Hunter S. Thompson is dead.

"The Edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over."

He is dead, the man who singlehandedly made me want to be a journalist. He shot himself today at the age of 67.

Hunter S. Thompson was not just another politicial journalist -- he was a man who pushed the envelope so far that we can't really remember what the envelope was before him. He was crass and almost always under the influence of alcohol or drugs, he loved guns, he wrote for many of the great publications of our time, published fiction and non-fiction, rode with the Hells Angels, and made me realize just how much of an impact one person can make on the journalism world.

I remember reading "The Rum Diary" while my sister was still dating John Lambert. The book blew my mind, I remember reading it three times before returning it to the library and buying my own copy -- I must have been 15 years old. His writing stirred up something inside of me, sort of lit a flame that has grown over the years. The fires were fanned by his other works that I then read: "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," "Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail," "Screwjack," and others displayed on my bookshelf.

Those who know me best know that I respect him as a journalist, a fiction writer, and an overall amazing and creative human being. I love the fact that he is from Louisville, my hometown, and that he was presented the key to the city while he was falling down drunk. I read his biography and smiled, feeling like I knew a little more about the man who change my life so much. Hell, I always said my first son would be named Hunter to honor the man who made me want to be a journalist.

So no mourning, just celebration -- he'd want people to dance on his grave and swill irish whiskey while remembering the good times. This one's for you, Hunter.