So the ol’ writer-as-celebrity shtick reached its seemingly inevitable last act. How tragic. How trite.

Thompson was the favorite writer of just about every young male pothead I’ve met. Invariably, none of these fans could coherently describe anything about his writing. They were in love with “Hunter” the character, and didn’t pay close notice to how that character was developed and presented in print.

At his most base level, Thompson was the epitome of that particularly San Franciscan brand of minor celebrity, the Rebel Ego. If Los Angeles has people who are merely famous for being famous, San Francisco has people who are merely famous for being infamous. Alan Ginsberg may have devised the formula—to make an entire career out of hyping yourself as an unholier-than-thou brand name. But Thompson perfected it. No matter what Thompson’s ostensible topics were, his one and only true subject was “Dr. Hunter S. Thompson®,” self-styled supreme being of his world, a creature living above the petty laws and social niceties imposed upon us puny humans, the bad boy numero uno, professional vilifier of everything sissified, dull, institutional, regulatory, or Republican.

It’s a shtick that could easily become an unappealing cliche, as has been proven over the decades by countless Thompson wannabes. Only Thompson’s writing makes it work. His supposed stream-of-consciousness passages are really the product of a career molded in traditional magazine reportage. He had a sense for timing, for pacing, and for structure. That’s what I’ll miss about him.