FOUR MORE YEARS...

It's so strange, but I remember exactly what I was doing four years ago today. I was living in my small, one bedroom apartment on Assinaboine and it was a cold Monday morning. I was battling a slight hangover, caused by one to many bottles of stander lager beer that I consumed at the Kings Head Pub the night before. Sunday night was always busy at the Kings Head in those days - shoulder to shoulder people, usually those in the service industry, celebrating the end of another hard weekend.

It was close to nine in the morning when I crawled out of bed. I had to work that afternoon - closing shift at the deli in the grocery store, so instead of putting on normal cloths, I put on the ugly uniform I was required to wear - black, burn-your-skin polyester pants, black V-neck sweater and that hideous blue-green apron. I had the radio playing while I puttered around the apartment, making something for breakfast. What I ate that morning doesn't really matter (it was probably something simple like a bowl of cereal with vanilla Soya milk), nor does the fact that it was extremely sunny that morning. I remember the light just filling my small apartment. It was glorious and instead of surrounding myself with a blaring TV, I had the radio on, playing softly.

I had it on one of the University radio stations, the one out of the University of Winnipeg and was listening to one of my favorite radio shows back then - a music program called 'Department 13.' I always listened to it Monday mornings, the hosts mixture of soft indie rock and blues music was the perfect way to ease into work on Monday's and since Monday was my time to work the closing shift at the deli, I could always listen to it while getting ready to leave and in the car on the way to work.

I turned it on a bit late, missing the start of the show at 10 AM. He was playing something strange for his show, I thought. Instead of the usual music, he was playing a audio recording of Hunter S. Thompson's book, 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.' I had the CD myself. It was a glorious reading of the book by various people, almost like a radio play, which sound affects, clips of music and distinct characters throughout. It was odd to hear on the show, I remember, but I didn't think much more of it. I turned it up a bit louder and listened as I got myself ready to go to work.

I was comuting to Selkirk at that time for work, a long 45 minute drive every day. I hated it. I stopped at Burger King on the way out of the city to grab lunch - something about greasy food and a hangover that is just so perfect - and continued on my way to work.

The store was quiet for a Monday afternoon and I felt lazy and achy. I was thankful for the slow pace of that day. I went into some task and was soon greated by the Meat Department manager. He was a strange man, about my parents age, but he and I shared many of the same interests. We both loved photography, had similar taste in some music and both appricated fringe writers.

"Did you hear the news?" He asked me.

No, what news?

"Hunter S. Thompson died."

I remember feeling a bit suprised.

"He apprently shot himself. Don't know much more than that."

The news numbed me a little bit and I spent the whole day at work in a bit of a head-bubble. I was half concentrating at work and half wondering about HST. What happened? Why? Was what I hearing a mistake?

When I got home, I had a few message on my answering machine. A few friends had called to ask if I had heard the news and if I was alright. I was confused and bewildered and suprisingly upset by the whole thing. I adored HST's flair for the dramatic and his wonderful way of writing. Many mistook him for a drug writer, someone who told these crazy tales of excessive substanice abuse, but he was a smart man, a completely whitty man and a man who could write the most beautiful paragraphs I had ever read. He was able to look back and laugh at his excess but also able to sit down and pick apart all that was foul and rotten in this world and find the core of gold it may have had or was able to present it as the disgusting piece of shit it really was. He was the most amazing writer and person I had ever been exposed to.

People are still confused at his actions. Apprently he killed himself in his home while his son and grandson where there. Apprently he did it while talking to his wife on the phone. Apprently it was done with a bullet to the head. There was a note, but it didn't say much...

"No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won't hurt."


Some people remember where they were when Kennedy was shot, or John Lennon. I remember exactly where I was when Hunter S. Thompson died.

RIP Gonzo.