The good Hunter S Thompson will finally have his ashes spread. Not just a simple dumping of an urn, but shot out of a cannon. Yes it will be done with a mortar in the shape of the Gonzo fist.
While I'm normally not big into the culture of celebrity his passing did hit me a little. I've enjoyed his writings since I was 16 and admired his ability to write and live with reckless abandon. The fact that he made it to 67 is proof miracles do come true and a testament to the strength of the human condition.
Not one to fear violence, drugs, or libel suits, Hunter wrote in a frenzy true to Gonzo style. Much like his peers; PJ O'Rourke, Wolfe, Capote, etc, Thompson entertained us with a wit and style that was much needed in the dark cruel world of political reporting. Thompson often lived the story with courage unseen and at times paid a painful price for each read he gave us. Whether it was being stomped by Hells Angels, chased by the Secret Service, or having his wallet stolen by James Carville, Hunter kept writing with passion about the American body politic. In his prose he always left us with ramblings so bizarre we'll always wonder if his stories really happened.
A gambler, writer, drug abuser, wino, fighter, lover, poet, gun advocate. Many things have been said about Hunter's mental stability, but I prefer to remember him as an entertainer, one of my favorites.
His "fear and loathing" have finally come to end. May you rest in peace Dr Gonzo.
"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me." - Hunter S Thompson
Thompson's ashes, along with fireworks, head to Woody Creek