Sometimes I miss hitchhiking. When I was younger I spent a couple of years hitchhiking all over the U.S. and Mexico, and it was the most incredible time. Of course, I could have been murdered by a serial-killer, but at that point in my life I didn't much care. I had just dropped out of school and was living in a crappy apartment in Santa Fe, working as a janitor to support my writing habit. But after a friend of mine died senselessly I lost all sense of purpose. So I bought a used canvas dufflebag, stuffed it with a blanket and a change of clothes, gave the rest of my belongings away (including my portable typewriter), and hit the road. I figured I had nothing to lose--the only other alternative was suicide.