If it's true that our species is alone in the universe, then I'd have to say the universe aimed rather low and settled for very little.

So I live in Los Angeles, and it's kind of a goofy place. They have an airport named after John Wayne. That ought to explain it. It has a charming kind of superstitious innocence.

If no one knows when a person is going to die, how can we say he died prematurely?

The Golden Gate Bridge should have a long bungee cord for people who aren't quite ready to commit suicide but want to get in a little practice.

In my neighborhood - West 121st Street in New York, "white Harlem" - there were only two drugs: smack and marijuana. By the time I was 13, some friends and I were using marijuana fairly regularly. The Reefer Madness myth was still very strong then, but I'd been into jazz and those lyrics included so many casual references to pot that it was completely demystified for me.

I kind of like it when a lot of people die, and on the other hand I always wonder how many unused frequent-flier miles they had.

The women who line up at a comic's dressing-room door are not what you'd call your class groupies.