The loss of Hunter S. Thompson

I read on the internet (that reliable source) this morning that Hunter S. Thompson shot himself in the head last night. That is terrible. Thompson was one of my favorite authors. Admittedly, his work was introduced to me through the 1998 film Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas but I read the novel version and his autobiography as well. It saddens me that an artist who I consider very relevant and special finds his life wretched enough to end it prematurely. People will ask, what great books could he have written if only he'd stayed with us? No one lives forever, we all know this, but I wish that the people who I like would stick around at least until I'm dead. Silly, no?

In other news, I saw Denison University's production of Hamlet last night. The play was used as a vehicle to explore gender issues and their place in society. I felt it a shame, because the concept and the slightly asian theatre-influenced staging conventions drew focus from the performances and the gravity of the story. Hamlet is a dense enough play with its numerous injections of Shakespeare's own opinions on life and socieity. It does not need more overt politicising to make it relevant, because human nature never ceases to be relevant. On the other hand, the gender swapping concept provided a great opportunity for the women of Denison's Theatre Department to play roles that have been traditionally occupied by men. I particularly liked that facially expressive creature from the eighties. Not the boglin.

My body is really achy. I don't know if it's because I'm giving up coffee or if I'm getting sick or if I'm worn down from final rehearsals for Two Planks and a Passion. But whatever the case, I'm going to go read in bed now. Bluuuargh.

I hope that HST and Alfred Jarry are tooling around heaven in a red convertable.

M