GONZO MONDAY

Well, my hero is dead. Happy Monday, everybody.

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, whom I cribbed a column title from last week much
to the delight of my readers, reportedly killed himself via shotgun Sunday
at his home in Woody Creek, Colorado. He was 67. (Or 65, depending on what
obit you read.) I am shocked. This seems to come out of nowhere. Not, of
course, that I knew the guy or anything: He was one of those people I'd
hoped that maybe, if I worked hard enough and went to the wrong parties, I
would get to meet someday; maybe buy him a beer, shake his hand, and try
not to make an utter ass of myself in the process. In fact, not many people
get to say they really knew Dr. Thompson at this point, as he was extremely
private on a personal level - although very prolific publicly, writing
books, the occasional story for Rolling Stone, and regularly columnizing
for ESPN.com. No Salinger, he.

In fact, his latest column was published only five days before he killed
himself - and titled, let the history books show, "Shotgun Gold with Bill
Murray." (Click
http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/archive?columnist=hunter_s._thompson&root=page2
for the ESPN.com archives of Thompson's column, "Hey Rube.") Was it an
accident? Please? After all, the good doctor was a passionate gun
collector. But it doesn't look that way: According to the statement issued
to the press by his son, Juan Thompson, "Dr. Hunter S. Thompson took his
life with a gunshot to the head." This is an observation that the Pitkin
County Sheriff's department has, thus far anyway, confirmed.

And so Hunter S. Thompson joins Hemingway, Plath, Woolf, Toole, and
countless other writers-cum-suicides. His books and the film "Fear and
Loathing in Las Vegas" will become best-sellers on Amazon, eBay, and
BarnesandNoble.com today; and you know someone is sketching Hopper's
"Nighthawks" as we speak, perhaps substituting Thompson for the guy sitting
off by himself at the counter - where James Dean ended up in the "Boulevard
of Broken Dreams" version.

So I guess, if I feel anything about it, it's an as-yet-unspecified emotion
somewhere between being heartbroken and being livid. As I type this, I'm
casting occasional glances at a picture of Thompson from Rolling Stone I
have taped up at my desk, and I'm absolutely furious. But that will
probably change. Thompson-induced states of mind are nothing if not volatile.