It’s a novel; it’s a travel book; it’s science fiction; it’s poetry; it’s stream of consciousness; it’s philosophy; it’s art; it’s automatic writing; it’s typing; it’s word processing; it’s desperation, love, inspiration, and sex, congealed into phonetic symbols. If someone accepts a dollar bill folded, bent, or mutilated, then it’s still good until someone blows the whistle. If those in position to pontificate judge these efforts to be worthy, then the work is good until the door slams on my fragile dreams. Free enterprise is a confidence game. You whip out your dick and you take your chances. How do I know what will come out of my mouth until I put my foot in it? Who am I to ask you to waste your time digesting these same words that I just let out on to paper? I’m just a smarter-than-average guy with a lust for language, same birthday as Bob Dylan (but not the same year) and the guy in the T-Mobile office in San Diego (but still not the same year), possessed of wanderlove and dreams that don’t stop, speaker of English, Thai, Spanish, and smatterings of a half-dozen other languages. What else? I have a degree in philosophy, I worked first as a carpenter then businessman and now hopefully writer, I’ve traveled in forty-eight countries, and I live in Thailand up close to the Golden Triangle. I’m self-taught in anthropology, history, and linguistics. I have spermicidal tendencies but still am very interested in reproduction of the species. Do I get the job?