I fully realize that I present a number of identities in the course of producing this epic chronicle of early 21st century American life. There's the gaudy misanthrope, parading his depth of humiliation in front of you like a baboon's magenta asshole. There's the aspiring cartoonist, vainly trotting out his tired old jokes and chicken-scratching. There's the lazy, fat corporate sell-out, nursing at the milky teat of UGO until six every night. There's the happy, contented faker, going home to his beautiful girlfriend as you scrape at the fake walls of his misery. There's the collector and logger of ephemera, with file cabinets full of the insane rantings of street people and Pac-Man bubble gum cards. I have so many names, so many different faces leering at you, mocking you as you vainly attempt to know me. Which one is true? Which one is real? The real K. Thor Jensen is the fifth abortion my mother could not afford. The real K. Thor Jensen is a clot of tissue washing slowly down a drain. The real K. Thor Jensen was dead a long time ago.