On February 20th, 2005, a solid oak door painted
of the deepest black closed the final chapter of the most important
story in the history of journalism. Dr. Hunter S. Thompson took his
own life at his home in Woody Creek, Colorado.
So many tributes have been written by this time that it’s hard
to find original words to pay homage to the man that gave so many
people the full view of the truth so many times throughout his career.
And for some, like me, who found direction in life due to his writing,
there can be no tribute too large. The words are hard to come by.
Exactly how big his contribution to the world of journalism is can
never be measured, but to those of us who have read his work and understand
that his was truly the only legitimate form of journalism, the torch
must be carried if we are truly to proclaim ourselves journalists.
Hunter lived in the same world we all do, a world of crooks, liars,
murderers, and spineless greedheads. But his version of it was colored
by a foreign substance-induced clarity that only those who know their
lives will be short can come by. For the rest of the population, held
in check by the fear of living too long, too miserably, the rose-colored
lens may be the easier to look through.
Luckily, for those of us who fear lies, and hold great reverence for
the truth, Hunter was the voice our ears lusted for. His analysis
of a situation was like exposing the large-pored skin of an anorexic
supermodel after the layers of deceptive Max Factor are torn away.
It may not be what you want to hear, but by god, it was the truth,
which is more than I can say today about anyone else in this field
we call journalism.
But now, he’s gone, and with him, a voice that kept many of
us sane throughout these times of much injustice. From his time with
the Hell’s Angels, through exposing the crimes of Nixon, his
stint as the night manager at the O’Farrell Theatre in San Francisco,
and on to what would become his declining years, Hunter’s wits
and analysis never grew dull. There was value in everything he wrote,
and every word I read, I felt, should have been cherished as though
worth a case of Chivas each.
The void left behind will never truly be filled, for there may be
those who imitate his style, but none will ever match his achievement.
His final legacy will be of a writer who never understood his own
importance. He always believed that he was a hack, and that people
who liked his work weren’t to be respected.
Hunter always spoke of “The Edge.” That mythical place
that few people see, and even fewer have the resolve to try to see.
And as his presence evaporates into a long trail of vapor emitted
from a Dunhill-loaded cigarette holder, it’s finally obvious
that he’s found “The Edge”, and just as he’d
always planned, went careening over the side.
The final chapter of his story was written in his kitchen in Woody
Creek. In a 1978 BBC documentary, he is shown making plans for his
death with his partner in crime, artist Ralph Steadman, who penned
those infamous drawings that gave Hunter’s works a slithering,
decaying sense of warped vitality. As per Hunter’s request,
two giant stone pillars are to be erected, a monumentous two-thumbed
Gonzo fist between them, and finally, his ashes are to be shot out
of a cannon, and scattered over the mountains that defined the boundaries
of the fortified compound that he called home.
He never expected to make it as far as he did, but those of us who
loved his work and what he stood for are certainly glad. True heroes
in this life are rare, and though Hunter never understood his own
importance, others did, and still do. Perhaps that’s what makes
him a hero, his lack of ego about his own relevance, a relevance that,
admittedly, was unrecognizable at the end from what it once was. For
an icon of counterculture from a bygone era that made his mark running
his mouth, these times of gag orders, spineless editors, and corporate
media pandering, didn’t leave much room for a man like Hunter,
and these realities finally became crystal, and unavoidably, clear
to him, at last.
So raise a glass of Chivas, and light up one more Dunhill to say farewell
to Dr. Hunter Stockton Thompson. No mere words are enough, to describe
what the world has and particularly I have lost. But honor his memory
and carry the torch we must try our best to do.
Goodbye, Doctor.
February 27, 2005
-Rama Sobhani
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