I just got out of the hospital. I had some surgery. I had my mother removed from my back.

We were kids living in Hong Kong. How cool is that? Think about that for a second — everything you were playing with was made here, right here. They have it in stock.

Right after the earthquake, my mother calls me up. She goes, ‘Why don’t you move back home?’ I said, ‘Well, quite frankly, I’d rather die suddenly in an act of God than have you slowly peck me to death for 45 years.’

I don’t even know what they do, really. I think they make a lot of signs out of glitter and glue. There’s a lot of eyeliner and puffy paint. It’s like a slutty kindergarten.

I’ve been here eight months. I have been in two earthquakes, a race riot, floods and fires, and I left New York because I couldn’t handle my mother.

In the backwoods of Arkansas, Mr. Stewart’s wife went into labor in the middle of the night. The doctor was called in to assist in the delivery.To keep the nervous father-to-be busy, the doctor handed him a lantern and said, “Here, you hold this high so I can see what …

My mother came to the door; ‘Lance, get your ass in the house!’ I said, ‘Oh, Ma, I don’t feel like coming in the house!’ I didn’t even see where the skillet came from. I just staggered into the house. It wasn’t even the right house, it was just the …

I chose the tuba based on this theory: if you’re not cool enough to be a cheerleader, make sure you’re carrying something big enough to knock one on her ass.

I know tap water. I grew up drinking it, I did. My mother wouldn’t buy anything else. But she tried to make tap water sound delicious. She called it ‘city punch.’

I was adopted by Swedish people in Minnesota. I don’t know what your excuse for being all screwed up is, but that would be mine. My parents are Jan and Harold Anderson of Excelsior, Minnesota. It’s kind of like being raised by wolves, except for they’re white people.