Hunter do? Shaved his head bald and called the other guy "my long haired opponent."
Cheers to you Mr. Thompson...not for the way you left us, but for what you left us. When they fire that cannon and the dust settles, there will be more than a few of us having a Heineken and a shot of Wild Turkey in your honor.
Name: Jonathan Home: Grand Rapids, Michigan, United States About Me: Just a guy who trying to eek out a living as a graphic designer in SW Michigan. See my complete profile
Name: Jonathan
