If there ever was an invention that describes my soul, it would be the vibrating toilet seat. My heart? That would be the parakeet diaper. My arms, corner-fire rifles, able to shoot bullets around the edges of that which is real and that which is Nixon. But my eyes, they are the best parts; they are squirting alarm clocks. I can cry and wake up the neighborhood, but laugh and as ever I laugh alone. Would that I could get Johnny Carson's sound man to sweeten my laugh track!

When I first joined the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Mushrooms, I had peanut butter in my mouth. I took every goal seriously; the abolition of color, the adamant refusal to breathe, the hope in a generic hereafter and/ or whatnot. I took enough psychedelics to brain a cow, and I'm none the wiser. There is a fine line between dying and diethylamide. LSD-25, they call it formally. I have one year for every two trips, and I was born in '69, exactly five months before man set boot on the moon, where they mentioned something about seeing God, but if that was It, there were too many masks-- every person older or happier became an icon, and I could not help but babble about towers and cities and things foreign to the soul, and everyone would turn around and say that there is no match for this kid... and I am afraid that they are right.

I get old, about twice a day. I get swallowed up by the shadow that I am standing in every time you pull away, my dear, and every time you fly that sober plane, I'm high. But console yourself...
I will never dream. I haven't had a good night's sleep since I lost my virginity, four years ago. Not an accomplishment, just one less blemish on my public face. I've lost the true meaning of the word home, and this act is the only thing in years, besides taking acid, that has brought it all back-- the utter child in me, the newness, the profundity so deep my ankles ache with the weight. It was a defining moment, to realize that this was what it all came down to, turning to the pleasure so sweet and inside-out that it could never help but be perfect, even in its worst moments.

There were other turn-of-the-century dreams that I must share with you. They'll help you understand why all the songs have cars in them, why all the songs are on the radio, which is in the car of every fool in this universe. But remember, remember what has gone forgotten; remember names like the Pneumobile, the Emancipator, the Godspeed, the Old Reliable. Remember Tucker. But I am tired now; tired of talking about driving, itching to get behind the wheel and make the movie screen turn for myself, in my own manufactured direction.