NYC, 1964. I'm about to turn 17 and I'm making my living in basket houses--sing songs and pass the hat. Whatcha get is whatcha live on. I find a room above a fresh food import place on 14th Street and 8th Avenue. I have $32 so I rent the room for four weeks. (Rent was $8 a week, no lease.)

I move in with my guitar, two extra pairs of socks, extra shirt and extra 'pair' of undershorts. I call them extras because they were the ones I wasn't wearing. Whew. Off the streets and into my own place. Then I notice these bugs all over everywhere. Hundreds--no--thousands of the damned things. Yep, I'm in the cockroach hotel. Jaysus.

I lived there for about four months, and despite having a high regard for roaches and their adaptability to life's vicissitudes, I hate the bloody things to this day. There are few creatures on this planet I'd like to see completely exterminated; however, they are one of the two.

But, the rent was cheap.