It was a cheesy cheeseball, covered with Cheez Whiz and served on a bed of Cheez-Its. With a side of queso.

...my little blurb wasn't going to win me any speaker-of-the-year awards, but at least I hadn't tripped and fallen off the stage, crushing and killing three elderly jazz fans.

Hi, Tad!' she said. 'Hi, Jeff! Hey, I'm not interrupting anything, am I?' 'Uh, no,' I said. 'We were just...I mean, Tad was...uh, nope.' 'So what were you guys talking about?' 'Well,' I said, 'it's very complicated. We were discussing...umm...hats. You know, hats. Like, the head kind.' 'There's another kind?' Lindsey asked. 'Hey, Jeff?' Tad said. 'If your mom needs any evidence to prove that you're retarded, let me know. I'd be glad to record you talking to Lindsey. I'm pretty sure that would do the trick.

Finally the kitchen clock said 5:17. It was time to roll out. I shouted for my mom, woke Jeffrey up, ran upstairs, changed into my concert clothes, put on my shoes, and was standing by the door to the garage by 5:19—chanting “Let’s go! Come on!” (Feel free to try that at home, by the way; moms love it!)

It was a cheesy cheeseball, covered with Cheez Whiz and served on a bed of Cheez-Its. With a side of queso.

The only time I can ever remember Steven crying over any of it was after my treatment, when I tried to use my foot on his bass drum pedal, and we realized I could never play a drum set.

Note to self: It's hard to attain a state of no-mind when you're incredibly pumped up on tea and sugar and have to urinate every three and a half minutes.