R.I.P. HST
I don't have much to add to the myriad writings about Hunter S. Thompson's suicide on Sunday.
I think a thank-you is in order to my junior year English teacher, Jerry Astrauskas, who fully supported my wish to write a term paper on Hunter's experience with the Hell's Angels. The freedom given me to read HST and later, Mike Royko in Mr. Moonier's senior year English, well, let's just say I liked it a helluva lot better than the requisite Hawthorne and Steinbeck.
Between Royko and Thompson, I learned that an opinionated, angry and unapologetic journalist is a lot more valuable to a reader than one who throws up his or her hands and claims, "that's just the way it works." A good journalist probes why it doesn't work, gnaws on the question and washes it down with whisky before he just "Aw, shucks"-es and let's it go. A good journalist is unafraid and owes nothing to no one. A good journalist is ... a species that's dying out.
So many have waxed nostalgic about how sorely HST will be missed. But we live in a country where, now, a liberal may as well be a leper. To be too angry at the state of things that we should be livid, rabid, venomous about ... It's not just unpatriotic; it's treasonous. Why can't we all just get along? As long as getting along means planting a big wet one on the overfed cheek of the majority party. Sorry, but it's a sad state of affairs when even your strongest voices just tread contentedly somewhere in the middle. Handshakes and grins and backpats and thumbs-up and concilitory speeches and compromises and deals. God, we're so good at getting along we forgot how to fight.
People bandy about the words, "skeptic," "cynic" and "critic" like they're bad things. My theory is children in their formative years from 2001 onward (or at least until something changes) will be terrified to rail against institutions, question authority and take on the establishment. Better to be fair and silent than to risk being on the losing side, or, worse yet, no side at all.
Some have wondered since Sunday if a new HST will emerge. All surmise it's not likely. At least not anytime soon. And to blame for the lack of a new Gonzo anti-saint? Enfeebled journalism schools. The FCC. Corporate media. Thompson himself would have chewed those theories up: You can't blame institutions when they elect not to create anti-institution journalists.
Nope. It starts at home. Where parents make kids wear helmets to ride a tricycle down the driveway. Where we worry about our stress levels and our water intake and our Recommended Daily Allowances but not about dishonesty, pollution, corruption and morbid, contagious obesity. Where the only time we engage in anything extreme is when we purchase the latest "X-treme" sports drink, video game or SUV. Where a hyper child is one who needs his or her meds because God forbid a kid realizes their teacher is a big fat B-O-R-E. We're muddled. Middling. Oblivious. Of course we're not going to find the next Rebel with a Cause (and Pints of Wild Turkey and a Drug Habit and a lot of Guns) because such personalities are poster children for the Life Too Lived. Better stick to the Safety Zone than stick your neck out.
Somewhere, I hope there's a parent teaching some cherub-faced tot how to give the finger every time George W. Bush comes on TV. His first word is "Liar." Better yet, "Shitface Liar." (Okay, first two words.) He gets to run around naked and without shoes or sunscreen every once in a while. He doesn't have to sit still through a "Baby Einstein" tape if he doesn't want to. The kid, let's call him Tommy, learns to scrape a knee. No one covers his eyes and sues the NFL when he sees a boob get flashed during the Super Bowl. "Yeah, Tommy, that's a boob. Nice, huh?" He can crayon devil ears on Mickey Mouse without Mom and Pop calling in an exorcist. He learns that being smart is more than filling in the right bubble on a multiple-choice test. When given lemons, he doesn't have to make lemonade: He can hurl the lemons right back. That the best revenge isn't violent; outwitting the other guy is far better. He'll realize that freedom isn't yet even all that free but is a heck of a lot better than the illusion of safety. That being a loud, tough fighter is the only way to head toward partial inner peace.
For now, R.I.P. Hunter S. Thompson. Thank you. Please come again.
I think a thank-you is in order to my junior year English teacher, Jerry Astrauskas, who fully supported my wish to write a term paper on Hunter's experience with the Hell's Angels. The freedom given me to read HST and later, Mike Royko in Mr. Moonier's senior year English, well, let's just say I liked it a helluva lot better than the requisite Hawthorne and Steinbeck.
Between Royko and Thompson, I learned that an opinionated, angry and unapologetic journalist is a lot more valuable to a reader than one who throws up his or her hands and claims, "that's just the way it works." A good journalist probes why it doesn't work, gnaws on the question and washes it down with whisky before he just "Aw, shucks"-es and let's it go. A good journalist is unafraid and owes nothing to no one. A good journalist is ... a species that's dying out.
So many have waxed nostalgic about how sorely HST will be missed. But we live in a country where, now, a liberal may as well be a leper. To be too angry at the state of things that we should be livid, rabid, venomous about ... It's not just unpatriotic; it's treasonous. Why can't we all just get along? As long as getting along means planting a big wet one on the overfed cheek of the majority party. Sorry, but it's a sad state of affairs when even your strongest voices just tread contentedly somewhere in the middle. Handshakes and grins and backpats and thumbs-up and concilitory speeches and compromises and deals. God, we're so good at getting along we forgot how to fight.
People bandy about the words, "skeptic," "cynic" and "critic" like they're bad things. My theory is children in their formative years from 2001 onward (or at least until something changes) will be terrified to rail against institutions, question authority and take on the establishment. Better to be fair and silent than to risk being on the losing side, or, worse yet, no side at all.
Some have wondered since Sunday if a new HST will emerge. All surmise it's not likely. At least not anytime soon. And to blame for the lack of a new Gonzo anti-saint? Enfeebled journalism schools. The FCC. Corporate media. Thompson himself would have chewed those theories up: You can't blame institutions when they elect not to create anti-institution journalists.
Nope. It starts at home. Where parents make kids wear helmets to ride a tricycle down the driveway. Where we worry about our stress levels and our water intake and our Recommended Daily Allowances but not about dishonesty, pollution, corruption and morbid, contagious obesity. Where the only time we engage in anything extreme is when we purchase the latest "X-treme" sports drink, video game or SUV. Where a hyper child is one who needs his or her meds because God forbid a kid realizes their teacher is a big fat B-O-R-E. We're muddled. Middling. Oblivious. Of course we're not going to find the next Rebel with a Cause (and Pints of Wild Turkey and a Drug Habit and a lot of Guns) because such personalities are poster children for the Life Too Lived. Better stick to the Safety Zone than stick your neck out.
Somewhere, I hope there's a parent teaching some cherub-faced tot how to give the finger every time George W. Bush comes on TV. His first word is "Liar." Better yet, "Shitface Liar." (Okay, first two words.) He gets to run around naked and without shoes or sunscreen every once in a while. He doesn't have to sit still through a "Baby Einstein" tape if he doesn't want to. The kid, let's call him Tommy, learns to scrape a knee. No one covers his eyes and sues the NFL when he sees a boob get flashed during the Super Bowl. "Yeah, Tommy, that's a boob. Nice, huh?" He can crayon devil ears on Mickey Mouse without Mom and Pop calling in an exorcist. He learns that being smart is more than filling in the right bubble on a multiple-choice test. When given lemons, he doesn't have to make lemonade: He can hurl the lemons right back. That the best revenge isn't violent; outwitting the other guy is far better. He'll realize that freedom isn't yet even all that free but is a heck of a lot better than the illusion of safety. That being a loud, tough fighter is the only way to head toward partial inner peace.
For now, R.I.P. Hunter S. Thompson. Thank you. Please come again.
posted by imp @ 1:30 PM
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