One year ago today, a shot rang out in the Colorado wilderness and the greatest writer of our time finally took his leave. It was his time only because he chose it as such. He lived on his own terms and died the very same way.
His writing inspired more than one generation. He was a man who truly didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought about him. He rode with the Hells Angels, talked football with Nixon, and tested the limits of the sin city. He did more drugs than any of his contemporaries and outlived them all. Some consider this noble, while others are appalled; either way, Dr. Gonzo was real.
He was brilliant. His words were his weapons and he used them well. The man touched many of us with his articulate thoughts and ideas; although, the very same viewpoint stung many more. He was not one to hold his tongue. He was like a deadly snake; his typewriter served as the fangs that let his venom flow through to the paper and, from there, to the minds of critics.
He is a legend -- the Michael Jordan of writing ... my favorite sport. He knew his shit much better than any of us do nowadays or ever will. He was, is, and always will be, the king. He would have made a great president, but for now, let's just leave that sleeping dog to its dreams. Above all else, let us just simply honor the man and his achievements. If you need to know what those are, you are reading the wrong editorial and maybe you should start doing your homework.
Rest in peace, good doctor; we will never forget you. As long as good people read, you will live through your demented words. You have inspired great things worldwide and your fans will do you proud. This next drink is for you. Cheers.