Los Angeles had no culture of its own, just a large collection of misreadings of the artistic histories of other, proper cities.

By four o'clock, I've discounted suicide in favor of killing everyone else in the entire world instead.

Be authentic to your dreams. Be authentic to your own idea about yourself. Grind away at your own minds and bodies until you become your own invention. Be Mad Scientists.

Writing is basically a job for people who like punching themselves in the face, I’m pretty sure.

Jim Rosato was recently married, to a Greek nurse. Rosato was half Irish and half Italian, and there was a pool on at the 1st as to which of the two would arrive at work wearing the other's skin as a hat within the year.

He was in blue jeans and a work shirt, which is another weird quirk of Rich Old Men. Just one of the guys here. Blue jeans and a work shirt, salt of the earth, working man like yourself. Like they're somehow uncomfortable about being rich enough to sleep in a bed made of vaginas being pulled around the town at night by a fleet of gold-covered midgets.

Don't live with writers. Writers are bastards.