Hunter S. Thompson, 1937-2005

The unwitting Godfather of all snarky, political blogs has left the building (with his own shotgun, no less). Fortunately, he also left us with thoundsands of parting shots...

America... just a nation of two hundred million used car salesmen with all the money we need to buy guns and no qualms about killing anybody else in the world who tries to make us uncomfortable.

The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side.

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.

Every now and then when your life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive like a bastard from Hollywood to Las Vegas ... with the music at top volume and at least a pint of ether.

Call on God, but row away from the rocks.

Myths and legends die hard in America. We love them for the extra dimension they provide, the illusion of near-infinite possibility to erase the narrow confines of most men's reality. Weird heroes and mould-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of "the rat race" is not yet final.

R.I.P., sir. You too Sandra Dee and John Raitt. And, of course, George Michael...