i bought a hunter s. thompson novel on wednesday night. i don't know if he wrote more than one fiction book. it's called the rum diary and i really like it. i read his column on page 2 of espn.com every now and again when i remembered to. i knew who he was, i knew what he wrote and what he did, but i didn't really know anything about him until after he died.

i found a passage in the rum diary that i really like. it's one of those passages that i'd want to paint on a wall or something, just to remind myself of the concept of crazy writing abilities.

"he turned his old living room into a small piano bar, and got a pianist from miami, a thin, sad-faced man called nelson otto. the piano was midway between the cocktail lounge and the patio. it was an old baby-grand, painted light grey and covered with special shellac to keep the salt air from ruining the finish -- and seven nights a week, through all twelve months of the endless carribbean summer, nelson otto sat down at the keyboard to mingle his sweat with the weary chords of his music."

that blows my mind.