n the fall of 1989 I walked in a used record store, laid my eyes on the guy behind the counter, and was hit by a thunderbolt. I had just met my soul man, Jim. Horrified at this cosmic interruption to my plans, I avoided the store for months. This wasn’t supposed to happen to Miss Free Spirit/Destined to be Alone/Happily Solitary/Contrary Me.

Skip to the summer of 1991. As I say in the story, “Winged Skeletons,” that’s when I lived with a murderer, an Albino Elvis impersonator, and a girl whose TV told her she was wicked. I was doing hardcore volunteer work in London and living in the facility with the people I was supposedly helping. Two lessons learned: Guinness really is good for you and social work ain’t my bag.

MORE >>