The Sixties were an era of extreme reality. I miss the smell of tear gas. I miss the fear of getting beaten.

The Sixties were an era of extreme reality. I miss the smell of tear gas. I miss the fear of getting beaten.

The car suddenly veered off the road and we came to a sliding halt in the gravel. I was hurled against the dashboard. My attorney was slumped over the wheel. “What’s wrong?” I yelled. “We can’t stop here. This is bat country!

Familiarity seems to breed contempt

Smart people understand that there is no such thing as paranoia. It is just another mask for ignorance.

But after a while you learn to cope with things like seeing your dead grandmother crawling up your leg with a knife in her teeth. Most acid fanciers can handle this sort of thing.

One thing I have learned in my painful career as a gambler is that bragging when you get lucky and win a few games will plunge you into gloom and unacceptable beatings very soon. It happens every time.