I hit the GIGANTIC book store five minutes before it closed. The lady behind the counter made a sour face when I asked about Hunter's last effort. Without answering my question, she walked me to the impromptu A-Z memorial display of his titles. And there it was: Hey Rube: Blood Sport, the Bush Doctrine, and the Downward Spiral of American Dumbness, standing proud under the artificial light.

A ghost looked out from the cover, posing like one of my hillbilly relatives: ass planted on the fender of what appeared to be a GM product, thin lips wryly pursed, eyes locked in a half-squint.

The breaking news was on late-night a.m. radio. As much as anything, I wanted to figure out why he put a bullet in his head. I always want to know, "Why?" Over the years I've chambered a round and slipped the muzzle in my mouth on more than one occassion. People close to me have gone all the way. It's got to cross every thinking person's mind, at least once.

Chariot seeks Star: energy spent on a journey without a destination, without a hope.

A queer mix of emotions ran through me as I listened to the pundits speculate about his last day; cowardly dicks pounced on the warm corpse, flags waiving, railing against anti-establishmentarians. Iwo Jima! I had no desire to blame him, or to believe anything too quickly. Sixty-seven years: that's not bad, from my thirty-seven year perspective.

I stopped reckoning the scores in orthodox terms some while ago. And I began to care more about what was half-done, what happened in spite of best efforts, and what needed to be suffered through. You know: I cared about intentions. I cared about people who really lived, and survived. Whatever the truth of it all, my tribe now felt smaller.

At the age of fifteen, I bought the 1981 edition of Hell's Angels; at the age seveteen, I bought the 1983 edition of The Curse of Lono. They were good books for me, and I'm glad that he wrote them. I can't write more than that I was given hope that it was possible to live a real life, a human life, outside the system.

Humor grandpa, and think back to a time when all copy was sold at small, independent shops. Imagine: the owner of my digs wheeling his chair over hand-made plywood ramps while book selling, everything in the small space smelling of geezer, newsprint, and tobacco. The Dead Kennedys were trading Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables. And it was a BIG DEAL to hear the word FUCK coming out of your speakers, just like it was a big deal to see Hunter use that word in his writing. I always had a feeling, deep in my teen-gut, that Hunter and The Dead Kennedys were telling the truth about the ugliness behind the American Gothic veneer that RR was pasting everywhere. Twenty years later, living in a Gothic revival, I feel the same.

I miss Hunter S. Thompson because he was a link between what was and what is. Older people are good in that respect. I recall a nice lady from my mother's church; her name was Teru Nakamura. She made Christmas tree ornaments from walnut shells. When she was a little girl, American soldiers took her from her home in California and brought her to a detention camp. Now she's gone, and so is her memory of that experience. Ditto for my cousin Mike: he was a Green Beret who lived the Dark Side in Vietnam. Ditto for a thousand other characters like Teru and Mike. I wish, too late, that I had learned everyone's stories. Things weren't always as they are now in the good old USA.

When I read Hunter's last book, I realized that he had seen the slip. And I realized that he had lost his peers. It's a Hell of a thing to feel that the motion of your life has been spent in a circular rut. Rumsfeld, Bush Sr. and Cheney have been in the Executive [but for Carter & Clinton] since 1969; they've survived all the old hippies. You were right, Hunter: these are the same people who brought us Vietnam. I wish, maybe childishly, that more people from your generation were still fighting the good fight: for freedom, for equality, for the hope of an American Dream. There is something to be said for honesty and companionship in every circumstance, but more so now than ever...

"Politics is the art of controlling your environment. That is one of the key things I learned in these years, and I learned it the hard way. Anybody who thinks that it 'doesn't matter who's President' has never been Drafted and sent off to die in a vicious, stupid War on the other side of the World - or been beaten and gassed by Police for trespassing on public property - or been hounded by the IRS for purely political reasons - or locked up in Cook County Jail with a broken nose and no phone access and twelve perverts wanting to stomp your ass in the shower. That is when it matters who is President or Governor or Chief of Police. That is when you will wish you had voted." HST

all material copyright paul e. germanos
contact: paulgermanos(at)msn.com
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