“She slit her wrists over the kitchen sink,” I said. I was shaking uncontrollably; it always happened when I talked about Marcus, which I hadn’t, to anyone, in a very long time. They found her the next morning. She’d deadbolted the door.
Misheard Lyrics: What They Said: “We’ll dance in the garden with torches in the rain” What We Thought They Said: “We’ll dance with the goblin of toe cheese in the rain”
As Will hurried through the dark, freezing streets, he thought about the plan: Get the hell out of this town, marry Winona Ryder, and live happily ever after. All he had to do was write a book…
“He refuses to rhyme his verse. It’s a big ‘fuck-you’ to the rest of these yokels. Jack Laroue’s famous,” she insisted. “He was a Rhodes scholar out of Yale.”
“What’s going on, Fejod?” He asked the top of Fejod’s head. It was a dumb question, but it would’ve been dumber if he’s asked someone named Bill the question.
Everett Stillwell and myself sit in his cabin. Outside, the night is hostile and frigid. We’re drinking cheap wine, watching TV, and talking about queers.
Here I have a novel featuring Sixties’ rebels wrapped in a wicked suspense narrative, and I am ITCHING to give the Furthur Festival folks a 40% off sticker.
KC: I’m the best there is, so everyone should come down and see me.
CB: (sarcastically) You’re not biased at all, are you?
KC: Yes, I am. I love women.
The world-renowned Dance Around the Issues. Very simple: Just a bold half-step forward followed by a sheepish retreat and a denial you ever made the first step.