Hunter S. Thompson

"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro."

—Hunter S. Thompson (1937-2005)

What the hell can I say? Any semi-sane person had to know all that hard living was taking a toll. I suppose the big surprise is that it took him this long to put a gun to his head.

I was lucky enough to sit at his feet a couple of times in the Back When in New York City and listen to his diesel-fueled speed raps on Nixon, America and — more importantly — the art and craft of writing. We — myself, Lester Bangs, Chet Flippo, Martha Hume, Nick Tosches, John Morthland, Patrick Carr, Robert Duncan, Nancy Naglin, a few others — were the Second Generation of New Journalists. We arrived in New York City from around the country from newspapers, local magazines, whatever, because we had been friggin ' called; we were convinced that, pound for pound, we were the best writers of our generation, the heirs of Wolfe and Christagau and Esterhaus and the first of the so-called "New" Journalists. They created personal and participatory and turned "objective" into a quaint myth, but HST gave us fury. Forget the overworked word "gonzo;" HST taught us to write while we were hanging on by our fingernails, while the Sex Pistols or Iggy Pop screamed through our heads and exotic chemistry or record company champagne reduced us to sweating, heaving hulks. HST convinced us that we were all war correspondents, except that the war was in our heads.

I remember a party at Chet and Martha's tiny uptown apartment, with both HST and Tom Wolfe in attendance, both of them holding forth at opposite ends of the room on writing and writers. In the wee hours of the morning after even Tom Wolfe had given up the ghost, HST was still in his corner, talking about writing writing writing writing. Because it was all about the writing, the translation of thoughts to paper. Strip away everything else, because the writing mattered.

HST may have forgotten that in the last years of his life — read this piece from a few years ago in Slate:

Now is the worst possible moment for a Thompson revival. This is a tranquil era, and considered in tranquility, Thompson is indeed a horror. His writing seems archaic and crude, and its self-indulgence seems stunning even in an age of memoirs. Thompson is often compared, unfavorably, with his New Journalism comrade Tom Wolfe. Wolfe is undoubtedly a better writer than Thompson, but he's also an easier writer. Wolfe has worn well because his detached irony suits us. His cool style is ours. Wolfe responded to his lunatic age with bemusement. Thompson responded to it with ferocity, and ferocity is not comfortable these days.

New Journalism has morphed into the vaccuous crap that permeates MSM; most of what the Atlantic magazine termed "the Hell's Bells group of writers" — for the bar where we all hung out — have scattered to the winds. Nick Tosches is a famous novelist, his body ravaged by past excesses. Duncan went to work for the Bank of America. Chet's the editor of a major music magazine. Nancy Naglin publishes a cool magazine on B-movies with her longtime partner Joe Kane. Lester Bangs didn't make the cut. Paddy Carr is a full-time house husband and just had heart bypass surgery. Morthland is still carrying the torch, writing for whomever will write him the check. Me, you already know that story. The writing still matters...

"Call on God, but row away from the rocks..."

—HST RIP