I came to, looking as together as one of Phil Spector’s hairdos. I felt like Clark Kent after a hard night on the kryptonite. I opened one eye. The morning sunlight slatted its way through the wooden shutters. The bed was strewn with naked bodies. A one-hundred-dollar bill was fluttering in the breeze, poised as it was, between a groupie’s buttocks. Even more concerning, a five-hundred-dollar bill was fluttering between mine.

…they looked about as careful and as discreet as a troupe of Visigoths at an afternoon tea party.

The only thing the Marquis does in moderation is moderation

I have decided, before the embers of my life dwindle anymore, to embark on a grand tour. With rumblings of revolution and troubled times to come, the old ways are passing on. I have had enough of sitting here twiddling with a quill writing my wretched memoirs. Twelve volumes. Mostly lies but amusing, nevertheless. It is time to return to life.

I had met Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dalí i Domènech, Marquis of Dalí de Púbol, previously in Spain in the company of his pet anteater and a glamorous model called Mercedes Benz.

Now you might remember the professor on the television show Gilligan’s Island. A really smart guy. He powered the island, developed a coconut clock, installed a plumbing and water system. He just never got around to fixing the boat. Brian was effective in just the same way.

Pomposity plans your eviction just as your derriere is settling on to the finest of cushions.

The story of how I threw up over John Lennon’s Beatle boots is worth telling.