For The Worst Things Of Our Lives,

I Stand, Walk Over To Him, Sit Down On His Bed, Put My Arms Around Him, Hug Him. He Hugs Me Back Strong And I Can Feel The Shame Coming Through His Arms. I Am A Criminal And He Is A Judge And I Am White And He Is Black, But At This Moment None Of That Matters. He Is A Man Who Needs A Friends And I Can Be His Friend.

There Are No Words And There Is No Singing, But The Music Has A Voice. It Is An Old Voice And A Deep Voice, Like The Stump Of A Sweet Cigar Or A Shoe With A Hole. It Is A Voice That Has Lived And Lives, With Sorrow And Shame, Ecstasy And Bliss, Joy And Pain, Redemption And Damnation. It Is A Voice With Love And Without Love. I Like The Voice, And Though I Can't Talk To It, I Like The Way It Talks To Me. It Says It Is All The Same, Young Man. Take It And Let It Be.

The Los Angeles Air Pollution Control Board Is Established In 1946 In An Effort To Discover The Cause Of The Brown Cloud Hanging Over The City And Decide How To Combat And Disperse It. In 1949, After Intense Lobbying From Both The Automobile And Oil Industries, And Against The Recommendations And Position Of The Los Angeles Air Pollution Control Board, The Public Rail System, Which At One Time Was The Largest In The World, And Still Serves A Majority Of The City's Population, Is Decommissioned And Torn Out. It Is Replaced By A Small Fleet Of Buses.

Some People Think Memoirs Should Be Held To A Perfect Journalistic Standard. Some People Don't. Obviously I Don't. My Goal Was Never To Create Or To Write A Perfect Journalistic Standard Of My Life. It Was Always To Be As Literature.

But All Good Things Come To An End, Often A Sad Angry Miserable End. The Cause For Such An End Can Usually Be Whittled Down To One Of Three Things: Money, Sickness, Love Lost.