Ah Matthew and Greg, so you see you will never be forgotten…
“Last ride with the Marlboro man and look at what we’ve got…”
“They only come out when the grounds are watered and it’s the one day when the sun lets you sweat, so you don’t need to…”
“The one day of the year they can wear their LL Bean prerequisites…”
“And their walking sticks like reused didgeridoos.” 
“Wake up and stop to smell the creosote, people!”
“It’s Greasewood Formula 16…”
“Right out of the bottle…”
“This is what the white man is so good at doing: extracting essences to sell…”
“Like (ta-da) this sign: ‘massacre grounds under restoration.’”
“Knockin’ em down just to set ‘em up. Brilliant!”
“Where are all these people from, anyway?”
“From the sound of their dialects, I’d say either Canada or Eastern Virginia—house pronounced as hoos…”
“They’re too low-falutin’ to be from Canada. I say they’re from Detroit.”
“Hard to say—low-brow is a funny thing—the kind of thinking that gets you booted out of a shot gun shack with your axe and your woman in Rivertucky, Mississippi is the same thing that gets you in the door at the sophisticated Chicago blues clubs.”
“I say just ignore the Reptilians. They can’t really be seen anyway.”
“Yah, but they follow me around like karmic twins, a regular Simon and Karbunckle, I mean, what the funk is that?”
“I dunno. Back in the day, every low-life psychotic tried to sell me on his invention—always showed up with tickets like my ass was a carnival ride—‘til I finally figured out that it was me who had created all these people in the first place
"—all it took was solving the math problem of how they really were a gift—it’s been years—now they’re all vapor.”
“So you now have a vapor barrier with a moisture density above 80 feet?”
“A vapor halo?”
“It was just a realignment on the grid.” 
“Yeah, but you’re always doing your own spot check on your environment. Everyone goes down Route 66 looking for God, but you just know there are some places where the air density changes and there's an evangelical flame up your ass and you need to drive all the way through and not stop at a tire station.”
“I think, my friend, you're really talking about yourself."
"Dude, we're all Mayans now. Have you seen the work they've been doing with 3rd generation longhorn clones? They’re like quantum foam, waves against the shore dissolving into oneness.”
"Are those Mayan prophecies about 2012 for real?"
“They're using the Mayan calendar like a prostitute who wears a honking bling cross closer to her tits than to God, giving new meaning to the term rack of lamb. Don't get me wrong, I like a good apocalypse theory as much as the next guy—don't we all secretly want that 'live fast, die young, leave a pretty corpse' car wreck thing for humankind? But the track record of prophecy is not good. I know past performance is no guarantee of future results, but I think the burden of proof should be on them, before the bullshitography hits the fan.”
“ASU is so out of control, all those nano-people out there—nanobots in vaccines, for Christsakes, talk about a coin proximity to the future—you don’t see frogs needing telescopic eyes to snag genetically improved flies, but your typical Olympic athlete? You think that they’ll be dope testing for bionics? No.
“Soon we’ll all be living off our own shit anyway. It’s gonna happen. Bioremediation—filtering through living machines.”
“Like garden toilets?”
“Like a compost heap. You aerate it with these charcoal filters on the side of your house, and bacteria eat everything but the methane, then plants eat the bacteria, and you eat the plants while the methane provides energy for your house—300 square feet of garden can feed a family of four—at 35 to 1 less energy at the gate than a centralized sewage treatment system—never mind the materials costs.”
“So you can 
actually live off your own shit?”
“Why hasn’t it happened yet?”
“Communities are popping up like mushrooms, but in terms of the CNN mass reality, it’s hard to get self-sustaining systems going when people still think they need jobs. And it’s hard to get politics out of it when the average person spends half a million in total for a 300 square foot apartment.”
“Salad waste structures, is what you’re saying?”
“Look at that gouache of lichen on the cliff, it looks like Siberian tundra.”
“And mottled moss…”
“Infragreen.”
“Here's some Arizona lettuce...”
“A cut above Grandma’s musty closet smell.”
“I miss my Grandma.”
“What’s say we go out with a massive steak—none of that synaptic syntax bifurcation parting of the ways—castration by cactus. We inhabit dual biomes—snow in the mountains, steak with mushrooms and baked potatoes with cream cheese in a high desert hot tub with a buzzing neon sign that says ‘we’re open.’ Isn’t that Arizona?”
“A special occasion—water.”
“The juices of the imagination.”
“That’s just the way it is now. Everything connects so much more liquidly—only the flow of chaos makes sense—it’s more organized and meaningful than the most carefully constructed pontiff...”
“It’s an open room where people combine energy…”
“The sounds come in and are collected.”
“I saw this sign the other day: ‘Superstition Plumbing.’ A Dutchman on a horse—saddlewear and a miner’s hat—but Dutch…”
“What made him Dutch? Did he have wooden shoes?”
“Yes, and he was clicking them like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz!”
“Maybe that’s why he buried the gold…”
“Kansas wanted the silver standard.”
“All I know is that dude got back to the mothership.”
“How do you know that?”
“That way of life is gone forever. Look at these people. There's no Arizona music in anybody's accent. They’re like tourists who can’t say what they did on their vacation because they never returned.”
“I’m thinking of living in an internet village in Guatemala.”
“I might just take up surfing and move to Oceanside.”
“I know I'm gonna miss this when I’m gone.”
