February 22, 2005

Too Much Loathing, Not Enough Fear

People are bound to let you down eventually.

Hunter S. Thompson, whose life and writing, vivid and quirky reflections of each other, made him one of the principal symbols of the American counterculture, shot and killed himself yesterday at his home near Aspen.
I have no respect for someone who commits suicide and pisses away his talent. Punk ass.


  1. I got no problems with him killing himself. Hey, that's your bag go for it. But THIS really pissed me off:

    "[His son] Juan, his wife and their young son were at the hard-living writer's Woody Creek, Colo., house — which is well-stocked with firearms — while Thompson's wife, Anita, was at an Aspen gym.

    'He's [Thompson] talking about a funeral, great funeral. Typical Hunter ranting, nothing out of the ordinary about that,' Hinckle told The Post. 'And then he walked into the next room . . . and pow.'"
    Class act. Do it with the family, the GRANDKID, in the house. Jerk.

  2. I didn't see that, or you can bet I would have said something about it. Good catch. I'm even more disillusioned now.