Paxety Pages

I've been up since three-thirty this morning (I have a slight life-style dysfunction going here?) so I got the news of Hunter Thompson's self-induced demise early.  My first thought was,"Damn, what an ordinary way to exit life for someone devoted to melodrama. "

The point is, couldn't he have found an interesting or mysterious way to end it all?  Like going deep in a cave somewhere, squiggling up into an inaccessible crawl space and then ending it there, where his body might never be found, thus engendering a myth of "What happened to Hunter?"  And leading to sightings of Hunter all over the world.  Or, given his political bent, and whacked-out sense of humor, he could have left a series of voice mails on friends' voice mail, like: "Can't talk now.  It's three AM.  I think Bush's people are trying to get me, setting me up for some sort of accidental death or something.  I think it's all related to Vince Foster's supposed suicide.  The Republicans had him murdered and were trying to pin it on Hillary.  I've got the all evidence right here in my . . . Wait!  (voice drops to a whisper) Gotta go.  Hear a noise outside.  I'll call you back in the morning." Now that would have been entertaining.  All in all, considering his penchant for literary excess and personal flamboyancy, he chose a rather mundane way to go. 

By the way, I did love Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, it had it's moments--but please remember that I was a coke-sniffing pot-puffing Nixon hating hippie for a brief period during my formative years.  Fortunately I grew out of it.  Hunter never did.