He gave us Gonzo Journalism, which enabled All The President's Men, among other important developments. He wrote a good book, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. He wrote bad books, trying to rewrite the good one, over and over and over. His life of drugs, alcohol, guns, bizarre behavior that always had a tinge of stage-iness, appeared to be one long suicide attempt. He didn't seem to be having much fun with all the craziness. He'd sit at the end of the Jerome Bar, sucking beer, glowering at Monday Night Football and blowing off anybody who tried to chat him up. Sunday evening, he shot himself in the head. Will we ever know what his demons were, exactly?
And then there's this guy, who managed to deflect all the demons he should have had (and inflict them on the rest of us), right up to the very end. He came to mind last night as I read Larry McMurtry's essay, "Inventing the American West." The author of Lonesome Dove laconically observes, speaking of Buffalo Bill Cody, "his career proved . . . that there is almost no limit to how far a man can go in America if he looks good on a horse."
So it's adios to Uncle Duke and Uncle Ronnie, two dubious icons, but icons all the same.
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