If I’d been talking about black trash, I might be lynched. If I was talking about white trash, I’d merely be another torchbearer in an ongoing national lynching.

I certainly didn't emerge from prison regretting anything I ever wrote, nor did I feel remorse for my crime in the least.

I'm still an obsessive personality, and I still think I'm right, and I still believe my literary balls hang far lower than nearly anyone else's alive.

San Francisco, America's B-movie imitation of Paris. San Francisco, the city that ruined punk rock. San Francisco, the most intolerant place in the country.

When I write, I strain with every wizened fibre of my weathered frame to analyze every possible angle of any given subject.

I tend not to hang with 'the crowd' because I believe that at any given moment in history, the crowd is only standing somewhere because some lone, brave nutjob broke down the walls for them first.

I was exposed to violence while I was still in the womb - my father punched my mother in the stomach while she was pregnant with me.