I haven’t really had access to a computer for the last couple of days, so this is a little late, but fuck it. I really liked Ray Bradbury when I was a kid—he was the first of many writers I did my best to rip off when I wrote terrible stories in junior high. He was kind of the sci-fi Thomas Wolfe, an author he resurrected for his own story “Forever And The Earth”, and like Wolfe (who I also loved), he could get awfully purple, but was often a genius for ten or fifteen pages at a clip, a trait common to most of my early literary heroes—those guys (Wolfe, Kerouac, Hunter Thompson) were almost always better in their short game, but their short game was so goddamn good you could overlook most of their flaws. I haven’t read a word of Bradbury in years, and his death hasn’t really inspired me to dive back into him. I think I like him better back there in my childhood where he can remain an uncorrupted part of my dreaming past.