August 1990: Suburbia is smothering me. Everything here is peaceful, serene, laminated. This is a place where people fuck quietly and have bland orgasms. Expansive green lawns, expensive white people. The mailman smiles and says hello, and I want to punch him. I don't know why.
It's 2:00 a.m. on a Thursday, and the entire place is closed down and folded up twice. I'm at the busiest intersection in town, and the only sound I hear is the perpetual click of the traffic light, switching for nobody. I could pull a rocking chair up and knit a sweater in the middle of the street, finish two sleeves before the first car hit me.
Rolling Stone, October 1991