Garrett:  “Honestly?  I was totally shocked when she went for it.  I mean, promising some bar groupie you’ll pull out in time is one thing.  But Kristy freaking McNichol?  Man.  You’d think somebody like that would know better…”*

Fonda:  “Back in like, ‘74, I want to say, I kept this cute little Pomeranian stray I found one night eating out of the garbage can at Vilmos Zsigmond’s place up at Big Sur.  Named the thing Lucy, even though it was a male dog—but given the cultural milieu, in which even the most rigorously determined of ontological categories were being challenged and deconstructed by a young, sexy, vibrant academic

Garrett:  “I once dated this totally hot Chinese waitress from the Wok and Roll on Santa Monica and Vine—a nice girl, fantastic in the sack, but dumber than a box of JiaoZi, y’know? “Anyway, after a couple of weeks I decide it’s time to move on, so I invite her over to the house to break it off.  But instead of being cool about it and just enjoying the great

Elizabeth:  “We’re still like, really good friends.”* update:  “And speaking of good friends, my husband used to call my breasts ‘Hall and Oates.’ Under the circumstances, though, I’m thinking it’s time they underwent a rebranding…”* **** (h/t Malice)

Garrett:  “Well, speaking off the record here, you can’t just pull back and expect that to do any good.  You really do have to pull all the way out.  Trust me on this.  Or else you wind up spending an afternoon you could be windsurfing in some stupid clinic in the Valley, signing autographs for a bunch of knocked-up Brooks College chicks while Joyce Hyser is in the back getting

Elizabeth:  “Well, I don’t know much about that.  But I can tell you that a good Persian rug is like, really, really expensive.”* **** update:  “Sometimes? I like to lie naked on a rug and just think of myself lying naked on a rug.  Is that crazy…?”

Garrett:  “Well, I’m not sure I can agree with the Supreme Court on this one.  Because let me tell you something, brother:  I’ve met a few fifteen and sixteen year-old chicks in my time who were every bit as grown up as the twenty-two, twenty-three-year old Friday’s waitresses I seem to be banging in bunches these days.  More open to suggestion, too. “I mean, when’s the last time anybody talked

Fonda:  “From what I understand, the Saudis are still denying women the franchise, right?  Which, that would delegitimize the whole enterprise, I think, because women are the soul of any culture, y’know?—its conscience, its warm, pink yang. “On the other hand, those white robes Arab dudes wear?  Unbelievably comfortable. And roomy enough to accomodate a kneeling Tony Basil and Karen Black—with room leftover in the rear for Verna Bloom to

Garrett:  “Demoted, eh?  Must have been a fat chick.  Or else she had a face like an East German swimmer.  Because you spank hotties.  You make them beg like puppies.  But demote them…?  Naw.  That just ain’t how life works, brother.”*

Garrett:  “Dude, I was sleeping off a Mezcal bender.  Kerry didn’t win, I hope…