William Saroyan. My ego in a dark alley. Phil Anselmo. (Or actually all three of us at a Winchell's on the corner of Kings Canyon and Palm (that's now a Walgreen's) in about 1985 on about a saturday morning after a soccer game at Ayer elementary and in the wonderful fog (and smog) of a Town Which Shall not be Named. My father about to buy our trio a maple bar and some orange juice in those weird plastic cups they came in, before he goes outside to contribute the smoke from a couple Camel straights to the atmosphere of memory.