trilobyte

I am sad to hear the news of author Hunter S. Thompson's passing. Sadder still is that he chose to take his own life, though it wouldn't surprise me to learn that it was actually an accident. That he didn't so much shoot himself as he simply missed one of those goddamned bats, with rather grave consequences. Yes, that's it. Let this be a lesson to you all. No matter how many fluttering, flapping things may be swarming around you, it's probably not a good idea to handle a firearm with a head full of acid. Even the best trip can take a serious turn for the worse when the bullets flying around you turn out to be real.

I am both Irish, and the owner of a twisted sense of humor. Some combination of the two, when properly shaken and poured over ice, translates to the notion that you get over the sadness of death pretty quickly. You turn it into an opportunity to celebrate the life of the person you lost. Whether it's someone very close to you, or someone you only knew threw printed words and films based on his work and the occasional interview.

To that end, celebrating the life of Hunter S. Thompson will be difficult. Ideally it would require large amounts of drugs and alcohol, a road trip, and several forms of unacceptable behavior. It's at times like these that I wish I had a convertible. My road trip will begin on Thursday. While I have a few suspicions, the truth is I have no idea where it will take me. I should consult with my attorney.

odi omnes