On my way onto the subway today I picked-up the Metro to see someone with their picture on the cover listed as having died. The person looked vaguely like JR from the television show Dallas so I figured that another TV personality had run their course. But on closer inspection I saw that the name under the picture was Hunter and the page it referenced in the middle of the newspaper clearly stated that Hunter S. Thompson had taken his own life at age '67. I was shocked to read it and had an immediate emotional response. Lately I’ve been noticing a lot of the artists whose works I admire are suicidal. I was listening to INXS and pondering the end of Michael Hutchinson, and I keep stocking-up on Eliot Smith songs. I've always been a fan of Nirvana. It's a long list of folks who have decided to kill themselves. I can remember being in Las Vegas and reading Fear and Loathing out loud to Sarah by the pool of Excalibur, the annoying knights of the round table music in the distance, and trying to do my best Johnny Depp Hunter S. Thompson imitation. I read Hell's Angels while traveling throughout California visiting places like Long Beach where I could imagine Sonny Barger and his gang holding complete dominion. I only finally got through Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’73 during the height of the political race this past year.

His Gonzo journalism was absolutely astounding and led me to believe that any true, weird, and funny writing could be fun and loved by millions. His works were raw but perfect – better than one could hope to expose in a blog but written in a format that would easily have been adapted into an RSS feed consumed like a suitcase full of drugs at a police officer convention.

I guess he is done fearing and loathing.