The King Of Gonzo Is Dead

I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me.- Hunter S. Thompson

America has lost a literary icon.

Apparently exhausted from watching the last 49 seconds of the Super Bowl, the bloodshed in Iraq, and George W. Bush's inaugural festivities, Hunter S. Thompson took matters into his own hands. The Wild Turkey-guzzling, mescaline-popping, Acid Freak of Lore is gone out exactly as he lived -- his own way, in his own time.

Many of those who read the Good Doctor's weekly pieces, in the San Francisco Chronicle and Rolling Stone before it became a total sell-out rock whore periodical, have since cut their hippy hair and buried the blunts in the backyard. And the youth who worship his Fear and Loathing know next to nothing about the tragedy he depicted. But HST crossed generations with his writings, depicting stories of drugs, violence, politics, and March Madness with all the passion and beauty of a car accident. American readers were at once appalled and full of wonder, slowing down to catch a glimpse of the twisted bodies in the wreakage. But somehow, Thompson kept walking away from the scene of the crime, leaving behind a path of crumpled pages, hotel receipts, and whispered rumors. From behind his signature sunglasses to his cigarette holder, only the fierce style of his prose betrayed anything of this enigmatic author and journalist. Only a world-traveled redneck from Kentucky, with a sharp pen and no fear, could possibly carve the path this man cut through our libraries and our minds.

Hunter, as you never found peace before the televisions nor on the campaign trails, watching this nation consume itself, rest well knowing there are those who will endeavor to maintain your vigil. You outlived Richard Nixon, survived the wrath of Hells Angels, and chiseled your name deep into the marble before stepping down into your grave.