Harrowing portraits of homeless kids and travelers in New York City.
I can't stop reading these tales of drugs and violence, ex-cons, drop outs, and the unwanted; people who are just socio-pathic enough to fall off the edge. Philosophically, they fall somewhere between Dharma Bums and Milch's romanticized notion of the artist as psychologically damaged outsider.
It's amazing how people can so thoroughly mess up their lives, rationalize those mistakes as virtues, and yet still be asking some of the right questions. Which is to say: what is the life that's worth living? What is freedom? What is society? What does it mean to be true to oneself?