Hunter T.'s gone. I'm okay.

I awoke to the news that Hunter S. Thompson had died. More to the point, that he killed himself. There was *way* too much hand-wringing and expression of deep loss on sites like Atrios. He went too young, perhaps, but I expected it in a drunken pickup truck excursion into a river in the mountains of Colorado long ago. At least this way he took his moment when he felt he had a reason to go.

I was influenced by HST like any 19 year old discovering freedom, drugs, and the infinite value of being able to tell people your own opinion. I had associates who fancied themselves "pretty fuckin gonzo" themselves, which is like the loner in high school fancying himself to be like Charles Bronson. They were deluding themselves, and sounding trite by even attempting any kind of personal comparison.

I didn't believe about half of what Thompson wrote. But even if half of it was true, he was way out of hand. Unfortunately, he was a belligerent drunken parody for most of the last 20 years as far as I can tell. I was worn out with him after about the age of 25. (My 25, not his.)

Hells Angels was a great book. It felt pretty honest, which Curse of Lono and Fear and Loathing didn't, really, to me. He got pretty sophomoric. But hey - I liked sophomoric when I was a sophomore. (And a junior.)

He was more of a moment, a movement, a social shift, than I think he ever was a great writer. He had flashes of brilliance, but bombast was his premise, and it became way too predictable.

I think shooting himself was as close as he ever got to Hemingway.

R.I.P.