Norway's bravest son. I can still see his headless body stalking through the night, in the muzzle flash of Roland's Thompson gun.

I once hung my head of purple hair out of the driver's side window of my beat up Jeep, and sang that at the top of my lungs, as I drove full out down the West Side Highway, terrorizing a car full of bridge and tunnelers to my left.

Warren would have been proud.

Warren Zevon, R.I.P.

a moment of silence, and then....turn it up to 11.