There are moments in pop culture, little triumphs and tragedies of Americana, which seem to have a permanence in the minds of the public. My parents, for example, will always remember the day that John F. Kennedy was shot or the first day of Woodstock. I, however, will always remember the day that Hunter S. Thompson, 67, died of a self-inflicted shotgun wound.
I found out in the early hours of Monday morning, after returning from a long night out which included a variety of seditious activities not suitable for mention in a newspaper. But in those early hours, upon hearing of Thompson’s death, my night’s antics suddenly seemed a truly fitting and sad tribute: rebellious acts to celebrate my rebellious hero.
Some of you may wonder why I seem to care so much about a man I didn’t even know. But go ask any aspiring journalist or author worth their weight in ink and they’ll all agree: Thompson had the right stuff. He was eccentric and inspiring, and he made all of us want to be better at what we do.
Thompson was a maverick journalist and author who tenaciously chronicled American culture, politics and sports using a first-person narrative he called “gonzo journalism.” In addition to writing for magazines and newspapers, including Rolling Stone and Playboy, Thompson was also the author of almost a dozen books, including “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” “Hell’s Angels,” “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72,” and “The Great Shark Hunt.”
However, Thompson may best be remembered by the public for his hard-driving, unconventional lifestyle.
There are a million stories to love about Thompson. He lived on an owl farm and had a love for peacocks and shotguns. He scored an interview with Richard Nixon on the condition they would only talk about football.
My favorite story would have to be when he ran for Sheriff of Pitkin County Colorado on the Freak Power ticket. His platform included the decriminalization of drugs (but only at cost) and renaming Aspen to “Fat City, Colorado.” He lost to the incumbent by only 500 votes.
But his antics were ultimately secondary. As a journalist, I’ll always remember him first and foremost as a great writer who was able to bring a story to life.
Some may think Thompson’s legacy will be that he inspired a generation of journalists to get tanked on such a variety of drugs and booze that they covered their stories in a near comatose state. But being that loaded doesn’t make you a “gonzo” journalist; it just makes you loaded.
Instead, as writers and readers, let’s remember Thompson for what he really did – change the face of journalism and literature. He wrote with guts. He didn’t just write the story; he was part of the story.
Sometimes I can’t help but think that the media is going to self-implode. Nowadays it seems to be all libel lawsuits and tiptoeing through the tulips. But Thompson ignored the status quo and wrote with a cutting truthfulness and cunning creativity that elevated journalism to a form of art. He gave traditional journalistic conventions a big middle-finger and we’re all better off for it.
Thompson is probably rolling in his grave as I write this. He’s probably wishing I’d stop idolizing him and start taking some action. If he could, he’d tell me to find a quart of rum and chill out. He’d tell me to write with some guts, to stop tiptoeing through the tulips. He’d tell me to “shut the door and paint the windows black, rent an electric typewriter and become the monster you always were – a writer.”
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