I weep.

From the last paragraph of an article Thompson wrote in 1964 about Hemingway's decision to retire to, and kill himself in, Ketchum, Idaho: "Perhaps he found what he came here for, but the odds are huge that he didn't. He was an old, sick, and very troubled man, and the illusion of peace and contentment was not enough for him -- not even when his friends came up from Cuba and played bullfight with him.... So finally, and for what he must have thought the best of reasons, he ended it with a shotgun." I can't imagine what demons might be strong enough to pierce Thompson's skin, or what physical or psychic ailments had made life so intolerable, or if he merely wanted to exercise control over his life in the most final way imaginable. We may never find out. But this piece was the first thing to come to me when I read the RIP line on Iggy's blog round about 12:30 this morning. I downed a shot of tequila in the Doctor's honor and sent HST a final thank-you for the inspiration, wild energy, and emotion in his work. If you read chapter 8 in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and don't get choked up as he describes the passing of the true spirit behind the Sixties, you are a goddamn zombie. Selah. --Conspir8or