I have had girlfriends who tried to stab me. Or to set me on fire. Or to run me over with their car. Or to turn the gas stove on when I was sleeping. Or to kick me out of their car, hours away from civilization, and leave me. They weren’t Robert Johnson’s black blues women, poisoning him. Or Al Green’s soul women throwing hot greens on him. Or the insane. Or psychopaths. They were middle-class, educated, mostly white women. But it wasn’t just my girlfriends I drove crazy. It was also friends and people I didn’t know. I’ve had waiters, storeowners, and people working in stores go into fits and
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