Hunter S Thompson Dies

The ashes of American author Hunter S Thompson may be blasted from a cannon, in accordance with his dying wishes, his family has said.

Thompson, 67, dubbed the "gonzo journalist", said several times that he wanted an artillery send-off for his remains.


Thompson 'had planned his suicide' Family and friends are now trying to fulfil his wish



Way to go :o
 
I don't think that suicide is ever the way to go - unless you are terminally/chronically ill and in agony or without dignity.
 
Not quite sure why this man is being so lauded since his death, but I haven't read any of his books, maybe I should.

Like quite a few of his countrymen he had an obsession with guns - I find it difficult to empathise with people like that, always a bit creepy.
 
I've only read The Rum Diary, which I gather is about to be made into a film, but on the basis of that, his first book, he was exceptional. That book is about the chaotic life of a drunken journalist and his subsequent books seem to be much more drug orientated, which wouldn't really appeal to me, but the guy could certainly write.

I suppose that the gun thing is odd, but a lot of these guys seem to live too near the edge. Phil Spector seems to be a similar type.
 
So, that's four reasons to top yourself. :confused: I know you're speaking from the tragic circumstances of your dear friend and colleague, Ardross, but I think until some of us get to some particular point (or lack of point) in our lives, it's an open book with me. Speaking only for myself, and not advocating it for anyone else, I'm quite ready to contemplate not continuing to live beyond whatever seems an appropriate circumstance.

That kind of contemplation is vastly different to the 'suicide while the balance of mind was disturbed' thing. I'm intensely saddened by people who kill themselves because of grief, heartbreak, mental illness, etc., because I can't imagine how desperately unhappy they must feel, how hopeless and detached. It must also be dreadful for anyone who cares about these people, since they often haven't realized the depths of the other's despair, or, even if they have, are helpless bystanders. They must find it very difficult to deal with.

One of my work colleagues, many years ago, died in a garage full of fumes. The Coroner returned an open verdict on his death, but the notion that he might have killed himself haunted all of us who knew him. He was only in his early thirties, very, very witty and articulate, apparently happy at work, and truly liked by all. We preferred the idea that he might have fallen, knocked himself out, and then been overcome by car fumes. But, to be honest, we all felt he was far too intelligent a person to have been running a car in a closed garage, so the verdict, obviously, left such thoughts unresolved.
 
Well here's the start of The Rum Diary. I'll pick up a book and read the first paragraph and if I like it I'll buy it. I bought this one and it was definitely worth it.

'My apartment in New York was on Perry Street, a five minute walk from the White Horse. I often drank there, but I was never accepted because I wore a tie. The real people wanted no part of me.

I did some drinking there on the night I left for San Juan. Phil Rollins, who'd worked with me, was paying for the ale, and I was swilling it down, trying to get drunk enough to sleep on the plane. Art Millick, the most vicious cab driver in New York, was there. So was Duke Peterson, who had just come back from the Virgin Islands. I recall Peterson giving me a list of people to look up when I got to St. Thomas, but I lost the list and never saw any of them.'
 
You know what amazes me about these 'professional drunk druggy' writers? It's that they can actually recall the details of names, routes, hotels, what they ate and drank, and record it all legibly!
 
Thompson's invention of the "gonzo" style in Rolling Stone revolutionised a certain type of journalism. Like him or loathe him, you can't take away his innovation.
 
For those who are interested, this was Thompson's last column for ESPN:

SHOTGUN GOLF WITH BILL MURRAY

By Hunter S. Thompson

The death of professional hockey in AMERICA is a nasty omen for people with heavy investments in NHL teams. But to me, it meant little or nothing -- and that's why I called Bill Murray with an idea that would change both our lives forever.

It was 3:30 on a dark Tuesday morning when I heard the phone ring on his personal line in New Jersey. "Good thinking," I said to myself as I fired up a thin Cohiba. "He's bound to be wide awake and crackling at this time of day, or at least I can leave a very excited message."

My eerie hunch was right. The crazy bugger picked up on the fourth ring, and I felt my heart racing. "Hot damn!" I thought. "This is how empires are built." Late? I know not late.

Genius round the world stands hand in hand, and one shock of recognition runs the whole circle round.

Herman Melville said that in the winter of 1914, and Murray is keenly aware of it. Only a madman would call a legend of Bill Murray's stature at 3:33 a.m. for no good reason at all. It would be a career-ending move, and also profoundly rude.
But my reason was better than good ...

* * * * *

BILL: "Hello?"

HST: "Hi, Bill, it's Hunter."

BILL: "Hi, Hunter."

HST: "Are you ready for a powerful idea? I want to ask you about golf in Japan. I understand they're building vertical driving ranges on top of each other."

BILL (sounding strangely alert): "Yes, they have them outdoors, under roofs ..."

HST: "I've seen pictures. I thought they looked like bowling alleys stacked on top of each other."

BILL: (Laughs.)

HST: "I'm working on a profoundly goofy story here. It's wonderful. I've invented a new sport. It's called Shotgun Golf. We will rule the world with this thing."

BILL: "Mmhmm."

HST: "I've called you for some consulting advice on how to launch it. We've actually already launched it. Last spring, the Sheriff and I played a game outside in the yard here. He had my Ping Beryllium 9-iron, and I had his shotgun, and about 100 yards away, we had a linoleum green and a flag set up. He was pitching toward the green. And I was standing about 10 feet away from him, with the alley-sweeper. And my objective was to blow his ball off course, like a clay pigeon."

BILL: (Laughs.)

HST: "It didn't work at first. The birdshot I was using was too small. But double-aught buck finally worked for sure. And it was fun."

BILL: (Chuckles.)

HST: "OK, I didn't want to wake you up, but I knew you'd want to be in on the ground floor of this thing."

BILL: (Silence.)

HST: "Do you want to discuss this tomorrow?"

BILL: "Sure."

HST: "Excellent."

BILL: "I think I might have a queer dream about it now, but ..." (Laughs.)

HST: "This sport has a HUGE future. Golf in America will soon come to this."

BILL: "It will bring a whole new meaning to the words 'Driving Range'."

HST: "Especially when you stack them on top of each other. I've seen it in Japan."

BILL: "They definitely have multi-level driving ranges. Yes."

HST: (Laughs.) "How does that work? Do they have extremely high ceilings?"

BILL: "No. The roof above your tee only projects out about 10 feet, and they have another range right above you. It's like they took the façade off a building. People would be hanging out of their offices."

HST: "I see. It's like one of those original Hyatt Regency Hotels. Like an atrium. In the middle of the building you could jump straight down into the lobby?"

BILL: "Exactly like that!"

HST: "It's like people driving balls from one balcony to the next."

BILL: (Laughs.) "Yes, they could."

HST: "I could be on the eighth floor and you on the sixth? Or on the fifteenth. And we'd be driving across a lake."

BILL: "They have flags out every 150 yards, every 200 yards, every 250 yards. It's just whether you are hitting it at ground level, or from five stories up."

HST: "I want to find out more about this. This definitely has a future to it."

BILL: "They have one here in the city -- down at Chelsea Pier."

HST: "You must have played a lot of golf in Japan."

BILL: "Not much; I just had one really great day of golf. I worked most of the time. But I did play one beautiful golf course. They have seasonal greens, two different types of grass. It's really beautiful."

HST: "Well, I'm writing a column for ESPN.com and I want to know if you like my new golf idea. A two-man team."

BILL: "Well, with all safety in mind, yes. Two-man team? Yeah! That sounds great. I think it would create a whole new look. It would create a whole new clothing line."

HST: "Absolutely. You'll need a whole new wardrobe for this game."

BILL: "Shooting glasses and everything."

HST: "We'll obviously have to make a movie. This will mushroom or mutate -- either way -- into a real craze. And given the mood of this country, being that a lot of people in the mood to play golf are also in the mood to shoot something, I think it would take off like a gigantic fad."

BILL: "I think the two-man team idea would be wonderful competition and is something the Ryder Cup would pick up on."

HST: "I was talking with the Sheriff about it earlier. But in one-man competition, I'd have to compete against you, say, in both of the arts -- the shooting AND the golfing. But if you do the Ryder Cup, you'd have to have the clothing line first. I'm going to write about this for ESPN tonight. I'm naming you and the Sheriff as the founding consultants."

BILL: "Sounds good."

HST: "OK, I'll call you tomorrow. And by the way, I'll see if I can twist some arms and get you an Oscar. But I want a Nobel Prize in return."

BILL: "Well, we can work together on this. This is definitely a team challenge." (Laughing.)

HST: "OK. We'll talk tomorrow."

BILL: "Good night."

So there it is. Shotgun Golf will soon take America by storm. I see it as the first truly violent leisure sport. Millions will crave it.

* * * * *

Shotgun Golf was invented in the ominous summer of 2004 AD, right here at the Owl Farm in Woody Creek, Colo. The first game was played between me and Sheriff Bob Braudis, on the ancient Bomb & Shooting Range of the Woody Creek Rod & Gun Club. It was witnessed by many members and other invited guests, and filmed for historical purposes by Dr. Thompson on Super-Beta videotape.

The game consists of one golfer, one shooter and a field judge. The purpose of the game is to shoot your opponent's high-flying golf ball out of the air with a finely-tuned 12-gauge shotgun, thus preventing him (your opponent) from lofting a 9-iron approach shot onto a distant "green" and making a "hole in one." Points are scored by blasting your opponent's shiny new Titleist out of the air and causing his shot to fail miserably. That earns you two points.

But if you miss and your enemy holes out, he (or she) wins two points when his ball hits and stays on the green.

And after that, you trade places and equipment, and move on to round 2.

My patent is pending, and the train is leaving the station, and Murray is a Founding Consultant, along with the Sheriff, and Keith Richards, etc., etc. Invest now or forever hold your peace.

* * * * *

As for Bill's triumphant finish at Pebble Beach, I am almost insanely proud of him. He is an elegant athlete in the finest Murray tradition. Bill is a dangerous brute with the fastest reflexes in Hollywood, but he is suave, and that is why I trust him even more than I trust all his brothers. Yes, I say Hallelujah, praise Jesus. Where is Brian? I will need him for this golf project, if only to offset Bill's bitchiness. We will march on a road of bones.

OK. Back to business. It was Bill Murray who taught me how to mortify your opponents in any sporting contest, honest or otherwise. He taught me my humiliating PGA fadeaway shot, which has earned me a lot of money ... after that, I taught him how to swim, and then I introduced him to the shooting arts, and now he wins everything he touches. Welcome to the future of America. Welcome to Shotgun Golf.

So long and Mahalo.

Hunter.
 
Having read that piece (combining golf and guns - a sleep-inducing blend if ever there was one), I'll definitely be giving his stuff a miss.

America is very efficient at exporting its culture abroasd, especially to the ever-gullible and suggestible America-worshipping British (Starbucks...Friends...McDonalds...etc).

I've a feeling that if this man hadn'nt been American there wouldn't have been anything like this fuss about him.
 
Each to his or her own Venusian. I didn't know who the guy was, or even that he was American, when I bought the book, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I am not someone who finds it easy to read any old book.

As a reading experience, it didn't feel all that much like a 'Big Mac meal', but as I say, each to his or her own.
 
Well, shack un son goo, Pee - I liked it, and I liked Desperation Angels and his short stories. I felt he wrote very originally, and with an angled humour.
 
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