They were snobs or idiots or both...yet she was inexplicably crushed by their coldness.

She was clean": no piercings, tattoos, or scarifications. All the kids were now. And who could blame them, Alex thought, after watching three generations of flaccid tattoos droop like moth-eaten upholstery over poorly stuffed biceps and saggy asses?

Oh we'll know each other forever, Bix says. The days of losing touch are almost gone.

Redemption, transformation--God how she wanted these things. Every day, every minute. Didn't everyone?

I guess it's always romantic when two people fall in love.... Even if it turns out not to be real.

I hope to keep writing journalism as long as I write fiction; it's afforded me such amazing adventures and opportunities. It does take a lot of time, so it's hard to do both at once, but I try to do a big journalism piece every couple of years, and I'll hopefully continue with that.

Nineteen eighty is almost here, thank God. the hippies are getting old, they blew their brains on acid and now they're begging on street corners all over San Francisco. Their hair is tangled and their bare feet are thick and gray as shoes. We're sick of them.