1975 was about the nadir of my life. I lost my job as a truck driver in Detroit; unemployment was 20%.

I lived in a basement apartment with my girlfriend Diane, who was married but left her husband to be with me. We argued a lot and after she tried to run me over with her Mercury, I moved out and rented a room from a Detroit fireman. Then in October, a former girlfriend, Marilyn, called me and reported that she'd become paraplegic after a drunken car crash, and now it was my duty to care for her for the remainder of our days.

My friends all said yes, I should return to Marilyn, because even though she'd blown me off to be with her rich surgeon boyfriend, that guy was now out of the picture.

I was down to the nubs. The entirety of my posssessions was a duffle bag of clothes and a manual typewriter.

Even though the World Series was about to start, I bought a bus ticket to Santa Barbara and spent eight days crossing the country, missing the classic clash between the Boston Red Sox and the Cincinnati Reds, called the best world series of all time by some.

I arrived at my brother's place in Santa Barbara at the end of October, and got a job at his place of employment (Santa Barbara Magazine) on his say-so a couple of weeks later. The pay was about fifty cents an hour.

I chain-smoked and pondered my future.

November 15: my 29th birthday (Photo by Mary Jane)

But from there I rose Phoenix-like.