I shot through my twenties like a luminous thread through a dark needle, blazing toward my destination: Nowhere.

I have the ability, occasionally, of being able to step out and see who you think I could end up being. And I like to play with that.

Leia follows me like a vague smell.

I had to shoot shotguns for The Blues Brothers. But I don't like that stuff. Too butch for me.

My mother certainly loves caviar, but I think that's generational - they grew up thinking it's romantic or sophisticated or something.

I'd like to wear my old [cinnamon buns] hairstyle again - but with white hair. I think that would be funny.

From here on out, there's just reality. I think that's what maturity is: a stoic response to endless reality. But then, what do I know?