Looks like everyone who ever wanted to be something of a mysterious intellectual is mourning the death of Hunter S. Thompson. The only time I ever got to watch Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas, I was reminded of all the potheads I have known and the not-so-fond times that I have been with them while they were tripping. Maybe, like so many other things in my life, I probably would end up liking his work eventually. But for now, his essay Security is the only thing to have affected me. And how have I been affected.