One more post before bed

I bought a nice amount of music tonight as my internet connection was running especially well and I wanted to take advantage of it.

So I bought my favorite album that I did not own yet: Collective Soul's 1995 Self-titled album. It's one of those rare albums that I can listen to, beginning to end, and enjoy every single song. It only cost me $10, better than any store, but I'm going to stop downloading them for a while now. I've got all the music I really need to keep happy for the time being.

I read about 1-2 dozen columns about Hunter S. Thompson's suicide today, and some things seemed to stick out of each of them:

1. He once said "I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone, but they always worked for me," and just about everyone quoted him on that line.

2. No one in the writing community was surprised his life ended violently or at his own hand. In fact, m ny were surprised he lasted this long.

3. Journalists hated him out of sheer envy and loved him dearly because he was doing what they really, really wanted him to do. He cast all objectivity aside and went savagely after his targets and relished in their destruction on paper.

4. People miss him already because he'd already died inside long, long ago.

There's something else that develops, in my view, at least. Thompson was devoured alive by his demons; in his case, "drugs, alcohol, violence (and) insanity." His pain and suffering snuffed out the brief candle of his life, and created works that will keep alive the flame of his memory for ages.

And while the whole world savors the product of what killed Hunter S. Thompson, those who knew and loved the person take little pleasure or comfort at all.

That's the price you pay.

For what?

Let's just say... Greatness.