Last night I came upon an old NYC address book, circa 1980 and ’81. It was a replacement of an even better address book that I left in a phone booth just outside El Coyote. Four or five hundred names, street addresses, phone numbers, occasional commentary…all quaintly written with a pen. (I’m figuring the four-decades-old info couldn’t possibly apply in 2020…right?) And I was leafing through and feeling the vigor of those days. Yes, I was a shameless, never-say-die hound. But mostly I was terrified about money and worried about whether my meager writing skills would cut the mustard from a commercial standpoint, and what kind of life I might have in five, ten or twenty years. So I was poor and insecure and hugely intimidated, but somehow I had to keep going, keep pushing. Hence the necessary moxie of youth.