The recent suicide of Hunter S. Thompson has me contemplating the type of life he led, his impulsive, act-now-ask-questions-later M.O. I imagine his life as one long, reckless, joy ride, pockmarked by frequent use of drugs, endless cigarettes, and a steady stream of alcohol. Considering his penchant for consuming large amount of mind-altering substances (Hunter may have been the first 'Xtreme-sport' drug user) it's surprising, frankly, that he made it to the ripe old age of 67. Certainly, his final gunshot to the head was not his first foray at self-destruction, though it was ultimately his most effective, and by the looks of things, his last.

There is something life-affirming about bringing your body to the point of physical or mental exhaustion and then coming back from it and a part of me has always been attracted to that sort of thing. Lucky for me (or unlucky for me, depending on your perspective), this part of my personality, my 'Id' if you're into Freud, has never had free-reign over my actions. When I was younger, when the 'Id' might have been most strong, I was into competitive swimming. I was an 'athlete.' I poured all sorts of good things into my body not because I was necessarily a health nut, but because I wanted to kick ass in the pool. But even then, I found that I enjoyed the fatigue brought on by a really hard swim, the kind that left me void and tingling. Maybe athletes and drug-abusers are one in the same. Maybe they're seeking the same dance with death.

So, while many of us have a mean-streak of chemical and/or sensual indulgence in our life, we often wind up breaking it at some point. Whether it be from age, boredom, a sudden concern for one's health, or all of the above, something usually occurs to cause us to think, 'I should stop this.' What's cool about people like Thompson is the lack of the word 'should' from their vocabulary. For these people the option to burn out is always better than fading away. But they are the exception rather than the rule.

I've noticed, as far as me and my friends go, we tend to fall into four categories of intemperance:

1) The Unabashed

Mostly, these are people I know that are still in their early- to mid-twenties. They can still bounce back from an all-night drinking binge in less than a day - lucky bastards - and they feel little or no guilt concerning their dissipation.

2) The Guilty

These people still like to play hard but often feel guilty about it. They wonder about that strange feeling in their gut, or that rattle in their bronchi. (Today's savvy pro-health advertising makes those things harder to ignore.) They often repeat the mantra: 'I need to quit.'

3) The Repentant

These people walk a razor-thin line between sobriety and debauchery. Outwardly, they have purchased one-way tickets on the wagon of moderation and clarity, but it only takes a wink and a nod before they are doing double backflips off the rear and landing face down in their own disillusionment. I guess I fall into this category, though I also fall in the 'guilty.' I'll probably waffle back and forth between these two for some time to come.

4) The Born Again

These people have managed to find enlightenment - an existence without craving. The only people I've known like this are the people who were like this to begin with, and they are not to be trusted. They're usually hiding something dark behind that white-washed, innocent exterior. The only people who should be in this category are people over 60 who want to make it to 80.

Anyway, back to the subject, you've got to admire anybody who leaves the kind of mark on our society that Hunter S. Thompson made. Agree with him or disagree, like him or dislike him, you've got to respect him for having a vision and sticking to it.

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