On this lonely night in the Bunker, I can't help but think about the good old friend who has passed away. To call it suicide after all these years only makes the man lesser than the creation of his great works. Sure, he blew his head off with a Magnum, but he left the work of a person that battled his demons to the fullest, even the fullest extent of the law.

I miss the good Doctor. I do. Not because I knew him personally, or rode with him during my Hells Angels days (yeah right), but because he was the sole inspiration for me becoming a journalist.

Sure, there were other writers who have influenced me into becoming a slave of the printed word, but Thompson sort of made it happen for me. It was why I bought a typewriter. Then the second one after the first one took a hard fall from my desk after a heavy bout with Wild Turkey.

When he was alive, I always took comfort in the fact that the good Doctor was still out there, living somewhere in his fortified compound, shooting his guns off at everything that moved, even the peacocks.

They all got screwy, he said. Those peacocks. And when they finally shot him up into the stratosphere, a tear fell down my cheek. Not because the man killed himself, but because I lost a hero that I've come to love.

And now, five years later, I can't believe that the world has forgotten what kind of a man we have lost. In his memory, I hope that people pick up those wonderful works and read them out loud, because that's the way he liked it. Out loud. He liked the sound of his own words.