From an old black book. The writer DIRT (R.I.P.) actually stole this book from a storage area at my then girlfriend's apartment. I met him right after that, which put him in a fucked up situation. He eventually gave the book back, but, can you imagine? Steal some shit from some writer you don't know and then within a week or two you meet the guy and he's hanging out down the hall five times a week (this was at the graffiti house, "The Dig") What a weird thing that was for me. I can't imagine what must have been going through DIRT's mind.
