"Every now and then when your life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only real cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive like a bastard from Hollywood to Las Vegas. To relax, as it were, in the womb of the desert sun. Just roll the roof back and screw it on, grease the face with white tanning butter and move out with the music at top volume, and at least a pint of ether."
Alas, dear HST, you left too soon. But thanks for the last words; otherwise, I wouldn't have known what to name this blog.
Too, thanks for the brief and turbulent encounter on U.S. 65 near Urbana. Perhaps I'll tell the tale here, one day.
Magazine Boy will never forget.