Nice, at least she waited till the corpse was cold before coming out with this one. Wonder if she will have another orgy fest like the farewell party she threw that others footed the bill for?

I didn’t think much of Hunter, but I think a whole lot less of someone that muches off the dead.

Nice, at least she waited till the corpse was cold before coming out with this one. Wonder if she will have another orgy fest like the farewell party she threw that others footed the bill for?

I didn’t think much of Hunter, but I think a whole lot less of someone that muches off the dead.

Do tell.

Cheers,

Do tell.

Cheers,

I say good riddance to one less asshole in the Aspen area.

I say good riddance to one less asshole in the Aspen area.

I guess I’ll have another go at explaining my contention that HST was a great writer tonight…
I particularly liked the way Christopher Hitchens eulogized Thompson. Among other things, he wrote:

“He [HST] was never one to hang around when it was time to go,” a mutual friend e-mailed me on Monday. The realization that this might have occurred to him before it occurred to us is a very melancholy one.
~Christopher Hitchens, Hunter S. Thompson: The Minuteman of the Rockies, February 22, 2005

An honorable tribute, to be sure, and one with which I agree, though surely not in quite the same way Hitchens meant it.
In the late 80s, I looked forward to HST’s columns, even as their frequency grew few and far between. The fire in his belly never cooled. I think the political climate of the 70s that gave Thompson traction passed him by… Here’s why.
Back in the day, Thompson used words to rearrange the furniture in your head, and he didn’t give a shit about your intellectual feng shui:

The sporting editors had also given me $300 in cash, most of which was already spent on extremely dangerous drugs. The trunk of the car looked like a mobile police narcotics lab. We had two bags of grass, 75 pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers . . . and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.
All this had been rounded up the night before, in a frenzy of high-speed driving all over Los Angeles County—from Topanga to Watts, we picked up everything we could get our hands on. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.
The only thing that really worried me was the ether. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge…
~Hunter S. Thompson, from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream

Thompson was in his prime between ’67 and ’73. Politically and socially speaking, this was a violent, out-of-control time from which this nation has never fully recovered. In the wake of Bloody Sunday in 1965 came race riots no one could have imagined, followed by a segregationist power grab by George Wallace in 1966. Two years later in March, 1968, U.S. forces massacred hundreds in the village of My Lai. One month later, James Earl Ray assassinated Martin Luther King, and two months later Sirhan Sirhan killed Robert F. Kennedy. These waters of instability rolled through the 60s and into the seventies with Wood Stock, Nixon, Watergate, Agnew… I think Thompson was an idealist who reacted to this disturbing time by doing the bravest thing a young writer could do: get as close to the depravity as he could and write about it with a brut force honesty no one could ignore.
It was clear to me after reading Generation of Swine in 1988 that Thompson’s best days as a political essayist were probably behind him, even if he did correctly predict the Democratic melt-down in the 1988 presidential race. Still, it had been just short of a decade since The Great Shark Hunt, and I thought maybe it was just a matter of shaking the rust off. As time went on, though, it became increasingly clear to me that times had changed, and in so doing had taken away an essential ingredient in the HST cocktail—epic political and social tumult.
While part of me held out hope HST would find a voice that suited him in his old age, deep down I knew he wouldn’t. After all, Thompson once wrote, “there is no honest way to explain [the Edge] because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.” If Thompson had not been over the edge, I think he’d certainly gotten close enough to look down…
Cheers,

I guess I’ll have another go at explaining my contention that HST was a great writer tonight…
I particularly liked the way Christopher Hitchens eulogized Thompson. Among other things, he wrote:

“He [HST] was never one to hang around when it was time to go,” a mutual friend e-mailed me on Monday. The realization that this might have occurred to him before it occurred to us is a very melancholy one.
~Christopher Hitchens, Hunter S. Thompson: The Minuteman of the Rockies, February 22, 2005

An honorable tribute, to be sure, and one with which I agree, though surely not in quite the same way Hitchens meant it.
In the late 80s, I looked forward to HST’s columns, even as their frequency grew few and far between. The fire in his belly never cooled. I think the political climate of the 70s that gave Thompson traction passed him by… Here’s why.
Back in the day, Thompson used words to rearrange the furniture in your head, and he didn’t give a shit about your intellectual feng shui:

The sporting editors had also given me $300 in cash, most of which was already spent on extremely dangerous drugs. The trunk of the car looked like a mobile police narcotics lab. We had two bags of grass, 75 pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers . . . and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.
All this had been rounded up the night before, in a frenzy of high-speed driving all over Los Angeles County—from Topanga to Watts, we picked up everything we could get our hands on. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.
The only thing that really worried me was the ether. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge…
~Hunter S. Thompson, from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream

Thompson was in his prime between ’67 and ’73. Politically and socially speaking, this was a violent, out-of-control time from which this nation has never fully recovered. In the wake of Bloody Sunday in 1965 came race riots no one could have imagined, followed by a segregationist power grab by George Wallace in 1966. Two years later in March, 1968, U.S. forces massacred hundreds in the village of My Lai. One month later, James Earl Ray assassinated Martin Luther King, and two months later Sirhan Sirhan killed Robert F. Kennedy. These waters of instability rolled through the 60s and into the seventies with Wood Stock, Nixon, Watergate, Agnew… I think Thompson was an idealist who reacted to this disturbing time by doing the bravest thing a young writer could do: get as close to the depravity as he could and write about it with a brut force honesty no one could ignore.
It was clear to me after reading Generation of Swine in 1988 that Thompson’s best days as a political essayist were probably behind him, even if he did correctly predict the Democratic melt-down in the 1988 presidential race. Still, it had been just short of a decade since The Great Shark Hunt, and I thought maybe it was just a matter of shaking the rust off. As time went on, though, it became increasingly clear to me that times had changed, and in so doing had taken away an essential ingredient in the HST cocktail—epic political and social tumult.
While part of me held out hope HST would find a voice that suited him in his old age, deep down I knew he wouldn’t. After all, Thompson once wrote, “there is no honest way to explain [the Edge] because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.” If Thompson had not been over the edge, I think he’d certainly gotten close enough to look down…
Cheers,