Garry, Gonzo, And Gunpowder: A Prelude

Today’s the day when they fire the late Hunter S. Thompson out of a cannon.

Didn’t he always seem shot out of a cannon, though?

Even though he appeared laconic, his mind seemed like it was going a million miles a minute with his mouth struggling to keep up. Thompson-speak was sometimes difficult to interpret, a streak of mumbled lightning that danced around one note, but prone to rising in volume at any moment.

At the same time his body would move in a series of minimalistic jerks as if, like an action figure, he only had a limited number of articulated points. He was a marionette of the American Dream, Edward R. Murrow on peyote, the conscience of a country that no longer appeared to care for conscience.

It was easy to caricature him – just ask Garry Trudeau. But behind the cartoon was a writer (always, a writer) who cared deeply about the fate of his country and who couldn’t bear to see it fall into the hands of the crooks, the swindlers, the liars, and the cheats. They kindled a righteous, patriotic anger in him that still burns today.

I can never think of that old bromide about a cynic being nothing but a fallen idealist without thinking of Hunter S. Thompson. He may have sounded cynical at times, but it didn’t take much scratching to see that it came from someone who felt we’d dropped the ball and could do better. As ridiculous as it sounds, I’ve often thought that Thompson simply couldn’t handle another 4 years of George W. Bush, not so much because he couldn’t handle what Bush would do, but because of what it said about us: if we had fallen so far as to re-elect someone who was so obviously a lying, incompetent scoundrel, what hope was left for us, really? Why go on? What flag is left to wave? What dream is worth fighting for? If stupidity, greed, and theft are the new ideals, where are we going? What argument is worth making? What hope has any currency?

Hey, he’d been through worse so maybe I’m all wet. But sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Kerry had won. Maybe it would have been the little ray of sunshine that would have encouraged him to stick around a little longer, just to see what happens. If it seems too much to suggest that an individual would make a decision about suicide based on a national election, it’s also true that we’re talking about someone who ate, drank, and snorted politics. He was as intimately connected to his country as any writer I can think of.

If there’s even an ounce of truth to this and we look at Thompson as the canary in the coal mine, we have good reason to mourn much more than a writer. We have reason to mourn a country, an indomitable spirit, a vision that failed.

I followed him around Boston one memorable evening, a tale we’ll save for next week, which we’ve entitled…

Next: It’s All About The Fear