The Doctor is out...

R.I.P.



The mainstream never really got a handle on Hunter Thompson. At the very end, they still couldn't decide something as basic as whether he was born in 1937 or 1939. Or maybe '38. It doesn't matter, really. The date of his birth, like the manner of his death is unimportant. The fact of his death is, really, far less surprising than the fact that he survived as much as he did as long as he did. Everyone will have a Hunter story, and many of them won't be pretty. Some of them won't be true. So what.

The work survives, and in the end, nothing else matters. Hunter Thompson, with I.F. Stone, stands as one of the twin pillars of inspiration for my efforts here. Just as Izzy demonstrated that any every effort could be meaningful, even if no one seemed, at times, to be listening, Hunter showed us that any means was possible, that voice mattered and that real journalism could marry facts and imagination to produce truths otherwise unseen. He showed that every effort could be meaningful, even if, at times, no one seemed to understand.

His work endures. His influence endures. His legend endures. His greatest lesson, that despite our fear, the fight against the bastards we loathe must go on, continues to instruct.

The Doctor may be out, but be assured...

Hunter Lives.