Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

I heard the news today. Oh, fuck. About a gonzo prophet who ended his life's bad trip.

The gonzo journalist, writer and freak extraordinaire, Hunter S. Thompson, is dead, by his own hand.

I was pissed.

Heard the news while transcribing a CNN show, smarmy smiles all around as they tried to paint a happy tribute to that whacked out fire-breathing rebel. Cheesy "good-bye" music behind a chatty run-down of his borderline life. I had visions of Joe Pesci screaming, "Am I just a clown to you?" Afterwards, I had to take a shower.

Blasted some Patti Smith and inside my head screamed, "Why?" Inside my head because I didn't want to freak out my dog, Una, or The Gryphon, quietly playing videogames in the next room. But he must have known something was up, because he astutely left me alone.

Why should it matter to me? I only discovered HST seven years ago or so, but back then I was sunk in a vile existence of my own. His humor, his sarcastic, searing version of truth in the face of life's petty ugliness seemed to help. I thought, "Hey, I'm miserable, but there are far sicker things in the world than the ordinary betrayal I've been through. Get a grip. Get a sense of humor. Get over it."

And yes, it was obvious, when I saw the documentary, Breakfast with Hunter, that HST was toddling a wicked edge, possibly masking enormous health or private disasters with that ever-pouring glass of Scotch. Something was ticking inside, some sort of improvised explosive device, rigged for disaster. Like he had ever really been any different. Let's not fool ourselves. Still, he was brilliant. If you listened, you could make out the marvelous through the mumbling.

I was fine until Patti Smith started singing, "Ghost Dance": "We shall live again. We shall live again." Like some sort of Native American funeral rite, commending his spirit to the know-all, be-all and all. And I thought of his son, Juan, finding him. Anger gave way to tears.

Then, I grabbed this notebook and, with Patti Smith intoning punk politics and transcendence, wrote a bad poem, then flipped the page and started this.

I hope, for Hunter's sake, his afterlife is less loathsome than the world he escaped. Except I happen to think it doesn't work that way. Souls come back until they work it out, find a way of coping with whatever they couldn't handle last time. Like those bats in his head, for instance, or whatever was his latest poison. A second Bush term, promising diplomacy while threatening Iran and Syria? Hordes of rich Aspen interlopers encroaching on his fortified compound? The Clay Aiken Christmas album? Shudder to think.

It was strange last night to see G. Gordon Liddy on Hannity & Colmes, making jokes about wiretapping people while discussing some secretly recorded tapes where George W. Bush refers obliquely to his own past drug use.

"You old wiretapper, you," Hannity kidded, a term of endearment he whispers in G. Gordon's bald ear while they plan the latest vicious end-run around American politics. Probably good HST didn't live to see that.

Anderson Cooper on CNN said it was as if Hunter turned the gun on himself to "settle an old score." He said it wasn't surprising that Hunter's last showdown would be with himself. I suppose in many ways, he's right. Really, when you think of it, that's the fiercest foe we all fear, ourselves.

Patti Smith is singing, "And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn, goddamn."

Peace, Hunter. If not now, next time around.

Copyright 2005 by Alyce Wilson

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