I started reading the newspaper in earnest in October, 1978 when Sid Vicious killed Nancy Spungen. I was eighteen years old and a freshman at NYU. I would buy The New York Post, The Daily News and The New York Times and go to the fourth floor of Bobst Library where you could smoke, spread out my papers, fire up a Marboro and read all about it. I wasn’t even a huge Sex Pistols fan. They were living in the Hotel Chelsea and I walked by whenever I could, though I was timid about going inside. When I finally did, I couldn’t believe the array of art all over the walls; it wasn’t squalid so much as beautifully run down. I know it’s ridiculous to romanticize them, and I wonder what it was about their sordid union that captured me so. Sometimes I ask my husband to kill me, choke me to death or take me out with the  cast iron pan he uses to make stews, but he says I’m not getting off that easy.