I'd like to meet:
Merv Griffin, Don Rickles, Cloris Leachman, Bert Convy, Wink Martindale and the tenants of every Hollywood Square; those horrible hucksters, sickening adults/hyenas who seem to have had their proteges on every Main Street, the men with perms, tight gray curls erupting over the alcoholic typography of their oiled faces, a legion of salesmen ruined by bad translations of an already disasterous California ideal, their eyes stinking like boiled cocktail onions as they emerged from "sleek" 1980 Thunderbirds, all marinated teeth and snowplow moustaches, fresh from invigorating divorces, dragging tawny S-shaped girlfriends by the wrist to wooden gargoyle waterbeds where stero systems built into the headboards play "Eye in the Sky" by the Alan Parsons Project endlessly through the night./