Gone-zo

I had some stuff I wanted to write about today...It'll have to wait until tomorrow, however, in deference to the passing of one of the last great American writers. Loved, hated, disregarded, over-revered...whatever the perception of him, Hunter S. Thompson was inarguably an original.

"We had two bags of grass, 75 pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine and a whole galaxy of multicolored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers. Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls..."

You lived a hell of a lot longer than anyone thought you would, you crazy bastard. Once again, one final time, you gave yourself license to do whatever the fuck you felt like. And once again, like always, there's really no arguing with you about it. I'd tell you to rest in peace, but I doubt that's what you'd want to do anyway. Peace would be all too commonplace and boring, not to mention that it couldn't possibly involve the kind of firepower you're accustomed to. Instead, I'll just say thanks and drink my next one to you. And maybe the one after that as well.