Lo-Fidelity: Breaking news — Hunter S. Thompson still dead

Tell me you think that Juan killed Hunter without saying, “I think Juan killed Hunter.” 

That was my takeaway from last week’s front-page-news article: “Authorities give insight into review of Hunter S. Thompson’s death.” The whole media circus feels reckless, irresponsible, and totally unhinged to me. In other words, right on-brand with anything even remotely to do with Hunter S. Thompson. 

Not to mention, the coverage on the re-opening of the investigation is particularly injurious to our community on a few different levels. 

The first was suicide. Raise your hand if someone killing themselves has personally affected you. If you’ll notice, everyone in the “Aspen” room has their hand up now. I don’t know about you, but re-reading all of those detailed timelines, grisly death reports, and graphic crime scene minutiae was particularly disturbing to me. This investigation doesn’t serve the local suicide survivor community in any positive way; rather, it feels as selfish as the act of suicide itself. 

The next element? The trauma associated with the Hunter Thompson “legacy” that everyone conveniently sweeps under Aspen’s emotional throw rug every time someone boisterously drops his name in public. 

If you grew up here in the ’70s and ’80s (which a lot of his biggest enthusiasts didn’t), you know that there was trail of smoldering wreckage left in the wake of the heralded “freak power” movement, in the form of affected children and families, failed marriages and disastrous relationships, suicides, murders, massive coke busts, businesses, broken homes, and shattered dreams. Now all of those kids are adults, and the trauma of excessive drug abuse, alcoholism, and celebrated debauchery has been conveniently passed down to the next generation. 

But Aspen was so amazing back then! Trust me, it wasn’t. I was there. I know. Whenever I hear someone mention Hunter Thompson, say the word “Gonzo,” or wind-up their horse-whipped drug-addled story about Hunter, I cringe. The totally unnecessary reopening of his death investigation has needlessly ripped the perma-scab off of our town’s emotional hangover and started the bleeding again. The only person who killed Hunter was Hunter, and he likely did so simply because he couldn’t get high anymore.

Here’s the third fascinating component about this boondoggle: Aspen is a notorious rumor mill. Our rumors breed rumors. If there was even the slightest inkling or hint of any particulars about the death report being even slightly askew, that’s the conspiracy we all would’ve been hearing about ad naseum in the gondola, as well as at every bar and party for the last 20 years. If even one person in Hunter’s inner circle had a variant take, we would’ve heard about it. Not once have I ever witnessed anyone label his passing anything other than what the local sheriff ruled it: suicide. 

Reopening the investigation into his death insinuates a nefarious cover-up and amounts to a massive stain on what’s left of his legacy. Other than the real estate tied to his “Owl Farm” (or “Dysfunction Junction,” as I commonly refer to it), I can’t imagine his intellectual property domain is worth any gargantuan sum of money. To me, Hunter’s “legacy” was usurped by the fact that he “allegedly” committed suicide in the room next door to his son, grandson, and daughter-in-law.

I firmly believe Hunter’s Gonzo “legacy” fuels a good deal of the misguided, toxic, blame-oriented victimization you hear and read in town on a regular basis. Aspen — where the whining flows like beer. I also think our community has grown weary of the obligatory Hunter S. Thompson reverence in some sense. Sheriff Joe DiSalvo’s election loss and the recent airport approval vote are two distinct political examples. Mine’s not necessarily a popular stance to take in Aspen, but you know what? I’m OK with that. 

I’ve read all of the Hunter books I can stomach. I’ve seen both of his movies at the ISIS. He nearly killed my son and me in Woody Creek, driving his red convertible known as the “Shark,” wasted. After that, I could only view Hunter as a monster. The last time I saw him in public, he appeared to me as a swollen wax figure caricature of himself. Not to mention, his speech was so garbled and unintelligible one needed an interpreter to understand what the heck he was saying. I don’t have any of his memorabilia, stickers, hats, or t-shirts. I find the local, near-daily deification of his drug-guzzling behavior gross. I guess I’m just not that big of a fan.

Guess who I am a fan of? Juan Thompson, Hunter’s adult child. I read Juan’s book with rapt attention right when it came out. “Stories I Tell Myself: Growing up with Hunter S. Thompson” resonated with me more than any of his dad’s writings, primarily because I could relate to his brutal honesty and empathize with the hyper-trauma he endured as a kid. 

Frankly, I’m surprised there’s been nary a single letter to the editor or column addressing this CBI review. From what I’ve read in both local papers and well beyond, this new peek into his now purported suicide feels salacious and desperate to me, like a macabre dog-and-pony P.R. stunt.

Enough with the gossip mongering. This isn’t Al Capone’s vault. At this unfortunate juncture, I wouldn’t be surprised to walk into the Woody Creek Tavern and see Geraldo Rivera sitting at the bar with a notepad out, interviewing people for a new TV series.

Contact Lorenzo via suityourself@sopris.net.