Holy Crap

Echoing Atrios, Hunter S. Thompson is dead.

I can't say I've always agreed with his assessment of my generation, but I'll miss his presence as a surviving member of the mid-twentieth-century drug culture and elder statesman of postmodern angst. The immediate question that comes to mind is the one of what part of my evening was it that life finally overwhelmed the poor bastard. So much is happening around us while we live through our own tiny dramas.