When I heard that Johnny Depp had curated blasting Hunter S. Thompson’s ashes from a rocket launcher, I was, quite frankly, underwhelmed. Granted, the drama did celebrate Thompson’s outlaw gonzo spirit. Depp had commissioned the erection of a phallic looking rocket launcher topped by a double-thumbed fist. Fellow bad boys Jack Nicholson and Sean Penn were among the guests; Lyle Lovett and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band played and sang; there were fireworks and I expect liquor and drugs flowed freely. Still, I shrugged. Fully ten years before Depp’s carefully curated spectacle, my family had blasted our dad’s ashes into eternity. With an old shotgun, from the side of a mountain at sunset. For a lot less than the $3 million that Depp shelled out.