The Lion That Roared

“Our lives as we lead them are passed on to others, whether in physical or mental forms, tingeing all future lives together. This should be enough for one who lives for truth and service to his fellow passengers on the way.” -Luther Burbank

The unexpected death of the good Dr. Hunter S. Thompson hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks, laid me to waste; his decision to remove himself from our national register a rude, vicious slap upside my head, the one you don’t see coming.
A foggy, early morning revelation appeared like the four horsemen trumpeting, "Game Over!", and the announcement, not to mention the deed itself, came bearing the gift of more ragged emotion than I normally would’ve expected. Upon hearing the televised news while under cloak of degenerate behavior -reaming and screaming like a rabid weasel in the darkest of night before dawn- and over the course of the next gloom infested twenty-four hours, I was reduced to a sniveling pile of snot and tears. And this over a man I’d never met! But yet, I did meet the esteemed Dr. Thompson through his words. And it was his words that made all the difference.
Hunter’s jagged point of view, at first, a jolt of primal adrenaline that I didn’t get from anyone else whom I tried to read, who suffered under the pretense of being a writer, who collectively bored me beyond somnambulism. This man’s blood boiled and mine bubbled along with his as I read his furious prose, the holes in the damn breaking loose, the landscape on the other side soon to be forever rendered asunder.
While connecting with Hunter, reading, “The Great Shark Hunt” -the first book I’d ever purchased- his use of language made me literally laugh out loud at the sheer audaciousness of his uniquely twisted view -another first- but the more I absorbed his jabbering bulldog screed the more the importance of what he said sunk in; a big-time plus that his atypical delivery made his snarling, unwavering truth both informative as well as entertaining, something I missed in all the other literature I was subjected to during my internship of force fed dogma. And I listened. Rapturously. I hadn’t any choice under the spell of his rampant will. Subscribing to a whole new delivery, his words leapt from the page and demanded mine and other’s attention, pummeling us with fresh, unvarnished discovery, an Oz-like veil finally lifted for all who cared delve. From that moment of turning page after page of “The Great Shark Hunt”, I ventured out to the edge of that cliff with Hunter and fully immersed in the loony, two-bit, low rent shuffle of American ideals gone awry of which he was not loathe to challenge; both delighted and enlightened at his yammering and wailing at the vile circus that threatens to drain our will, pointing a finger and howling loud enough for the world to hear the injustices that plague our society. God love him for it! ...I know I did. Overnight, in the course of ingesting his violent collision of prose and reality I became a devotee’, gleefully devouring his words, his concepts, as he let his soul ratchet to a high pitched whine, duly exposing all that was wrong with the American dream. Unabashed, with sidearm purpose and epiphinal conviction, Hunter spoke loud and clear, teeth bared and arms flailing. No quarter given. No quarter asked. He was unrepentant. And I loved him more every day, each page turned.
The afternoon following his fatal pull of the trigger, my pervasive melancholy grew sullied with a boiling, indignant anger as I watched a bevy of stiff shirts -who simply weren’t worthy to swill his bodily excretions, hunched up and swollen with self importance as they were, gloating in their parasitical five seconds of fame by virtue of grasping his coattails while preening on every cable news program available- waxing, mincing, spewing their tepid consensus on the man; most noticeably staking a shallow, unknowing, condescending view of his lifestyle, and more alarmingly, his excesses. As if their highbrow sniffling view of him somehow denigrated his body of work! And I seethed. A wanton venom and an incredulous ire taking root, I watched the talking heads wallow in the politically correct mire, wishing I could eat the spleen of every jackleg I viewed, knowing in my heart of hearts that Hunter would’ve wanted me to pick up the gauntlet and rattle their complacent, empty cages in his honor, just for starters. Not that he gave a good hard fuck, as in the big scheme of things literary he didn’t, but in death, how dare they?!?! What did they hope to prove?! Hunter had taken the road less traveled and walked it like he talked it, lived it to his very last breath, and no one could ever take that away from him. Yet his limp wristed contemporaries openly questioned his legacy, his importance in the literary world! ...Drivel by any other name. Unimportant, pompous drivel to be sure. But hey, they were true to their tick like existence, and for them, I felt no pity, nor sorrow. Only disdain. Rancor. And a reason to throw this carefully executed solar plexus shot of which they’re deserving. I gnaw on their rancid bones and dare them to tell me, or anyone else, different. Fuck those cowards! Double clutch fuck them! How empty their existence.
Over the course of the next few days I’m sure the stiff shirts, and others like them, were most surprised by the international outpouring of kudos, as many who understood and respected his body of work defended his eccentricities by shining a light where it was needed, on the words and what they stood for, taking great pains to explain that without folks who dare, like Hunter, we’d live in a much different society, one that might not necessarily be the bastion of freedom it purports to be, and in turn bringing color to ones whose lives are only a murky shade of gray. And there were also others who pointed out that due to circumstances beyond his control, an environment that doesn’t necessarily champion freedom of speech, his glory days were, more or less, behind him. And his paranoia may have just ramped up to septic levels with all the skullduggery that exists in our society in this the new century; the media awash in outright lies; truth a forgotten and unnecessary staple. To be stripped of the ability to stand on the mountain, shout with an addled voice of truth and be taken seriously, as was his intent, has to extract a certain amount of sanity, and in the end, Hunter’s voice was reduced to scatological reports on the sports world laced with the occasional barb lobbed at the political iniquity which threatens to rob this country of our greatness. The pain must have been much to bear. Since reading the various reports from insiders, family members, and meaningful squires of the journalistic community, I’ve managed to piece together a psychological profile of the man, and on all above counts, I can rationalize and sympathize to a degree.
But I have a nagging problem with Hunter checking out as he did, and to be fair and balanced here, especially in the hail of afterglow, I must stand on my soapbox and get my licks in where I can. There is an underlying message that hasn’t been touched upon in the media, and my voice, even though shouting into the abyss, has validity, too.
Only under the most dire of circumstances do I condone suicide. Euthanasia, quite another animal. Not ever having suffered a terminal and incurable illness so serious I wanted to end my loss of quality of life, I cannot pass judgment on their choices. However, I can certainly understand it.
But when you have vitality flowing through your bones, despite what aches and pains you may have inherited, I cannot, regardless of excuse, condone suicide. The act is the most arrogant form of selfishness that exists in this realm. Unacceptable on any level.
I believe this life we’re given isn’t necessarily ours to take. We have a mission and a responsibility to it. We are but filters designed to help others along their way, too, sharing and giving all that flows through us; our existence a shining example of the divinity that is our destiny, should we be brave enough to accept the burden.
Who knows what Hunter would’ve have written before his untimely recuse from humanity? Would his words have made someone a better person? Helped someone along the way to look at a situation differently? Made them laugh? Made them cry? Made them think? What could he have said to his wife? His son? His grandchild? If he’d chosen to stick around would he have given any of his immediate family a cherished memory, a thought to ponder, a love that grows and soothes and strengthens? With every breath you take and thought you make there is the possibility of changing the course of someone’s life for the better. In an instant. And that is the divinity that shapes our ends. To think you have the right to quit when you want is the ultimate in arrogance. And for this, I can’t justify Hunter’s ends to his means. I think he wasted a precious part of himself, a preciousness that was a gift, and not his to squander. His was a full scale, full bore mission. He was chosen to serve the common good, common decency, even though there are many who would be quick to leap upon this proclamation as utter dribble. But I say to you who haven’t been to that mountain and walked with the kings, there are those with whom a dangle over the edge of the wedge, dipping their toes and creating ripples in the waters of insanity and destruction, produces moments of great clarity and wisdom. I know. I bear witness.
So, on that count, Hunter let me down, you down, and ultimately, himself.
However, it is not mine to cast final judgment on a man’s exit strategy. That job belongs to another. But I have my thoughts on it, and I’m not one to shrink in the heat of battle. On the contrary.
Words. Hunter gave us much to chew on. And his works will gain in appreciation the more we as a society stumble like wounded beasts into a hell on earth of lies and hypocrisy. His words will scald the minds of ones born unto a new generation. His works are venerable. His legacy will have the final say. Ones like him are far and few between. I am proud and consider myself lucky to have existed in his lifetime.
The fucker is gone though. And damn him for it, as I will never again read his insights, his tortured vision which gave me hope and belly laughs while he mercilessly railed at the gloom and doom, the hellish condition. I will never again break into a grin as I’m wrestled to the ground and roughed up by his new page.
Bastard.
But I have his words. They’re mine to keep. And until it’s my time to check out, that’s all that counts anymore. And due to those carefully constructed words, words that were his burden, his gift, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson’s fire will never die, his legacy intact.
Let’s raise a glass.
Selah.