Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Goodbye, Hunter Thompson -- or: self-employment's never been quite like that for me.

On the last day of his life, Hunter S. Thompson woke with his usual breakfast of fresh fruit inside a thin layer of jello with gin and Grand Marnier drizzled on top.

His wife, Anita, carefully put a lemon on the side and hovered near his chair. It was 5 p.m., the time the writer normally began his day...

[T]he 32-year-old, who lived with Thompson for five years before marrying him in 2003 [and Thompson] had been at odds for years about his talk of suicide. She threatened to leave the compound and wash her hands of his work and his legacy if he carried out his threat. In the end, he would back down and vow not to do it.

But the pain of hip replacement surgery, back surgery, a lung infection and a broken leg was taking its toll.

"It was definitely not a spur-of-the-moment thing," said Douglas Brinkley, a professor of American history at Tulane University and literary executor of Thompson's will.

"He had been looking at his options for a few months. One option was physical rehabilitation. A second option was to stop drinking and move to a warmer climate. The other option was to kill himself...."
[LA Times]
So let's see...

This fairly well-off and famous 67-year-old's routine is to sleep until 5 pm when he wakes and his 32-year-old wife puts a drink in his hand.

But the normal vicissitudes of age are catching up to him, so he has the option of:

a) taking care of his health,

b) moving to a warmer climate, or

c) suicide.

He chooses c.

I hate to sound cold, but why am I not overwhelmed with sympathy?