But only if you think it is.
Like many of my stories, this one has a front end (the present) and a back (the past.) I’ll start with the past.
I was living in a fifth floor walkup in the scary northern tip of Manhattan, trying to get someone—anyone!— to pay me to write music. For over a year I schlepped the long way downtown on the A Train to meet potential buyers, my demo tape clutched in…
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