So, Hunter S. Thompson died yesterday, by his own hand. That means that two of my favirote sportswriters have died in the last year (the other was Ralph Wiley).

Oh, sure, Hunter did all sorts of other things, like inspire Transmet, write books that were a beacon to the counterculture, inspire a new form of journalism, and sure, he was the spiritual father of about a third of my rants... but I'll always remember him as the weird guy on ESPN Page 2 who would write about all sorts of cracked-out stuff.

Rest in piecepeace, old man. Or, since you didn't really surround yourself with much peace, maybe you should rest in chaos.

So I discovered the dangers of walking up and downhill for three hours in new shoes--thanks to the San Francisco Treasure Hunt, my calves are still aching. But demmit, it's fun running around, finding new murals I didn't notice before, and learning more interesting tidbits of San Francisco history.

But next year, I'm bringing better shoes...