Saturday, February 26, 2005

Ave et vale 

Hunter S. Thompson died a dew days ago. It's always the immortals who die by suicide - if he really did half the drugs he claimed to do in his books, he should have been dead long ago. I always felt he was living on borrowed time. But he is one of my favorite writers, and I feel the world will be lesser without him.

I honored his passing with some friends. We went to a shooting range. I screwed up the courage to fire a .357 Magnum for the first time (I've always stayed with .38 Specials). Then we come home and toasted him with whiskey and rum.

Godspeed, Raoul Duke.

A tribute to the man. (link via Writer's Weekly)

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