The Great Savage Beast has stepped off this landscape. Hunter S. Thompson could feel the warning signs in his bones, the sudden drop in pressure that foretells a gathering Shit Storm, and he was not prepared to watch the dying of the light again after all his insane efforts to warn and educate and ready us. He railed against the Dumbness of America in a time when no one else seemed to get away with it, and he was always painfully right, at least in some way.
I will not miss the writing so much as the idea of the man, which is what I think we all fell in love with. The thought that a stone-crazy shotgun-wielding peacock-owning Flower Child could still be alive in this age of Terror and Riteous Fighting in the name of Jesus was strangely healing. No matter how we despaired when debating our Republican office colleagues, or how out of touch we felt when the President told us that he could balance the budget by making 2+2=5, we knew that somewhere far away, even from the top of a mountain in Colorado, another man would back us up with a ferocity and honesty few could match. He was a sharp reflection of just how crazy one has to be in order to stay sane.
Did he really mean to emulate Hemmingway, a fellow in the realm of tortured intellects? Who knows. If the movies are right and you really do get to float up above your body before your spirit leaves the earth, I'm pretty sure I know what he'd have said.
Holy Fuck, look at that goddamn mess.
And now the Great Scorer will have to write against his name. For an unmatched honesty and purity of spirit, no matter how twisted it's manifestation, he deserves at least a council, a chance to speak for himself and his time. He will do well, and will laugh at his enemies in Hell through a tall glass of tea & Wild Turkey.