214. In college, a friend told me he overheard someone say, “I don’t like Ziegler’s type but I like Ziegler.”
215. An essay on the electronic media: You can't tell the time by looking at the newspaper.
216. Here’s a story I used to tell a lot: “In the late 1960s, I was eating lunch in Washington Square Park when I saw a bum asleep under a tree. I quietly placed half of my corned beef sandwich next to him, then went back to my bench, hoping he would wake up before I had to leave. He stirred, unwrapped the sandwich, peeked under the bread, scowled, and pulled out a jar of mustard from his coat pocket.” Everyone enjoyed the story, though no one believed it is true. It is—as far as I know.
217. Why we need gun control: When I was eight, I got into a fight I was bound to lose. Impulsively I took the wad of bubblegum out of my mouth and rubbed it in the kid’s hair. He ran home crying. Later, his mother came to our house, furious, and told my parents her son now has a bald spot where she had to cut away.
218. The guy across from me on the Long Island Railroad can barely keep his eyes open. The cuffs of his pants are fringing, his shoes have been mended with black tape, and he seems long past drunk. The conductor approaches, “All tickets, please!” The man fumbles through his pockets, then shrugs. “You don’t have a ticket, do you?” the conductor says, and the man shakes his head. The conductor pulls a schedule out of his pocket, punches a few holes in it, and places it in the slot on the man’s seat. He continues on his rounds.
219. Miles Davis: “I never think about not being able to do anything. I just pick up my horn and play the hell out of it.”
220. The summer of 69 I came across vending machine that sold water for 25 cents a gallon. I took a picture of it to prove that such a thing existed.
221. William G. Hutherton on Chamfort: “A few months’ nomad existence in Normandy with two other scapegraces followed, and then the prodigal returned, was forgiven and became an abbé.”
222. My gun is made of glass; I will only be able to use it once. My knife is rubber; it will work until I try to use it. My bomb has a short fuse I can’t outrun. My hypodermic needle is loaded with placebo, which I can only use as a truth serum on those who trust me. I am a one-man army, armed to the teeth. But I am one nervous wreck, so don’t mess with me.
223. I stand in front of my own door and push the bell repeatedly with one hand while banging with the other. Laughing as I push faster and bang harder. “Open up!” I yell. “Open up, damn it! I know you’re out here!”