The death of Hunter S. Thompson has hit me hard. This is the second day in a row that I have just laid around in bed wishing that I were stoned, or, failing that, a Hell’s Angel. He was truly a man who saw things the way they were, even if he needed the assistance of mind-altering drugs to do so. I fail to call him a genius, because this is probably the exact sort of thing that drove him to suicide. What a zen guy. Way to know shit, Hunter. (A compliment that I usually only reserve for the Buddha or Jesus).