I'm just posting it for discussion, don't bust my balls folks. Although I do think the author makes some valid points and offers an alternative to the general view around here that H.S.T. shouldn't be faulted for what he did.
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Want to Vomit?
REALLY Bad Craziness
Go to the Rocky Mountain News site and read Hunter Thompson's wife's glowing, approving account of the day he shot himself in the mouth.
I thought the guy was a fool, but I wasn't particularly happy when he killed himself. His trophy wife, on the other hand, is practically celebrating.
I am particularly touched by the description of the wife and son toasting the dead writer as his body sat slumped in a kitchen chair with its brain turned into a bloody sweetbread frappe. The poor son of a bitch. They should play "We're in the Money" at his funeral.
Mrs. Thompson, who is about 35 years younger than her late husband, and blonde, said some really amazing things.
About the impromptu gathering with the sagging corpse: "It was very loving. It was not a panic, or ugly, or freaky." No, of course not. What's freaky about having a drink with your dead husband as brains ooze down his back? I guess that if there's anything more ignominious than scrambling your own brain because you wasted your life and you can't write any more, it's having your dead body used by your own wife and son, as a grisly prop in a pretentious "counterculture" celebration. What's next? A long-pig barbecue?
Check this out:
"He did not destroy his face," Anita Thompson says. "He did it in his mouth. His face was beautiful. It was quick. It was not grisly or gruesome by any means. That's probably why he took that gun. He spared us a gruesome scene."
In other words, the back of his cranium was gone and his brain was sprayed all over the area behind him, but it was okay, because his eyes didn't pop and run down his face. Is this how you want your wife to react when you signal your utter hopelessness and desperation by murdering yourself in your kitchen? I'd want my wife to be heartsick at the realization that I had been that miserable. But then I'm a square. I don't "get it." I'm not one of the cool kids. And I'm not a young woman who just inherited a nice pile of cash on the same day she shed the old fart she had to live with in order to get it.
She also said, "This is a triumph of his, not a desperate, tragic failure."
Lady, trust me, "desperate, tragic failure" is EXACTLY what this was. People with satisfying lives don't shoot themselves in the mouth.
Why is it that when a foolish person with rabid fans dies in a foolish, disgraceful way, the fans try to turn it into some sort of triumph?
Fat women in stretch pants say, "God needed a new tenor in the heavenly choir, so he called Elvis home." Elvis was grotesquely obese and full of drugs when he rolled off the toilet and died naked on the bathroom floor without getting a chance to wipe himself. And his tongue was bitten nearly through. And he died from straining because he was constipated. I doubt God was involved in that.
I remember when John Belushi died. He was a young, extremely successful man--married--and he let a groupie whore shoot him full of heroin and cocaine in a sleazy rented bungalow. Dan Aykroyd?his best friend?turned the funeral into the Dan Aykroyd Show. He arrived in biker duds, which looked, on Dan Aykroyd, about the way they would look on a young Alan Greenspan. When Belushi's body arrived at the church, Aykroyd went in front of the cameras and walked over the fence instead of going through the gate, to show that bad boys like him and Belushi didn't follow the rules. YEAH! AWOOOOOOO! We don't need the MAN'S gate! ROCK ON IN HEAVEN, JOHN!
If he had been my friend, I would have gone on TV and said, "Wow, we were SO WRONG about recreational drugs. Kids, don't waste your life like this. And do your homework." But you know how us squares are.
Now Hunter Thompson is dead because Osterizing the contents of his head was easier to face than another day in his empty life. And the people who supposedly love him are spinning it as a victory.
He died in front of a typewriter with a blank piece of paper in it. Doesn't that tell you something? The man's output was complete garbage for over thirty years. Have you seen his last book, The Curse of Lono? It's the kind of book you get when a writer looks around and says, "Hmm, I wish I had saved more money for my retirement."
As a writer, the man had been completely impotent for decades, probably because of what he did to himself with drugs and alcohol. The props he used in the 24/7 act that made him famous probably destroyed his talent. Why isn?t anyone asking the obvious question? I?ll ask it. Isn?t it just possible that a 12-step program would have restored his faculties and enabled him to write again? If shooting himself was a triumph, wouldn?t rehab have been a triumph, too?
His wife says that on the day he died, he told her to come home so she could help him write a new column.
If I ever have to ask someone else to help me write a column...well, I won't kill myself, because it's wrong and because I have other things that make me happy. And I can always practice law. But if a day comes when I can't crank out a thousand quality words in two hours without someone holding my hand and giving me cues, I, too, will end my career. And I won't call it "a triumph."
The last thing I want when I write is another person in the room, getting in the way. But then my brain isn't completely pickled.
In the liberal world, up is down and left is right. Dope is good; the Bible is bad. VD sufferers are heroes; soldiers are baby-killers. And now suicide is a personal victory, to be celebrated with glasses of Chivas while blood is still clotting on the ceiling above you.
If winners kill themselves, I am content to be a failure.
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http://www.hogonice.com/archives/003438.html
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Build a man a fire and he'll be warm for a night. Light a man on fire and he'll be warm for the rest of his life.
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