Hunter S. Thompson died yesterday. The life he so cherished was vanquished, by his own hand. Hunter took a shotgun to his head and thus ended his life.

I’ve been sitting here at the keyboard for half an hour trying to come up with something that could befit a journalistic titan, such as Doctor Gonzo. He changed writing and journalism with his caustic style and abrasive whit. He redefined the way journalists would cover the story. For Hunter, covering a story, meant being covered in the story.

We live in such a different age now. We are taught by the media that you can’t have heros anymore. Hero’s get consumed by greed, and advertisements, and eventually we are given a new hero to worship. Hunter, was….is my hero. When I read ‘The Sun Also Rises’ by Earnest Hemingway made me want to write. But when I read ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’ at the ripe age of 18, it made me realize something quite different, I realized I could write.

There are so few literary heros these days. When one passes, you can’t but help think that maybe I didn’t appreciate the master while he graced this earth. Maybe I should have written a letter, maybe I should have read more of his books (haven’t read a Thompson novel since Generation of Swine and The Great Shark Hunt).

But maybe, I’ve done enough. Maybe, Hunter has done enough while on this earth. I wish him well in the hereafter. I just hope that the demons that caused him to want to leave give him the peace he deserves.

Hunter finally followed the strange torpedo to the end.