"People come to my door—too many of them really—and knock to tell me Notes of a Dirty Old Man turns them on. A bum off the road brings in a gypsy and his wife and we talk. . . drink half the night. A long distance operator from Newburgh, N.Y. sends me money. She wants me to give up drinking beer and to eat well. I hear from a madman who calls himself "King Arthur" and lives on Vine Street in Hollywood and wants to help me write my column. A doctor comes to my door: "I read your column and think I can help you. I used to be a psychiatrist." I send him away. . ."