I remember well living in a shithole apartment with lead paint, sharing it with an unemployable indy punk, a heroin addict, and a guy who was never there and ended being a NASA intern, and we had $200 a month rent and still hardly ever made it, and people played dice and pissed in the alley beside our house and my mom came to visit and waited on our porch and I was talking to her when I got home and a dude runs by and another dude walks down the street with a gun in hand yelling, "YEAH! I GOT SOMETHIN' FOR YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!" and I said, "Let's go inside, mom," and she looked more worried than I've ever seen her worried. That summer, The Chronic was everywhere - in the trunks of Jeeps with gold-toothed Randolph neighborhood thugs driving, in the CD changers of ironically tattooed college dropout drunkards, and in my lame-ass boombox tape deck because the girl I had been living with and loving with, that shit didn't work out, and she owned the stereo. I still went by her house to make long distance calls, because we didn't have a phone, and also to tag her ass, because we didn't have pussy at our house either. That's what happens when you live with heroin addicts, unemployable indy punks, and insane NASA intern types in a bad neighborhood.
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