The Internet, which at first seemed so fascinating, appears to be evolving into something worse than TV, but we'll see.

Mainly, I've been lying in bed and thinking about cigarettes. I quit a couple of months ago and I do feel better except that it's like I'm always waiting for some square-ass civilian to finish a boring dinner story so I can go outside and have a cigarette, and that square-ass civilian is now me.

There are countless definitions of the word “hipster”. In the title of this book, I'm using it to refer to artists whose origins lie outside the mainstream or creatively exploit material from the margin or who, merely because they live in a freaky space, have enough distance to see some truth.

Mike [McDonald], Boz [Scaggs] and I are pretty old now and so is most of our audience. Tonight, though, the crowd looked so geriatric I was tempted to start calling out bingo numbers.

Every night, there's always some chick out there who'll yell, “We love you, Michael,” or “I love you, Boz,” and once in a while I'll get one of those too. But usually, with me, because of the “musicians' musician” thing and various other disqualifiers, it'll be some poor dude yelling “DONNNNALD” in a crazy, tortured voice.