free 2 be marlo

Monday, February 21, 2005

Posted by danylo @ 12:45 p.m. ET

My cell rang. I ignored it. The house phone rang. I ignored it. About a minute later my cell rang again.

"Jesus Christ," I thought. My semi-waking semi-dream about friendly naked people was over, and I wouldn't be returning to that place for a while. "It could be important." I hoped it was just Libby calling because she was awake, and not one of my parents because someone had, you know, died.

When the house phone rang again, I stumbled/stomped to the phone. The machine picked up and started recording Libby's voice.

"I'm brushing my teeth, but there's something I need to tell you." I picked up the phone and started pushing buttons and muttering into the phone. Finally I hit the right one (Line 2, in case you'rewondering, not the talk button).

"It better be more important than you brushing your teeth, to wake me up."

I was two-thirds right: "You haven't watched any news yet? Hunter S. Thompson killed himself."

"What!?" I fell onto the couch.

"Hunter S. Thompson shot himself yesterday."

"Well, shit." (I am a silver-tongued nightingale.) I stood and walked back into the bedroom. I sat on the bed. That's one way of getting out a book contract when you can't produce anything as brilliant as you're used to.

"Shit." Silver tongued and quick thinking. "Well, I'm kinda surprised, but I'm kinda not."

A few more words, and we hung up.

HST shot himself. Well, Hemingway shot himself at his mountain house, Poe drank himself to death. HST was as abusive and alcoholic as the best of the best writers. And he loved his guns.

As I was puttering and writing last night, I saw fit to finish a bottle of bourbon at about 4 a.m. Perhaps the best tribute.

Short of taking my clothes off, eating some blotter and going to the roof to yell at people passing on the street, that is.

Where are my Doctor and my Lawyer when I need them?

Ah, more later.

Here's what I've read so far that's pretty good. (I'm leaving out the news stories, because well, here's the gist: HST, 67, was found dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound in his kitchen in Owl Creek, his "fortified compound" in Woody Creek, Colo., near Aspen. His wife, Anita, was at the gym at the time. He is survived by an ex-wife, a son, Juan, and a grandson).

• NYT story and book reviews • San Francisco Chronicle • AchenBlog, wp.com • Salon has some archived audio interviews with HST (scroll down to the Paris Review interviews)

“Faster! Faster! Until the thrill of speed overcomes the fear of death!”

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