It's no surprise that a lot of bloggers have taken the death of Hunter S. Thompson pretty hard, particularly those of us in our 30s and 40s. Man practically taught a whole generation of aspiring journalists how to write. Of course it was how to write in a way no respectable newspaper or magazine would pay anybody but him to write. But along came the internets and Blogger and Typepad and MT and suddenly thousands of inner Gonzos were uncaged and loosed upon the land.
As people come to terms with his suicide, there will be more and more on the web about Thompson. I came across three good new posts today.
Neddy Jingo wipes a manly tear from his eye and buckles down to the keyboard to retell a great Thompson the maniac anecdote. Incidentally, Neddy comes clean about the recreational drug use in his past much more forthrightly than a certain resident of a certain house of a pale color in a certain nation's capital city ever has.
James Lileks, he of no clue and no shame and no trouble finding a parking space at his local mall and that's why it's so much more life-affirming to live in his suburb, says that Thompson's death filled him with pity. He always felt a bit sorry for Thompson anyway, he says. Roy Edroso points out that Lileks feeling sorry for Thompson is only a little less ridiculous than a barnyard duck feeling sorry for a race horse who has come up lame.
And Tom at FunctionalAmbivalent makes a claim that he's pretty confident no one else can make:
Back when I had a brain tumor, Hunter Thompson visited me in my hospital room and autographed my Bible.
Then he goes on to tell the story that goes with it. (Via Jack O'Toole.)
For the record, I make no claims of having been influenced by Thompson myself. Although I admired his stuff, everything I know about writing I learned from Franklin W. Dixon, reading the backs of cereal boxes, and paying strict attention to Sister Mary Antonia when she waved her yardstick at me.
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