The Doc is Dead
Dammit all...why did he have to do it?
I just got the word from my old photographer friend Mike McDermott that the good Dr. Hunter S. Thompson was found dead - apparently of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. WTF?! I can't say that I'm completely suprised that he's passed. Hunter's been on the celebrity deathwatch list for the past 20 years - and has always been considered fodder for the reaper - his habituations always at the forefront of grim possibility.
But suicide? There must be a reason. Maybe a rare leg cancer or perhaps the malignant nature of the last two presidential elections was too much to bear. Still, it boggles the mind.
I remember when I stood outside Owl Farm in the summer of 1998 - crocked and reclining in a lawn chair - ready for the Doctor to emerge. He was in New York on a book tour at the time, but I could have cared less. I was at the door of his ranch - smoking my last little bit of Afghani grey - and waiting for him. In the end, I left an "offering" at the gate and fled to the Woody Creek Tavern, where I closed the place after about five too many. Of course, I wrote about it - and no, it wasn't worth reading after the fact.
It's a damn shame - and worthy of a day to mourn. The Death of the American Dream has come full circle and claimed one of its prophets.
Selah.
I just got the word from my old photographer friend Mike McDermott that the good Dr. Hunter S. Thompson was found dead - apparently of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. WTF?! I can't say that I'm completely suprised that he's passed. Hunter's been on the celebrity deathwatch list for the past 20 years - and has always been considered fodder for the reaper - his habituations always at the forefront of grim possibility.
But suicide? There must be a reason. Maybe a rare leg cancer or perhaps the malignant nature of the last two presidential elections was too much to bear. Still, it boggles the mind.
I remember when I stood outside Owl Farm in the summer of 1998 - crocked and reclining in a lawn chair - ready for the Doctor to emerge. He was in New York on a book tour at the time, but I could have cared less. I was at the door of his ranch - smoking my last little bit of Afghani grey - and waiting for him. In the end, I left an "offering" at the gate and fled to the Woody Creek Tavern, where I closed the place after about five too many. Of course, I wrote about it - and no, it wasn't worth reading after the fact.
It's a damn shame - and worthy of a day to mourn. The Death of the American Dream has come full circle and claimed one of its prophets.
Selah.
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