I was a security guard in a private school in London, and to get the parents to feel they were helping, they each had to stand around with me when the kids came in the morning and when they left. So one morning I'm standing there with this rich mother and she's being friendly, asking for my name. I told her my name, and she said, "Oh, that’s my gardener's name!"

And it's been, what, ten years since then, and I still regret not saying anything back. I should have asked for her name and then say, "Oh, that's my hooker's name!" Or something like that. So stuff like that kills me, but it's not a big deal, I suppose.

Kids in my neighborhood are always looking for a fight. I assume it's because they want to visit their daddies in jail but can't afford the bus ticket. I was walking to the car, it was a couple of years ago, and this kid calls me a Fudge Packer. And I wanted to tell him that he was right because I worked in a book store, and I hated it, and it was, indeed, a dead end job, much like packing fudge in a factory is, I could only assume. But I didn't say anything, because Honey told me to get into the car.

When I was working in the book store, this woman started talking to me. She had a little beard. And she told me she worked as a voice-over artist. And I really wish I said, "You sure have the face for it."