Mista Thompson, he dead.

Mista Thompson, he dead.

By Dylan Wiles

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

From a poem by W.H. Auden



Every once in a while something happens in this world that softens this hard heart of mine.

Hunter and I grew up together. No, we never crossed paths. Physically, we never met. Except in his writing and shared experiences we traveled this world separately. Oh, we traveled the same ground : just never together. But we saw the same things, laughed at the same bullshit and ran our hands through our hair with the exact same level of despair when the shit started to get sticky.

And therein we were war buddys

He wrote the Nixon screed I couldn't find the words for. He articulated the drug-induced madness while I sat blinking like a toad in a hail-storm, at the side of the road, speechless. Put words to the song I was trying to sing. Inspired me to ultimately pick up my own pen and try to tell the world what I saw, who I ran into and how it hit me. He took my mind to places I never thought I could go to on my own.

And he told me it was alright to go there, that the world needs the deviant, that Lenny Bruce was really onto something and it was perfectly acceptable to wade in, waist deep and test the waters.

This is not an obituary because Hunter ain't dead. Every time a printing press fires up, every time the odd journalism student stumbles into foul territory in the course of his research and brings up the name THOMPSON then the Old Man lives.

Hunter said he never expected to live past 27 and every day after that was a shock. And he also said that he and Timothy Leary believed everything was possible after midnight. I believe that too. Quoted it, actually.

Rolling Stone Magazine is flying its flag at half mast today. Or at least they by God better be. Jan Wenner show your colors, man. A legend is passing before you. I only read you for the Hunter articles anyway, you cretinous idiot!

If you haven't read Hunter Thompson and you are even vaguely interested in what went on in the sixties and seventies, love a good rant or just want to laugh out loud in general then I would urge you to get thee to a used book store and drink it all in because as of now, the price is going up! Hunter stuff just hit premium status (a side-effect he would have loved) and the shit's gonna go fast! I got my fix : I knew a long time ago.

Fear and Loathing aside I'm going to miss him. Because he was a big part of my life. He was my compass in the early years, a beacon when I was being a little too hard on myself for living the high life and a comfort in my middle ages because I knew he was still out there, doing it for me.

I intend to organize a pilgrimage to Owl Farm, Woody Creek in early fall. I'm going to need straight looking emissaries and people who aren't put off by aberrant behavior. And this time, if we're lucky, Hunter won't be shooting at us for trespassing.

Because as we know :When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. Right? Right.

Good-bye Hunter. Thanks for the great ride.

Dylan
2005