Garibaldi, with his cowboy's poncho, red shirt and the black ostrich feathers in his wide hat […]

That was when Customs stopped every car at the S. D. border and checked for drugs, which reminds me of the first time I went to TJ—Tijuana, Mexico.

And yes, on one level I accept that I was being a total dick – an ugly combo of Art Student ennui and “I'm so Goth I shit bats' pseudo-teenage wangst.

“A mental carminative,” said Mr. Scogan reflectively. “That's what you need.”