Radiating Pantsuit Rap, Page 182.

An anarchist-surrealist tribe called the Metropolitan Indians staged mass shoplifting raids at luxury stores.

"How Do You Look So Young?"

She asked, behind the counter.

"Don't carry change," I said. "Alcohol instead of vitamins. Hate everyone but the world."

"Yes," she said, looking at the security camera.

. . .

Most People Were Lucky Growing Up, Reading Under The Covers With A Flashlight.

I had to read with an illuminated watch and a lighter.

Stories in three-second intervals and burned sheets.

Not Accepted At This Time, For Bizarrely Unexplainable Reasons That Defy Loads Of Sense And Rationality.

Muse
North American Tour

And finally, of course, is Muse. A career based on the idea that Radiohead's The Bends is best when shot through a glam cannon of opera falsettos, speed-prog riffs, masturbation aids, and knock-off fireworks, exploding in flailing, manic arena-rock like a kid scribbling in a coloring-book by a stopwatch. They're so embarrassingly over-the-top, they're fucking great -- at least on Origin Of Symmetry -- and I can't wait to see them for the first time, which'll be stupid mental.

Radiating Pantsuit Rap, Page 102.

You could imagine them watching the TV news with the sound off and a joint burning, marinating their minds in an ambient broth of catastrophe and conflict.

. . .

She Listened To Pre-Adolescent Imagery, Lyrics About Swimsuits And Dungeons & Dragons.

The end of pre-sex, that's what she liked, that helped her study the sub-atomic level.

Made more sense.

Radiating Pantsuit Rap, Page 92.

"I had really tight drainpipe jeans, stitched at the crotch with leather, and instead of a T-shirt I had a pair of women's tights, with the crotch ripped out for my neck to go through, pulled over my head and stretched really tight. And I'd got a cigarette and burned holes in it, so it was split everywhere. The finishing touch was the bracelets: two small, individual-portion baked-bean cans, cut out at both ends and then slipped over my wrists."

. . .

Radiating Pantsuit Rap, Page 77.

He'd first noticed Castle because of a prankster performance art stunt he'd pull during the fine-arts faculty shows. "I'd be this character Gorge who wore an enema bag badolero," says Castle. "My sidekick, Poot Man, dressed in black wrestling shorts and a black full-face mask like those Mexican wrestlers. He walked around like a monkey, knuckles trailing on the ground. The art was always bad, derivative stuff -- endless mindless landscapes and still lifes. I'd point at a picture and go, 'Poot Man!' and he'd rub his ass on the artwork, or hold his nose like it stunk. Every time Poot Man took a pretend shit on the art, I'd reward him with milk, which he'd suck through the enema tube."

. . .