In October of 1986, flat broke and at wit’s end, I went to work at the home of a quadriplegic named Wolf Aylward and his frequently tipsy sister, Joanna.  For six weeks, I had been crashing in the group house of my girlfriend in Brighton, England, scraping pences and pounds together when I could, often from “boot sales” where we sold junk from the trunk of her mother’s car in muddy weekend lots. I lived almost exclusively on Brussels sprouts […]