Reykjavík Grapevine - 11.03.2005, Blaðsíða 23

Hunter S. Thompson
1937-2005
Our Shaman has Gone Away
By Jeremy Hogan
Somewhere between the Barstow
and hell, three universes past
the back of the darkest recess of
my imagination, I turned on the
computer and read today that the
doctor is dead. The shock began
to take effect…and I turned on the
TV as some Jesus freak hell bent
on bombing people into freedom
declared and declared on CNN.
I don’t agree with suicide, but I
understand what might have led him
to take his final trip.
It doesn’t take much to figure
out that on the other side of his
brilliant, to the point political and
sociological analysis and off the wall
funny writing was of a deeply self-
destructive subconscious. But, any
human with the insight of Hunter
is going to feel the pain of half the
world living on two dollars per day,
slave child labor used to make our
products, 30,000 children under
the age of five dying each day from
conditions that could be avoided
with just a fraction of the money
being spent on bombing Iraq –
anyone who would think this is OK
would be a smug bastard and smug
bastards are who Hunter clearly
disliked – just read his writing.
What is evident, however, is that
truth and freedom and dissent are
what our country was founded on
and what has made the great aspects
of it truly great. And there seem to
be precious few contemporary voices
outspoken enough to tell the truth
as they see it no matter who it pisses
off. Hunter used the beauty of the
poetic form of literature with the
techniques of a journalist to tell his
version of the truth as he saw it and
we are all the better for it.
In the Spirit of Bukowski,
Burroughs, Megas, Dylan
By Michael Dean Odin Pollock
Draggin’ my watermelon head off
the couch on a Monday in Smokey
Bay. Gawd I was born on a Monday,
the telephones ringin’ I pick it up.
Hunter Thompson is dead, blew
himself away last night. Damn, wait
a minute, I feel like I been bitch
slapped, what the hell is this? I
was thinkin’ about it, but he did it.
Feck. Hunter take the bullet on the
battlefield but by yr own hand. Did
he or didn’t he? I don’t know. I was
thinkin’ about it, surprised. I would
feel this way like a brother gone
down.
Tempted as I am, Hunter, I cannot,
will not play into THEIR hands &
blow myself away I will gladly be
chopped down on the battlefield or
taken by nature’s hand but damn
Hunter, coming down pistol at
hand. Who knows? We don’t know
anything.
Hunter S. Thompson, Kentucky
Colonel
By Ron Whitehead
My friend Gene Williams and I
sold Hunter’s books, we sold the
first Rolling Stone magazines in
the underground bookstore, For
Madmen Only, and in the head
shop, The Store, we operated on
South Limestone in Lexington,
Kentucky. I never dreamed I’d
eventually work with Hunter
and with members of The Beat
Generation: Allen Ginsberg,
William S. Burroughs, Herbert
Huncke and others. Their works
changed my life.
Hunter shot himself. He died in his
kitchen in his cabin at Owl Farm
Woody Creek Colorado. I took my
children to visit him. He loved young
people. He loved his family. I drank
and did drugs with him. We watched
basketball. One night, years ago, in
early May my son Nathanial and I
arrived, driving 24 hours non-stop
from Kentucky, just in time to watch
the NBA playoffs with Hunter.
Don Johnson called several times
wanting us to come over. Kentuckian
Rex Chapman was playing for the
Phoenix Suns. The Suns were down
by nine points with one minute to
go in the game. I looked at Hunter
and said I’ll bet you that Rex will hit
three threes and tie the game, that
the Suns will win by one point in
three overtimes. Hunter looked at
me and laughed. Rex hit three threes
and tied the game. But Phoenix lost
in three overtimes, by one point. I
got damn close. Hunter paid closer
attention to me after that.
I had the honor of producing The
Hunter S. Thompson Tribute in
Louisville, Kentucky, in December
1996. We had a sold-out, standing
room audience of over 2,000.
I brought in Hunter, his mom
Virginia, his son Juan, the sheriff
of Pitkin County, Johnny Depp,
Warren Zevon, and many more. The
mayor gave Hunter the keys to the
city. The governor named Hunter,
Johnny, Warren and me Kentucky
Colonels.
Hunter is one of America’s and one
of the world’s greatest writers. He
stands shoulder to shoulder with
Mark Twain, John Steinbeck, Jack
Kerouac, William S. Burroughs, all
five America’s best prose writers, bar
none.
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