"But the only thing that worried me was the ether."

RIP Hunter S. Thompson, (1937-2005)

This would normally be Erik's entry, but he is off on vacation this week without access to ginandtacos (evidently it's being blocked by the Kinko's where he's checking his email). He'll recomment next week.

Honestly I'm not the biggest fan of the entire catalog of Hunter S. Thompson but I do appreciate his existence. There was a time around 1969-70 when drug use changed from being part of a sense of peace, love and utopia, and instead became part of a sense of sadness at the death of such a (or any) notion and an excuse for paranoia, and Thompson was there to shoot the signal flare:

"There was no point in fighting…now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark — the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back."

If the rise and fall of the Woodstock generation seems less relevant each day, Thompson survives on as an inspiration to the kids who are pushing acceptible limits of psychotropic consumption everywhere. You can see his ghost everywhere in colleges. If you can picture a mirrored-sunglasses wearing, no-drug-fearing, cigarette-holder-in-mouth 20 year old in your head…wait. you don't have to imagine it:

fall 2000, dear lord.

Hope the next world is as fucked up as this one Hunter.

4 thoughts on “"But the only thing that worried me was the ether."”

  • It should please Hunter's fans to know that Ralph Steadman and Johnny Depp are at this moment, and at least partially seriously, trying to find a way to launch his ashes from a 100-foot high steel fist constructed from tubing and air mortars.

    I myself am a huge fan of his work, purely on the basis that it makes my laugh damn hard. I went looking for some Wild Turkey for a toast yesterday, but had to settle for cheap French lager.

    I think we all understand what he meant when he said:

    "Have an objective to give your bender a theme. For instance, stalking and killing a wild pig with a bowie knife."

  • And it seems the launch is going to be at least partially succesful, if not as grand as expected:

    From IMDB:

    Hunter S. Thompson's ashes will be fired across his Colorado estate by a cannon, in keeping with his final wishes. The journalist and author committed suicide at his secure compound in Woody Creek on Sunday. He was 67. The Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas author wanted a simple, but bizarre funeral, during which his body is cremated and his ashes blasted across the ranch, according to his lawyer George Tobia Jr. Thompson's friend, journalist Troy Hooper explains, "I believe he wanted to be shot out of a cannon. I understand it's in his will. That's Hunter's style. That's how he would want it. He was a big fan of bonfires and explosions and anything that went bang and I'm sure he'd like to go bang as well."

  • My favorite H.S.T. habit–his method of answering the phone: Pick up the receiver. Wait. Wait. Wait. Then, into the silence, scream "WHAT???" Never had the cojones to do that, and yet that's absolutely my "what fresh hell is this" response to that kind of intrusion. Good for him.

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