I Didn't Know A Van

Yes, Max, You Are Going To Die. Just Like Everybody Else. Thank You, Confucious.

What Are We But Our Stories?

I Have A Number Of Writers I Work With Regularly. I Write An Outline For A Book. The Outlines Are Very Specific About What Each Scene Is Supposed To Accomplish.

Well, It's Like I Have A Gps Inside Me," I Told Them. "one Of The Talking Ones. I Tell It Where I Want To Go, And It Tells Me, Go Twenty Miles, Turn Left, Take Exit Ninety-fourm And So One. It Can Be Pretty Bossy, Frankly. Their Eyes Widened. "really?" Said One. No You Idiot," I Said In Disgust. "i Don't Know How It Works. I Just Know It Has An Unfailing Ability To Point Me In The Opposite Direction Of A Bunch Of Boneheads.

When Did They Start Coming After You?” “was It—was It After The Oil- Slick Hummer Crash?” The Gasman Asked Iggy Tentatively. My Eyes Widened. Oil-slick Hummer Crash? Iggy Rubbed His Chin, Thinking. “or Maybe It Was More---after The Bomb,” The Gasman Said In A Low Voice, Looking Down. “i Think It Was The Bomb,” Iggy Agreed. “that Definitely Seemed To Tick Them Off.” “bomb?” I Asked Incredulously.