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  • Eight years ago to this day, in the wee hours of a shitty, rainy morning like we had this morning, I was arriving home from a "rehearsal." At this gathering of musicians, I did a few bumps of blow, something I hadn't done for many years at that point. Drunk and coked up, I tried to make my way down the steep, painted wood steps into my giant basement room, AKA THE PAT CAVE. My wet, slippery boot caught the edge of the step, and I went down the last five steps on my ass with an explosive boom that both of my roommates said was similar to a slight earthquake. Later that day, lying in bed with what I was pretty sure was a cracked coccyx (or "tailbone" in meathead speak), I heard the news that Hunter S. Thompson had taken the big goodbye with one of his many pistols. I would have been more saddened had the cocaine and booze not worn off, but thankfully I had a stack of Fentanyl Duragesic patches that had been sitting in my fridge for a while out of my fear of taking so potent a drug; my fear of dying would be overcome by my intense pain, and I would shortly learn why people suck dick behind liquor store dumpsters to maintain a smack buzz (although I myself have stopped the monkey before he can get that far attached). I find it rather synergistic and strange that one of my heroes (the only one I’ve ever met) would die on the day I would injure myself in an act of hubris while doing several heavy drugs and drinking heavily. Really, I only needed to have blown something up, fired off one of my weapons into the air and made a room full of people both laugh and feel very uncomfortable with my presence that day to have been truly on the same page with one of the few gods of writing of the 20th Century. R.I.P. Hunter. You stomped the fucking terra firma.
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