Forgive my son, he was always a little Coke-swilling, Nike-wearing little shit.

We did not meet at Applestock, my wife and I, despite my son's fondest fantasies. We met smoking Monte Cristo's (and some other herbals) in Havana and waiting for Fidel's ship to come in, baby. Strapped on a gun, fuck what a feeling. Grew a beard. (Didn't wear shoes, Trey.) The revolution was the ultimate trip, it was super-sized if not televised. Dig? First there were people in those big beautiful buildings, and then they were _gone_, and who knew where they went? I think I camped out in the Minister of Information's former office, which smelled of roast lamb. I declared myself the Minister of Information before Fidel showed up, at which point I was politely asked to vacate the premises and help collect up garbage. It was such beautiful garbage, man; it was OURS.