Over the last few days the name Hunter S. Thompson has insinuated itself into a whole lot of conversations, of which I've really only been on the periphery. Last Thursday, for instance, after our Kitch 'n Bitch viewing of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, Kyle and Aaron were chatting when the late gonzo journalist's name got dropped.

Kyle said something to the effect of, "Did you see where Hunter S. Thompson killed himself in his fortified compound?" The emphasis was actually on "fortified compound" because, if I remember correctly, we had been talking about politics and, I think, wacko libertarians or - jeez - what does one call those crazies from Montana? Separatists? Something, something Militia Can't remember...

...but that doesn't matter because, while the name hung in the air, my brain was busy turning cobwebbed cogs (ah, how I lament memory's attrition), inefficaciously trying to locate some old, old mental file that just might have included that specific name and some relevant background information. No dice.

Luckily, instead of saying "Hunter S. Who?" I managed to stammer: "Hunter S. Thompson?" Where, for me, the metasyntactical emphasis was on the first syllable of Thompson, thus signifying both surprise and question. At that point, Kyle went on to explain how Thompson had shot himself, ostensibly only after suffering for a while from a broken leg and general fatigue. Clearly Kyle was a little annoyed by the fact that a jouranlist's "hero" had come to such a pitiful and self-pitying end.

But you want to know what pisses me off most about Hunter S. Thompson and his recent suicide? Not only did I not know he was dead, I didn't even know who the f**ker was! Jeeeezus! How could I have gone 33 years (let's say 20 culturally-conscious ones) without having once heard of or being forced to learn about Hunter S. Thompson? What does that say about my educational upbringing? my natural sense of curiosity? It's just sad.

Must have been all the drugs, fear, and loathing...

***

We are all wired into a survival trip now. No more of the speed that fueled the '60s. That was the fatal flaw in Tim Leary's trip. He crashed around America selling 'consciousness expansion' without ever giving a thought to the grim meat-hook realities that were lying in wait for all the people who took him seriously. ... All those pathetically eager acid freaks who thought they could buy Peace and Understanding for three bucks a hit. But their loss and failure is ours too. What Leary took down with him was the central illusion of a whole life-style that he helped to create ... a generation of permanent cripples, failed seekers, who never understood the essential old-mystic fallacy of the Acid Culture: the desperate assumption that somebody - or at least some force - is tending the Light at the end of the tunnel.