I attended a "lecture" by Hunter S. Thompson about 17 years ago. His voice was garbled and he was so drunk that it was nearly impossible to make out what he said. He seemed like an insane hillbilly, yet oddly shy. Most of the audience left within thirty minutes, though he staggered on stage for another two hours. There was a question and answer session while he threw a football around the audience at Symphony Hall, taking questions and drinking Chivas from the bottle with a busty blonde on each arm. I waited in line and asked him something about Nixon. He rambled about Watergate for a bit, not really answering my question. That was it. He never threw me the ball.
I was saddened to hear Hunter was dead, even more so that it was suicide. I thought he was tough, but maybe he was done. Many would say he had overstayed his welcome and outlived his talent. America can be a dark place without a good dose of self-delusion. He seemed to have none. He was a gun-toting drug-addled redneck genius who wrote with honesty and humor about a nation of gun-toting closeted drug-fiend redneck morons: the silent majority still fighting the Civil War, still fearing the next Indian attack. From "Nixon Now More Than Ever" and the My Lai Massacre to Limbaugh's oxycontin "Bush Country" and Abu Gareb, nothing really changes here. Thousands of foreigners die for their own good as freedom marches on and evildoers are cornered. But who will remind us of our limits during the next bloody round? Can you think of a living American writer mocking the current bumper crop of swine like he did with Nixon, Watergate and Vietnam? Would someone who wrote about America like Thompson be published during our media ice age? He was out there man, and there is nobody to replace him.
Rest in peace Hunter. May you swill Chivas for eternity in a harem of sexy angels. No more lies. No more swine. No more hangovers.
-- Patrick Mulroy