Hunter S. Thompson (placeholder)

hunter thompson’s laid back life just happens so let happen style of writing and living have influenced me more than any other writer i can think of

oh. the chaos…the genius.

The weirdness.

There is something about Hunter Thompson that I love, and it’s almost impossible to put yer foot on. Sometimes I feel that Hunter lived on the edge by choice, whereas I have always lived on the edge by force. That being said, I always have wondered if I could make the crossover and just not give a damn about anything but living as fast and as hard as possible. Hunter means a lot to me for many reasons, but one of those reasons is that his writing helped me see the world in a way I could accept it at a time that was very difficult for me to survive through. I also think the man is a goddamned genious.

I guess I don’t really want to meet him anymore. At least not in this life anyway. Maybe in the next, if I can catch him before he moves on yet again. I’d like to do the next best thing and go pour booze on his grave. I annointed Samuel Adams in a similar fashion one night after a (Long Island Iced) tea party in Boston last summer. I’ve always been inspired by H.S.T’s writing style for as long as I’ve known about him. In a pinch one night, during my undergrad, I wrote a ten page paper, start to finish, on the depiction of alchohol and narcotics in Impressionist Art after drinking a fifth of Chivas and smoking some skunky Tampa Bay homegrown. I got a B. I always wanted to thank him in person for the inspiration. Also, I think he would have enjoyed the paper.

I met him at his last book signing for Hey Rube. Rumor had it he was tripping on acid or really drunk. He was late because he couldn’t tear himself away from some game he was watching at the bar. He was with his wife and Benecio Del Toro. He was playing Bob Dylan and drinking from several bottles of whiskey and the like. He complained he was tired and wanted to smoke a cigarette but it was against store policy which pissed him off. Great guy!

I realize it’s too late…

I love the hazy line in Hunter’s work between fiction and reality…a great writer who lived and died in his own way…

My father knew Hunter from the time they were teens. Hunter’s first wife was my mother’s college roommate. It was an odd childhood for me and my sister. It still is odd at times.