We must ride this strange torpedo out until the end.

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!

Not a wasted word. This has been a main point to my literary thinking all my life.

The next MVP of the Super Bowl is just as likely to have been a full-time grocery store bagger last year as a Heisman Trophy winner.

Bush is a natural-born loser with a filthy-rich daddy who pimped his son out to rich oil-mongers. He hates music, football and sex, in no particular order, and he is no fun at all.

Wake up and ponder the future