When I was thirteen, they showed a movie in Morning Assembly that screwed me up royally. We had moved to America less than a year before, and I was clueless about virtually everything that wasn't to be found on the shelves of my grandfather's library in Lahore. I knew about hunting ocelots, excising neck tumors, and the pretenders to the Romanian throne, but nothing about rock 'n' roll, heroin, or afro picks. This movie taught me about all three. It was a black and white 16 mm, faux...