33 inches of therapy

From Wheels on the bus

In 1990, teenaged girls from across the land began to fantasize about becoming prostitutes and then getting picked up by an absurdly sexy investment banker who would hire them for a week before falling passionately in love. If all went according to plan, our investment banker would be tall and slightly graying and would offer us a substantial sum of money to buy clothes on Rodeo Drive, where the salesladies, unable to see our hearts of gold, would refuse to serve us until a kindly hotel manager helped us out, introducing us to Bridget, who would invite us into her boutique and transform us with brown dresses covered in large white spots.

On The Road Via Green Tortoise

From Quirk (originally posted in two parts)

I decided it was time to leave New York City not long after I was attacked in the subway.

It was the late 1970s. I lived up on West 92nd Street in Manhattan, sharing an apartment with a tai chi teacher and friend and various other guys enthused about kung fu and karate and music and even God. (One young fellow from the South who stayed with us for a short time was a lay preacher struggling with what he really believed. I still remember his bearded face, his plain, articulate manner, and his genuineness.)