Say Hi To Hendrix For Me

I take this time to bid farewell to one of the last great American outlaws. Hunter S. Thompson took on death in much the same fashion as he took on life - on his own terms. Thus far, no mention has been made by any of his friends, associates or family members of any possible depressive state or physical infirmity that may have served as rationale for his decision to end his life. It appears as if he simply saw a clear and concise conclusion to a colorful existence lived not just outside the box but devoid of one. There was no way to confine such a volatile force of nature, no law of man or god that would govern his actions or censor his thoughts. His scathing commentary ripped into the social and political hypocracy he loathed with unbridled passion. His brutal honesty, devout drug-crazed hedonism, his guns, his contempt for unrecognized, reckless authority rubbed enough against the grain of convention and political correctness to earn him the respect and admiration of all who chose freedom over drone-like conformity. Hunter S. Thompson was no saint or prophet, he was no role model or hero, he was simply a man of letters. He walked a road few could traverse without falling short of their destination. He walked the road a hundred times over and had nothing more to prove. Today, he joins the ranks of those who have also walked that road and exited the mortal plane before him: Doc Holliday, Neal Cassidy, Lenny Bruce, Jimmi Hendrix and a host of others worshipped as outlaws in that quintessential American way. It's comforting to know Hunter is in good company.