Having a job is like having a lobotomy.

I love LA! The freeways, the cars, the smog, the glitter, the glitz, the sleaze, the prostitutes, the poison that falls from the sky.

Compassion goes out looking for suffering, scouring the earth for poverty and misery and pain, the same way the cops look for criminals.

Nowhere do you see a real, integrated, full-blooded man or woman who shines like a beacon in this sea of disjointedness.

Dear God, please make me believe that life has some sort of meaning and purpose.

Los Angeles is a mother that devours her children.

Los Angeles, this anthill, this slag heap, the city where I suffered and grappled with life and was defeated, and where I finally triumphed.

Now we’re riding a runaway train that’s carrying us all away to that final night where nothing is remembered and nothing matters.

And when Prohibition came along, Dr. Sharpe’s Shakti Tonic took off like a rocket, mostly due to its hefty eighteen percent alcohol content.