I've gone more than 40 years without having to use an alarm clock or go to an office. At this point, I don't think I'd be capable of not writing. I don't think I could deprive myself of that sky. It would be like putting an animal in a cage.

For years, I never really pondered how I came to be a writer from where I came from.

The older you get, the more you live with ghosts.

I don't have a college degree.

The appeal for drugs has dwindled. Except for actual opium. If I could get real opium, I'd stir it in my hot coffee every morning. People keep giving me marijuana. I've got pouches in a drawer. I've been meaning to smoke a joint and watch Abbott and Costello Go to Mars. I planned to do this three months ago and I still haven't gotten around to it.

Joe Bonomo has written a fine book: a book not only about a band or times passed, but also about the rare virtue of endurance.

I think Elvis Presley will never be solved