I ran across this piece by Mark Morford and couldn't help thinking about Hunter Thompson (1970s Hunter Thompson, not the unfunny, uninsightful writer he became). It was a fun read despite the sense that he is trying too hard. An excerpt:
Rove works the room, shakes hands, squeezing a little too hard to remind everyone who "the architect" really is. Everyone understands, even as they furtively wipe their hands on their pants after he touches them. Rove grabs fistfuls of baby shrimp and shoves them into his mouth when he thinks no one's looking, swallows without chewing. He smells like baby aspirin and old bacon.