Just a few months ago, this ranch was known as Camp Thunderbird, the headquarters of a paramilitary group that promised to use force to keep illegal immigrants from sneaking across the border with Mexico. Now, in a turnabout, the 70-acre property about two miles from the border is being given to two immigrants whom the group caught trying to enter the United States illegally.

I’m worried that if I start with the reflection that I’ll trap myself in the past when the past is past and it is the future that I need to get through. Why start with the nostalgia so soon after the events for which I will probably become too nostalgic?

Packed into the kilogram or so of neural wetware between the ears is everything we know: a compendium of useful and trivial facts about the world, the history of our lives, plus every skill we've ever learned, from riding a bike to persuading a loved one to take out the trash. Memories make each of us unique, and they give continuity to our lives.

My book's on eBay. eBay? Why? I don't get it. Is somebody going to become interested in my book (which would be almost like a miracle) and then think I know, I'll look for it on eBay. The world makes absolutely no sense to me.

I'll do funny, I thought. Nobody, apparently, wants to read my depressing poetry (my book's sold, like two copies; it's embarrassing), but everybody wants to laugh.

There's a trumpet solo, then a flute solo, then the pianist takes a turn, and the car is going faster and faster.

Bloomberg's on a diet. Yes to broccoli? No to hamburgers? He lives in New York City and he's off Chinese food? Mike, bro, you're mayor; eat whatever the hell you like.

I wrote Into America as an assignment for David Wagoner's grad workshop at UW. The assignment was to write a poem where every line ended with an "r" sound. Going in, I didn't think that the assignment would produce a poem that might end up in my book manuscript, but the only major change I ever made to the poem was to break the lines so that every other line ended with an "r" sound.

Okay, it's been a while. Here's the truth: I ran out of funny stories, and I don't want to be the cause of nation-wide depression and/or suicides. So, if you're really depressed, don't start to read this story because it's gonna get bleak as hell and I can't be there to talk you down from the overpass. If you're just having a bad day, you'll probably be all right. If you've got the blues, that's going to have to be a judgment call on your part. Just how blue are you?

And, I’m not gonna lie, I knew that I was in the middle of producing something really beautiful pretty much as soon as I began the cussathon. I was locked in, feeling the flow, and I wasn’t going to stop until the job was done. It went for almost two minutes, and it was probably the best writing that I have ever done, and, sadly, it’s lost to history.