The Writer's Job Is To Get Naked.

I First Became Fascinated With The Sears Catalogue Because All The People In Its Pages Were Perfect. Nearly Everybody I Knew Had Something Missing, A Finger Cut Off, A Toe Split, An Ear Half-chewed Away, An Eye Clouded With Blindness From A Glancing Fence Staple. And If They Didn't Have Something Missing, They Were Carrying Scars From Barbed Wire, Or Knives, Or Fishhooks. But The People In The Catalogue Had No Such Hurts. They Were Not Only Whole, Had All Their Arms And Legs And Eyes On Their Unscarred Bodies, But They Were Also Beautiful.

Teaching, Real Teaching, Is - Or Ought To Be - A Messy Business.

Hell Came Right Along With God, Hand In Hand. The Stink Of Sulfur Swirled In The Air Of The Church, Fire Burned In The Aisles, And Brimstone Rained Out Of The Rafters. From The Evangelist's Oven Mouth Spewed Images Of A Place With Pitchforks, And Devils, And Lakes Of Fire That Burned Forever. God Had Fixed A Place Like That Because He Loved Us So Much.

Alcohol Whipped Me. Alcohol And I Had Many, Many Marvelous Times Together. We Laughed, We Talked, We Danced At The Party Together; Then One Day I Woke Up And The Band Had Gone Home And I Was Lying In The Broken Glass With A Shirt Full Of Puke And I Said, 'hey, Man, The Ball Game's Up'.

That Was The Only Decision There Was Once Upon A Time: What To Do With The Night.