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| Hunter S. Thompson at his Woody
Creek home in 1997. |
Hunter S. Thompson, legendary author,
political commentator and "gonzo" journalist,
shot himself to death tonight at his home in Woody Creek,
sources within the Pitkin County Sheriff's office have
confirmed.
Sheriff deputies and an ambulance responded
to a call around 6 p.m. for a self-inflicted gunshot wound
at Thompson's residence, a neighbor said. By 6:30 p.m.,
Thompson's home at 1278 Woody Creek Road was sealed off
by a sheriff's van.
Shortly thereafter, a counselor with Aspen
Counseling Center, a local organization that provides
support for victims at crime scenes, arrived at the residence.
An unidentified man leaving the property said "there
are a lot of hurt family members up [at the house]."
According
to Rolling Stone magazine (updated 9-9-2005), Hunter left
the following note before his suicide:
Titled
"Football Season Is Over," Thompson's note,
dated Feb. 16, reads:
"No
More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun.
No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more
than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No
Fun -- for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your
old age. Relax -- This won't hurt."
 As
of 9:30 p.m., there was no official statement from the
Pitkin County Sheriff's Department, but several of Thompson's
friends had confirmed the news.
Thompson was an icon of the 1960s counter-culture
and was best known for his rapid-fire, first-person style
of journalism in books such as "Fear and Loathing
in Las Vegas" and "Hells Angels."
"Obviously, my drug use is exaggerated
or I would be long since dead," he told a USA Today
reporter in 1990.
He famously threatened to shoot trespassers,
providing endless fodder for cartoonist Garry Trudeau's
ongoing portrayal of Thompson as the hard- living Duke,
named after Raoul Duke, a character in "Fear and
Loathing in Las Vegas." The book was made into a
1998 movie starring Johnny Depp.
Pitkin County Commissioner Dorothea Farris,
who moved to Carbondale in the late 1980s after living
in Woody Creek, called Thompson a "fine" neighbor
despite the fact it was common to hear gunfire from his
property. Firearms were abundant at Owl Farm, where he
had his own shooting range.
 The
son of an insurance salesman who died when Thompson was
in high school, Thompson grew up in Louisville, Ky., as
a star athlete. Before graduation, he was arrested for
robbery and served 30 days at a correctional facility.
When he got out, Thompson joined the Air Force, where
he caught up on credits and earned his diploma.
He was still enlisted when he studied
journalism at New York's Columbia University, and began
his career as editor of the Eglin Air Force Base newsletter,
simultaneously moonlighting as a sportswriter for a local
civilian paper.
In 1959, Thompson went on to become a
Caribbean correspondent for Time magazine and the New
York Herald Tribune. After relocating to South America,
he wrote for the National Observer, and then returned
to the U.S. and became the West Coast correspondent for
The Nation.
Rolling Stone magazine publisher Jann
Wenner learned of Thompson from his columns for Scanlan's
Monthly and Ramparts, and hired him as national affairs
editor. This propelled Thompson and his cynical, heady
reporting style to international fame. People who really
did read Playboy for the articles began picking up Rolling
Stone for Thompson's caroming take on politics, particularly
his incendiary coverage of the 1972 presidential campaign.
"A lot of people really loved Hunter,
and despised him at the same time," longtime friend
and Rolling Stone photographer Lynn Goldsmith said."I
know, having been a celebrity portrait photographer, that
there are individuals who aren't like other people. That's
because they're geniuses. So you can't expect them to
act like a normal person."
Thompson seemed to revel in eccentricity.
In 1968, he ran for Pitkin County sheriff but lost. He
kept peacocks, the descendants of Hannibal, his storied
watchdog-peacock in the 1970s.
Friends and acquaintances reeled on learning
of his death.
 "Oh,
my God," sobbed Coleen Auerbach, mother of Lisl Auman,
who was convicted of felony murder in 1998. Thompson championed
Auman's cause, bringing his friends Warren Zevon and actor
Benicio Del Torro to a rally protesting what Thompson
believed was a wrongful conviction.
Jim Horowitz, who founded the Aspen Jazz
Festival, remembered that Thompson invariably attended
his event.
"He always seemed to materialize,
kind of out of thin air, and always backstage, and always
wearing his hat," Horowitz said.
Aspen friend Gerry Goldstein called Thompson
"not only a national treasure but the conscience
of this little village."
Thompson married twice, first to Sandra
Dawn Thompson Tarlo, with whom he had one son, Juan Fitzgerald
Thompson. He later married his longtime assistant, Anita
Thompson, a native of Fort Collins. Besides his wife and
son, survivors include a grandson, William Thompson.
Tony's Note: Hunter was one my
serious heroes, and I am devastated that he shot
himself. I thought he would leave this Earth at the controls
of an airplane going down inadvertantly into Aspen City
Hall or something, which would have been an ironic tragedy
at least, and would have ended with him cocking an eyebrow
and forcing him into a grin as he realized his demise
at the fate of a bad aircraft engine or fuel pump. I met
him exactly once, at the Hotel Jerome in December 1988.
I got to drink a glass of scotch with him, and told him
I was a serious fan without making an ass of myself in
the process. He was a quiet man, but at least I got to
talk to him that brief moment and look right into his
fiendish eyes under that perpetual hat. I think he actually
tolerated me. I feel lucky that I got to meet one of my
heroes and actually talk to him. I didn't think he was
really finished with his work yet, but apparently he was.
I'll miss his presense in the world. God loves a Genius,
and He Taketh Away life with no wrath intended.
Hunter loved to quote
H.L. Mencken...
Speaking for myself, I don't recall a
single day in my life when I was contented with my lot,
though as human destiny runs, it has been a not unfortunate
one. Worse, I have got to a point in my old age, that
I can't imagine any concrete amelioration: experience
has taught me that what I want today will only upset me
if I get it tomorrow. But to give up hope is surely not
the same as to embrace despair. The show remains engrossing,
though it is no longer exhilarating. The horror of week
after next will at least be a new one. It may be any one
of ten dozen: I find myself vaguely eager to know which
it is to be. Thus I advise against suicide. Life may not
be exactly pleasant, but it is at least not dull. Heave
yourself into Hell today, and you may miss, tomorrow or
next day, another Scopes trial, or another War to End
War, or perchance a rich and buxom widow with all her
first husband's clothes. There are always more Hardings
hatching. I advocate hanging on as long as possible.
From "The Library,"
The American Mercury (1929)
H. L. Mencken
Hunter, you didn't
listen to Mencken closely enough at the thin fabric end...
--Tony
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