“Woe, in other words, to those who roll around on their beds like they were really something, with mirrors on the ceiling, pink champagne on ice. These people think they are rock stars at the Grammies, gathered together with all the glitterati, all ready to receive the award for Best Album, and with a prepared acceptance speech that will display to the whole world the fact that they have the emotional needs of a sucking chest wound. California did not invent these hollow people; the prophet Amos had them nailed centuries ago” (A Serrated Edge, p. 48).
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