Famed Science Fiction author Ray Bradbury passed away this week. He was 91, which is a pretty long life, and he wrote many books, movies, short stories, and television episodes, which is a pretty great career.
He scared the crap out of me with his "Playground" episode of "The Ray Bradbury Theater," and I was a big fan of the Disney film adaptation of "Something Wicked This Way Comes." I own several of his books, and I really enjoyed reading "Fahrenheit 451," when I finally got around to it (as a thirty-something).
I never met Mr. Bradbury, though I had a couple of chances when I lived in L.A.. I was even going to a signing and address he did on the 50th anniversary of his book "Fahrenheit 451," but something happened and I ended up oversleeping. I was pretty bummed about it at the time, and now, I'll never get to meet the man.
Guess I'll stop there (I wrote all this on the day he died, and meant to go back in and flesh it out later, but I never did. Maybe this whole post has been more about regret than Ray Bradbury. Sorry).
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