Doubtless you've already heard about Hunter S. Thompson's suicide Sunday night. I'm sure it comes as no surprise to readers and fellow Hunter fans that he had a great influence on me.

I remember very distinctly the day I walked into the Astor Place Barnes & Noble after school, found a copy of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" and read it cover to cover in about 3 hours (I'm trying to recall why I picked that book–it probably had someting to do with Uncle Duke). At any rate, it changed my life, and my writing. Without getting too maudlin about it, I'll say that Hunter was my hero–and apparently, I wasn't alone, judging from the notes on most of the websites I frequent.

They don't make 'em like Hunter anymore. Not for lack of trying–he has many imitators. and why not? It's <b>fun</b> to write like Hunter. I myself wrote a piece a few years ago that I will steadfastly maintain I wrote as an homage to gonzo political reporting (I dug up the pdf file for your amusement). My hope for Hunter's literary memory, however, is that people copy his substance more than his style.

The man had a tremendous impact on writers all over the world, although I think we can all agree that Hunter was quintessentially American. I'd say he was one of the best things about the place. Here was a guy who made you believe he was living the story as it unfolded, and you weren't even sure what was going on but you didn't want him to stop telling you about it. Nowadays, we seem to be deluged with a lot of whiny and inaccurate memoirs (I believe the euphemism the publishing industry employs is "narrative non-fiction") written by sheltered, boring people.

A thought occurred to me today; the deaths of famous people I admire are moments are endless and unrelenting milestones. It helps that I tend to idolize the heroes of previous generations, the same way I tend to watch old movies and read old books.

What was bugging me was–why? All I had heard was that he ahd shot himself, but I wasn't satisfied with that. Some more research revealed medical problems were plaguing the good Doctor; but I couldn't help wondering if there was more to it than some broken bones. And I wonder about a suicide note. I mean, what writer doesn't leave a suicide note? Wait, did Hemingway leave one? I've been reading a lot of comparisons between the two of them.

At any rate, I hope they televise the scattering of his ashes from a cannon, as specified in his will. In the meantime, raise a glass or three, won't you?