It's four o'clock in the morning on a fucking Saturday, and I can't fucking sleep. My wife woke me up, and then my dog started going crazy downstairs--turns out she had to pee--so, I let her out, and an hour later, there I was, still rolling around in bed, letting my thoughts chase each other through the empty spaces of my mind. The NAACP had it right: "The mind is a terrible thing." So after an hour or so, I decided I ought to get up and set pen to paper--metaphorically speaking--and see if maybe that won't help the situation. So here's what I was thinking. I started thinking that I should get an ISBN number for Bronx Angel and put it up as like a $3 e-book on Amazon.com . Granted, that doesn't seem revolutionary or anything now, but at the time I wrote the book, there was no such thing as e-readers, and even afterwards when I really wanted to do digital distribution, the information infrastructure just wasn't built out yet. I mean, I al