Catch ya later Doc.
I was in the studio for the Sean Ward Radio Spectacular tonight, a show on PCU Radio. It was a lot of fun. Thanks Sean for inviting me to be a part of it.
I came home to see my inbox lit up with the news of Hunter S. Thompson killing himself tonight.
I expected that Thompson, who tops the celebrity dead pool every year, would find a way to avoid wasting away into old age, but somehow I didn’t expect him to shoot himself.
A few years ago a bunch of my friends were driving to Vegas and it was going to cost next to nothing so I decided to go. I love road trips like you wouldn’t believe, there’s something beautiful about the gradual changes in landscape and all the nothing and nowhere places that are so amazing.
Sitting at a picnic table in a state park in Utah one night on the way home Etienne noticed we’d be going through Aspen the next day and was hellbent on stopping by Hunter Thompson’s house. The next day we rolled into Aspen, not really having a clue where Woody Creek was, and it sure as hell wasn’t on the map. We walked around the deserted town (it was the beginning of May and the off season), and saw a lady walking along the street holding a wooden airplane (no, I am not making this up). We asked if she knew where Woody Creek was, she looked like someone who would know. She said, “Oh, Hunter! Yeah, I was at his place a little while ago!” and gave us directions.
We get to Woody Creek eventually, which is a dusty road consisting of a bar, a general store, and a post office. We tried to get into the bar (we figured Doc Thompson would be drinking in there) but it was under construction. The man inside offered us Jack Daniels if one of us knew how to work a bandsaw. I considered it but thought that Jack + bandsaw would probably equal badness. We asked him where Hunter Thompson’s house was, and he gave us directions and told us we couldn’t miss it, there were giant wood columns out front with wrought iron vultures on top.
We go down a dusty road for miles and finally find it, sure enough the wood columns and the wrought iron vultures were out front. It was across the street from - get this - A LLAMA FARM. It’s an incredibly beautiful spot, rolling hills and green green green. Siobhan and I got out of the car and said “I’M KNOCKING ON HIS DOOR AND TELLING HIM HE’S A BADASS!” Etienne grabbed both of us and told us not to because we’d probably get shot. My argument was “But he won’t hit anything vital!!”
We consoled ourselves by taking pictures of us standing in front of his house. I grudgingly allowed myself to be talked out of banging on his door, for fear of having to face a hospital in Aspen with a flesh wound and without insurance.
Today I kind of wish I had.
Hunter Thompson was one of my heroes, for a lot of reasons: I respect his writing, which remains as relevant today as it was thirty years ago. I respect his commitment to his subjects, which was pretty insane (especially where the Hells Angels were concerned). I respect his ability to do exactly what he wanted and exactly what he felt he should be doing, despite what everyone else in his field said journalism was. I respect his chutzpah, I respect his talent, I respect what he did and how he changed culture. I respect that he was a poke in the eye to traditional schools of journalism, because he not only documented things in an original way, but because no one could argue that he wasn’t really good at what he did.
Despite value judgements of his lifestyle, the man had a good run. It might just be in the way he tells it, but I think anyone that can live life firing on all cylinders like that is worth admiring.
Here’s to you, Doc Thompson. I hope that it’s a great big party wherever you are.