HUNTER S. THOMPSON FATALY SHOOTS HIMSELF
-that’s what the headline reads.
Hunter S. Thompson was found dead in his Colorado home by his son. He shot himself Sunday, February 20, 2005.
I don’t know what this means to me. I am at a loss of feelings.
I was watching Fear and Loathing On the Road to Hollywood, on of the special features on the Criterion Collection edition of the Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas movie, and Hunter S. Thompson said that Raul Duke (his, I guess you could loosely say, pseudonym) was always trying to find a way to kill off Thompson. I suppose he won.
Thompson was one of the persons I looked up too, he gave me a sense of hope, or maybe a sense of freedom. I didn’t look up to him because he was what’s left of the sixties counter-culture, I wasn’t alive back then, and I‘m not into the drug scene or anything. I looked up to him because he was able to have fame and privacy.
Privacy means a lot. The people I do look up to are the people who are famous yet still are given privacy. People like Bob Dylan or J.D. Salinger or Woody Allen (maybe I shouldn‘t say Woody Allen because of that whole thing with his step-daughter), I could say even Johnny Depp.
What do I do when everyone I look up to is dead?