(no subject)

Hunter S. Thompson is dead. He shot himself on my Birthday.

( That's the sort of wierd-ass thing you'll remember your entire life. )

I am a Warrior, and the time had come to Rumble. Many things have happened since last week -- many weird things, radical things, Savage 180-degree swings between totally opposite poles like Joy and Fear, Wild passions and violent rages, sudden Love and sudden hate. ... I have known them all, and I fear I have come to like them too much. I am an Addictive Personality, they say, a natural slave to passion -- and many Doctors have warned me against it. I am a High-risk Patient.

God save you, Hunter. Keep a beer cold for us up there.

A few more moments of peace.

Lisa will be here in just over a week. I've gotten the day after she arrives off of work so that we can get things straightened out without driving each other nuts and (hopefully) not stressing ourselves out.

We got to talk a lot this weekend, and on and off today. It feels really, really good. I think we're both hitting the "Yeah, this is going to be OK" point. It's nifty.

My final moment of zen: I had to process a hire form for an employee today.

Smith, Roger N. (Temporary Employee)
Contracts Negotiator - EMEA

Nobody in my office understood why that made me chuckle.

HST, pt. 2

So, it's looking increasingly like Hunter chose his way out the door because of major neurological trouble. Not too surprising, all things considered.

I know it's a bit morbid, but there's something about the whole thing that niggles a bit at me. I'm writing because it helps me express it and, I think, perhaps come to grips with it a bit more. (Not that I shoiuld be having as much trouble as I am. I may have read his writing for 17 years (yes, I was 7 when I got my hands on some of it) but I never met the man. The closest connections I have to him are the fact he spoke at Wooster, many years before I attended it, and reading his collected correspondance. But the man was...an icon? Perhaps a figure of fascination. Always wondering what the fuck he'd do next.)

That correspondance also leads to what still bothers me. According to the press release from the family, there was no note.

That doesn't fit.

This is a man who, on one occasion, wrote more than fifteen letters to explain why a tweed jacket he'd purchased from a mail-order distributor didn't suit his needs or requirements, and why he'd like a refund on it, and the money credited towards another jacket he obtained from them that was much better, thanks.

He wrote almost daily for at least 50 years, and I suspect more than that if we looked deep enough. Letters to friends, editors, his son, his wife, his creditors, stores, articles, work, bit pieces, and the rest.

If he was really spending much of the past few months putting affairs in order (and evidence does suggest that, apparently), I cannot imagine there was no note.

However, I suspect that the note was something very private. He valued his privacy, and even more, that his family should have privacy. I do wonder if it was written for Juan and Sandy, and perhaps a few friends, with instructions to burn the damn thing after it was read, and before the police or paramedics arrived. It seems like something he might do.

Maybe. Could be.

It's another mystery. I have a feeling it's something that other people will debate, too, and no conclusion will ever be reached.

Part of me thinks he's having a grin about that.