I was 22 when JFK was murdered, and I will never recover from it... Never.

I harbor a secret urge to whack a salesman in the face, crack his teeth and put red bumps around his eyes.

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!

...the crazy never die.

My greatest talent is in my ability to choose good friends. It's about as important as things get.

I am surprised and embarrassed to be a part of the first American generation to leave the country in far worse shape than it was when we first came into it.

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!