Long live the Duke.
I am a huge fan of Hunter S. Thompson, author, eccentric, maniac, the first and last gonzo journalist. When I learned in February of 2005 that HST had checked out, my feelings were mixed. I didn’t know the man, only the legacy, and it was hard to imagine that those sheaths of vitriol had finally stopped growing taller. Yet I believed then and now that while he flitted with madness as easily as most others scratch an itch, he knew his mind better than most of us will ever know our own, and his decision to punch out was as rational as could be.
Frankly, it would’ve been terrible if HST had been in I.T. The frantic voice of an epoch in American history, traded for another neckbeard skeeving over his keyboard, alternating between casting potshots at Apple/Google/Microsoft and furiously masturbating to the latest nipple slip? Horrid. Evil, evil stuff.
So thank all the gods and demons that wasn’t how it turned out.
Me, though? Tech and I.T. and the 21st century, that’s my lot. That’s what I get to eat day in and out, and fuck if I can’t summon my inner HST to talk about it. Football season is over, indeed. A newer, sicker season is upon us.