I Love Reality Shows. The Folks Who

I Think In The Old Days, The Nexus Of Weirdness Ran Through Southern California, And To A Degree New York City. I Think It's Changed So That Every Bizarre Story In The Country Now Has A Florida Connection. I Don't Know Why, Except It Must Be Some Inversion Of Magnetic Poles Or Something.

You Can Do The Best Research And Be Making The Strongest Intellectual Argument, But If Readers Don't Get Past The Third Paragraph You've Wasted Your Energy And Valuable Ink.

My Books Are Shelved In Different Places, Depending On The Bookstore. Sometimes They Can Be Found In The Mystery Section, Sometimes In The Humor Department, And Occasionally Even In The Literature Aisle, Which Is Somewhat Astounding.

That Dreadful Alligator Attack In Orlando Would Never Have Happened If Disney Had Put Up Real Warning Signs, Like Other Florida Resorts Do. But Wild Alligators Don't Fit The Disney Image, So They Were No Proper Warnings, And A Child Died For No Reason.

I Never Laugh Or Smile When I Am Writing. When I Come Home For Lunch After Writing All Morning, My Wife Says I Look Like I Just Came Home From A Funeral. This Is Not Bragging. This Is An Illness.