When my first marriage ended, it was not with a bang…but with a very civil whimper. There was no bickering, no haggling, no attorneys. There was not a single material possession over which my ex-husband and I argued.

With one very notable exception: Our complete collection of Hunter S. Thompson books.

They lived in a place of great honor on our night table, and were the only things we collectively possessed that caused us pause whilst we literally and metaphorically “split the sheets.” I can still see us both standing there amongst the mountains of packing boxes…pensively looking at the melange of well-worn volumes on our nightstand, and then directly at each other. Oddly enough, those books pretty much represented, in toto, all that he and I had in common culturally. I am a Ted Hughes/Robert Lowell/Doug Kenney kind of dame; He is a Wayne Gretzky/Mark Martin/Jimmy Buffet kind of guy. Dr. Thompson, and his screeching legions of drug-induced dive-bombing bats and salt-shakers half-full of cocaine, was the lone cultural ground on which we both stood. To this day, Thompson’s essay, “The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved” remains one of my all time favorite pieces of writing. When he describes the drunken, writhing mass of humanity down on the infield, the green mint julep vomit oozing down the white suits of normally impeccable southern colonels, as well as his desire to blast a load of mace into the governor’s box, I lose my fucking mind with sheer delight.

As a writer, Thompson was profoundly meaningful in both of the very divergent worlds my husband and I each occupied — meaningful enough, I might add, that we chose to name our only son Hunter, in homage to his brilliance. As a small, 4 1/2 pound preemie in his clear-plastic bassinet in the neonatal intensive care unit at Valley Children’s Hospital in Fresno, California, our boy’s first companion and playmate was a 6 inch action figure of Uncle Duke from Doonesbury, whom, as you probably know, was based on the good doctor. For three weeks, the small, plastic avatar of Hunter Thompson kept vigil over our tiny son when we were not able to be there with him ourselves. The best part is, I truly believed that at the time…and took great comfort in it.

So, it is with much affection that I bid farewell to Hunter Thompson today. It may very well be a cliche, but he lived — and died — exactly how the fuck he wanted to. Even in death, he continues to stagger and stun…and take my breath away. And to all those driveling on about him being a coward by taking his own life…remember this: “Withdrawing in disgust is not the same thing as apathy.” My guess is that Hunter S. Thompson chose to withdraw from this world not out of fear, but out of loathing…and it was ultimately his choice to do so.

Now, piss off.

PS) Hubby got the books. I got the babies. Good trade.

Why Hunter S. Thompson was, is, and always will be…a god.