Today is Hunter S. Thompson's birthday.
He would have been 78.
Hunter killed himself on February 20, 2005 at the age of 67.
I worshiped this man's writing, his lifestyle, his point of view, his ballsiness, his intelligence, his circle of friends, his outspoken no fear no holds barred approach to life.
He had a major influence on me as a human being.
The celebrities I hold dear in my heart are diverse.
Muhammad Ali, Joe Namath, John Lennon, Keith Richards, George Harrison, Leonard Cohen, Charles Bukowski, Neil Young, Jerry Rice, Derek Sanderson, Lawrence Sanders. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Dwight Evans, Jim Brown, Gregg Allman, Jim Morrison.............. I got a million of them.
As I list this list it appears I lean heavily towards sports, music and writing. In fact as I laid this list down I did not realize I had such a long list.
Anyway it is entirely possible that Hunter is at the top of the list.
He was into drugs, booze, fast cars, fast motorcycles, politics, football, writing, guns and insanity.
Despite the temptation to dig the man for his wacked out lifestyle, it is his writing that mesmerized me and still does. Insanely original, wildly creative and viciously entertaining.
I loved the way he lived his life. I followed him closely. I knew him well.
So much so that, when I was goofing off at work in 2005 and accidentally came across the notice of his suicide on line (which floored me) I turned to Bryce who was also goofing off in my cubicle at the time and said "I bet he did it because of his physical problems."
Turned out I was right. Hunter had been experiencing many physical problems with his back, his knees and other ailments that I suspected he could not live with because they so limited his lifestyle.
His suicide note: "No more games. No more bombs. No more walking. No more fun. No more swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No fun - for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax - This won't hurt."
He was an informed and intelligent consumer of drugs. He kept the PDR handy - Physicians Desk Reference - and knew which drugs he could consume in combination with other drugs - and in what quantities - without killing himself. He did so liberally, as well as consuming enormous amounts of alcohol.
These things fueled him; somehow they worked for him and he was able to perform at a creative level that was truly impressive and original, and to live his life at a speed that dazzled.
He always had Owl Farm in Woody Creek, Colorado. This was his fortress and his solace. The place he would retreat to to re-charge his batteries and entertain his friends and guests with intelligent political discussions, football viewing (which he loved - Colts fan) and pure insanity.
The man invented Shotgun Golf. A wonderful sport where one person hits the ball while the other guy tries to shoot the ball off course.
He drove his cars and his motorcycles fast and usually scared the shit out of whoever was with him. However he was always in control, no matter his condition. He respected the power of these things and learned how to control them precisely.
That's the kind of guy he was. As insane as he was, when it came to the things he loved, he studied them, understood them and did them right.
I miss the man.
I miss whatever new stuff he could have written in the last ten years, I miss whatever crazy stories would have surfaced about his life, I miss the amazing celebrity friendships that never surprised me but always satisfied me.
His influence on me has been incubating for decades.
If it ever rises to the surface in its most honest and raw form, it will be like the alien bursting forth from Sigourney Weavers belly.
Happy Birthday, Hunter S. Thompson.
I miss you, man.
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