Hunter S. Thompson killed himself yesterday at his home on Colorado. There’s not a respectable writer in America today who doesn’t admire Hunter S. Thompson.
Five years ago, two friends of mine managed to meet Thompson and hang out with him as they drove across the country. Read about their adventures on The Black Table. They encountered an egomaniacal cokehead who liked to have his own decades-old words read back to him by his admirers, which is somewhat pathetic. I hope I don’t get like that when I'm 67, but if I do, I hope I'd have the good sense to kill myself like HST.
There’s snow again here in New York. I have the day off from work because it’s President’s Day, but I should be getting separate days off for Lincoln’s birthday and Washington’s birthday. We should have a lot more federal holidays. For some suggestions, read this.
Monday, February 21, 2005
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