"Some of them walked proudly into adulthood - behind them tableaux of Greek societies and proud pictures in yearbooks and a zeal for being the head boys and girls in real life as well, which was after all another class in high school, only making friends was tougher. Others walked slowly but steadily, longing for the ties of marriage to hold them in place, entrusting their pride in mortgages and babysitters and bonuses at work, and wearing t-shirts every Saturday to feel young when they were pitching to their kids at the neighborhood diamond. High school gossip gave way to the Residents Welfare Association and it was the 90s over again.

Then came the misfits, prodded like cattle into responsibility they didn't quite feel the need for, potheads and surfers and people who dressed in grunge. They found it hard of course, but eventually they found their way. Some gave up the leaf for Jesus, some gave it up for the bottle, some never gave the bottle up at all, and some were given up by the church. These are the ones we don't talk about; they are the used needles of the great American heroin rush, ready for the next batch of incinerators.

And then I came in. More like woke up in this wasteland, actually, with no memory of the past or the customs of this strange land. And I did all I could. I watched these people and I wrote. That's all I can do, I'm so far removed from these people that I'm a spectator, and I can report on the game."