Figuratively speaking, he hit the windshield.
Figuratively speaking, it took weeks to clean him off.

As he struggled up to greet me, even with his belt cinched so tightly it nearly cut him in half, his pants fell down. They had nothing to hold onto. To this day I remember the look on his face. Apologetic; afraid he’d embarrassed me.

As they walked through their friends’ beautiful house, he was saddened to glimpse the exhaustion in his wife’s eyes. For her it had been for poorer, not richer, and in sickness, not health.

What would you do if you could go back in time?
Probably die of embarrassment.

I am convinced, after years of study, that surfing is the truest model of incarnate existence. Not that I’ve ever surfed, or could explain the justifications for my statement. That would take years.

The next level in luxury, disease-free living.

He was someone who could at the same time be held in the highest esteem and lowest contempt.

The warm cascade of neurotransmitters he received from making false promises dwarfed the inevitable damage to its recipients. That may even have been some of its appeal.

I never saw him that he wasn’t wearing a shirt with large square fold marks, as if he’d just come out of a store, pulled it from its package, and put it on.

Strolling my country estate at dawn, assessing last night’s damage. In the driveway, the burnt out husk of my beloved white 1972 Dodge Polara, crushed as if dropped nose first from a crane; in the fountain, two white swans, dead from apparent malnutrition; on my hands, two blood-caked bandages. Opposable thumbs: the last thing separating man from animal.

Things to avoid: mirrors, clocks.

Whenever I see an advertisement cut to a soundtrack of “What a Wonderful World,” I always feel like I’m being sold a great big steaming pile of shit.

Years later he finally learned to appreciate the flavor of the shit sandwich.

If you make the mistake of asking him something, his eyes glaze over and his mouth twitches into the private smile of a predator who’s just found his victim. Well, he says, that’s an interesting question. In the endless pause that follows, you think, oh shit, we’re in for it now.

They weren’t real likes, they were pity likes.

In the days before Christmas we got tired of having no money. We sold everything at a loss, took the cash and headed south.