We went to dinner at the Russian Tea Room on West 57th Street. There was a gypsy beggar in the cold with a melancholy accordion player near the door. The music made me so sad I wanted to cry, but I went inside with Sir Rudolf . . .
The first time I bought weed in Los Angeles, I listened to—and talked about—vintage synthesizers for hours. I was high . . .
10:00 a.m.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah! Ummm, this will work . . . I’m sure I can quit this time,” muttered Steve under his quickening breath while rapidly striking his index finger against the table before him.
“Here come the temple spasms, Steve . . .”
“Hardest thing you’ll ever do in your life. Mental equivalent of hog-tying the meanest steer this side of Odessa . . .”
Flies pepper the window of my Fort Benning barracks room. I stun them with pine-scented Glade. With each spray they drop—well, like flies . . .
We arrived around three a.m. and banged on the door, which swung open. The tiny white apartment was filled with pasty-faced, sweating people, hopping and hollering to a harrowing type of Dutch hardcore techno that thumped angrily through the speakers . . .
He was talking too much; either he had unstable nerves or he was wasted. I asked what he was on.
“Blow,” he said. “Want some?”
I smiled like I felt sorry for him having to ask such a question. He handed me a bag under the table.
“Enjoy,” he said . . .
For our first date, we decided to drop acid on the Fourth of July, 1998 . . .