Adam

Once there was Adam. Adam was made not from earth, but rather, he was made of Earth. That is to say, he was -- like any other human of this planet -- born here, on Earth. Adam had a woman, referred to as his wife. Adam's wife was Lilith. Lilith was an intelligent and attractive woman. Lilith was also rather saucy. Often, Adam would feel great jealousy when Lilith would flirt with other men, as well as with the Others.

These Others were called, depending upon what one would think of them, gods or demons. But the Others were neither. The Others were simply a more advanced, humanoid race who had come to Earth with a gene bank -- called The Covenant -- of a number of humanoid races who may have been dying. It is also possible that they were performing experiments, creating humans -- like them -- yet not as intelligent, of course.

The lack of intelligence was intentional. The ultimate plan of these advanced humanoids may or may not have been benevolent. Over time, the stories have become horribly corrupted, very powerful religions -- some very questionable in their agendas -- had destroyed all sense of these stories. But there are some rather clear explanations to be found.

Adam, not being intelligent, would attempt to put Lilith in her place. You see, Adam believed men were far superior to woman. Lilith, on the other hand, had come to see through Adam's shortcomings. When Adam would be in one of his misogynist moods, & hitting Lilith had no effect, Lilith would attack Adam not with her fists -- men, including Adam, were, generally, physically stronger than women. So, Lilith would instead attack Adam with her intellect. Adam was very insecure about many things. What bothered him most about Lilith's supposedly having sex with other men & -- as he saw it -- demons, was that he was ashamed that he had a short penis. Adam also could not understand why Lilith felt that she was worthy of experiencing his "god given right" to orgasm.

At these times, when Adam was drunk & belligerent, Lilith would take great joy in reminding Adam of these very difficult subjects.

Having grown fed up with Lilith's ability to make him feel so little, & that she would so often seek sex with others -- really, the other men & all Adam's "demons" would ridicule him openly (or so he imagined -- no one much liked Adam), went to his favored masturbation place in the fields. After a typically short session, Adam wiped his had on the grass & began to wail to his god. Adam cried & moaned for quite some time. When he had finished, he lay quietly in the grass awaiting the voice that never came after these outbursts.

As Adam thought, he believed himself deserving of what he wanted. Adam so believed himself worthy, he began to believe that his very own god was putting ideas in his head. Adam's first idea what that he deserved
a virgin because she should never know that another lover could possibly be better. The new virgin wife must also less intelligent that Adam. Lilith's intelligence could only be some demonic aberration, Adam thought -- only men, straight from god, can be intelligent.

Adam knew immediately where he would -- in his limited scope -- find his new virgin wife, & he set off to leave Lilith because that would teach her a great lesson.

Arriving home, Adam found that Lilith was not there. Who was there was his & Lilith's young daughter. Adam had chosen his daughter Eve to be his new virgin wife because she was of him, his "rib", being, actually, his phallus. Packing hurriedly, Adam told Eve that they were off to the great forest of Eden to live happily, ever after. Eve was skeptical & asked if mother Lilith was not going with them. Adam told Eve of Lilith's "wickedness" with "demons" & that they were going where god had told him to take Eve.

Returning home from shopping -- because Lilith really never had had sex with any other -- man or god...or demon after having taken up with Adam. She had so because Adam, at the very least, was a good -- but painfully -- simple man. Days & weeks passed without Adam or Eve. Lilith had no idea where they could have gone, but, eventually, took up with one of the Others who looked after her & loved her well.

Meanwhile, Adam having repeatedly raped poor Eve into confused submission, had been enforcing his narrow ideas -- he claimed from god almighty -- upon his once virgin wife. A few years pass & Eve has grown into full womanhood, yet she bears Adam no children. Adam is confused & frequently escapes to the fields just outside Eden where he can play his fantasy games.

One fine morning, Eve is lying beneath an apple tree, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her naked body. Eve dozes there but is aroused by the sound of a voice. The voice is saying very pleasing things to Eve's ear about how nice her naked body looks there, basking in the sunlight. Eve has seen no one since father Adam had taken her away to Eden. Eve was also rather embarrassed that another man -- an Other, actually -- was seeing her firm, young & naked form. Adam had taught her that her naked body was his, & his only, & she told this "man" so.

Being that this "man" was an Other -- Others having been completely forgotten by Eve -- his intellect was far greater than hers. It took little time, but Eve was soon convinced that having sex with this "man" was perfectly right for her to do -- the "man" was just so convincing.

This encounter proved to be more enlightening than Eve could possibly conceive. While in the throes of sex with this "man", Eve felt rush after rush of deep, penetrating joy. Eve experienced spasms never even imagined.  Spent, Eve & the "man" who called himself Snake, lie there sharing an apple when Eve jumped up in excitement. She told Snake that she must rush back & show Adam the wonderful things Snake had done to her. Snake chuckled & took another bite of apple as Eve trots off.

Eve finds Adam & excitedly tells him of her encounter with Snake. She pulls Adam to their bed to teach him these new tricks, but Adam will have none of it.

In the end, Adam subjugates Eve, his once virgin & now "defiled" daughter. Addled with too regular drink, Adam often beats Eve & has shut her away, having forbade her to ever so much as look at, let alone speak to another man. Adam & Eve die terrible deaths due to Adam's stupidity.

Passing Through

Another late night on the same mid-town subway platform as the previous entry. This night, I stood near the foot of a stairway reading. I was leaning against a steel girder next to the stairway, so I wasn't actually blocking anyone either coming from or going toward the stairs or the narrow passage to the rest of the platform beyond the stairway.

Eventually, a man comes down & stops at the foot of the stairway. He asks me what time it is, I look at my watch & tell him. He then starts a typically banal conversation with me, as there really isn't a lot a stranger might talk about while waiting for a train.

Considering that I'm rather polite -- as well as being open to odd situations -- I certainly don't stop this man. He continues talking, & I only interject where necessary to let him know that I'm still paying attention. After a while, I begin to get a strange feeling about this man. It's not what he's saying that bothers me, but rather something about him.

It was then that a woman coming down the stairway catches my attention. Instead of veering off to go round this man at the foot of the stairs, she simply continues on taking no notice of him. I wait with anticipation for what will happen next.

This woman walks right through the man.

Abruptly, the man stops talking in mid-sentence, turns his gaze to the woman who is now walking down the platform, turns to me as if to say something about how rude that was, then continues on with what he was saying.

Naturally, I'm feeling very entertained by this, but my train finally comes down the tracks into the station. I excuse myself, interrupting the man, saying that this is my train. He replies, "No problem. Nice talking to you."

I board my train & head home.

Train Kept a-Rollin'

I sat reading. It was late, & I was heading home to my apartment in Astoria, Queens. Some conductors of the NYC subway would allow passengers to get on trains which weren't yet leaving. Standing for long periods on a subway platform, staring at the train you were planning to take, was the norm.

In my peripheral vision, I'd noticed movement. This was someone getting on the train through the one of doors down from me. This car had four doors on each side, one just next to me. I could see this man walk up & past me to take a seat next to the door across from me. He was mumbling in what sounded like a foreign language. I continue reading.

Shortly, another man steps in through the same door the first man had & sits down next to that door. At this point, the man across from me begins speaking more loudly. He's still speaking in another language, so I continue reading. I can see the second man has turned his head in the direction of the first. I look up at the first man, looking at the second man, then to the second man. He looks at me, then opens a news paper, attempting to ignore the man babbling.

I look back at the first man to find him -- still speaking in another language -- looking directly at me. As I sit there looking at this man, I realize that he's speaking in what sounds like a combination of Hebrew, Arabic and some other language. While it certainly didn't make any sense to me, the flow & rhythm of what he was saying appeared to have context. It had obviously made sense to him.

I wanted to return to my book, but I felt that I couldn't take my gaze from this man's eyes. He became more intense, & I kind of felt that I was gaining some sense of what he was saying. I can't explain how or why, but it seemed he was saying something about a woman I'd known for a year or two but had disappeared some months before. I found the entire situation -- that there was any possibility that I could understand a single word he was saying, as well as that this had somehow reminded me of this friend. I smiled & laughed to myself.

Then, this man who was staring right at me & blabbering endlessly, stood up & rushed out the door next o me. The second man looked up & gave me a look implying that he was pleased. I shrugged & went back to my book.

Some minutes now pass. I suddenly feel something on the platform. There was no movement that I'd noticed. I just sensed something there.

I turn to look out the doorway to find the missing Margaret standing there looking up the platform. It took a few seconds for me to react because of how odd this situation was. I leap up to call to Margaret. As I do so, the doors of the subway car close. I take a stop toward the door & wave my hands trying to get Margaret's attention. She continues staring at something up the platform that I can't see.

Now the train begins to move. But, somehow, it's running in the wrong direction. I can't remember which train it was, but it was a mid-town train which ran from mid-town Manhattan out to Queens. There were barriers at the end of the tracks at this station, so the train could go no further west.

But it was.

I look at the second man to enter the car -- the only other passenger with me -- but he finds nothing strange happening & is still reading his news paper. I look back to the platform to see Margaret is still just staring at something & not looking in the direction of the train now pulling out.

I sit down & wonder why it's taking so much longer to get to the next -- the only other stop in Manhattan on this line. The train still seems to be running west, which I know couldn't happen, & is taking a very long time to get to the next station, which normally takes little time at relatively the same speed this train is now going.

But the train does, finally, arrive at the other Manhattan station. It continues on & arrives at Queensboro Station where I'm transferring to another train toward Astoria.

I get off the train to find everything appears normal despite the rather Twilight Zone-like episode I'd just experienced.

The Haunting of Yoko's Eyes

Allow me to begin by saying that I really look nothing like John Lennon.

That's right. I can plainly say that any resemblance I have to that icon of rock 'n' roll is negligible at best. But, I suppose, a slight appearance is better than none to most.

Early after arriving in NYC in the 80's, my newly arrived college friend, Faustus, had found a second-hand clothing shop near the apartment where we were staying in Washington Heights selling clothing by the bag. He & I had literally stuffed a couple of bags each with all sorts of odd clothing. We were very pleased with the bargain. The only trouble with these clothes was that most of them were from the 1970's.

Now, keep in mind, most of my life has been in the body of a typical slacker -- rather height/weight proportionate -- a bit husky, if you will. Only during a few points in life -- as during most of my time in NYC -- was I noticeably skinny. I'd even -- during my 1990's period of only affording a sandwich a week -- found myself weighing in the neighborhood of 135 pounds. That's amazing for me. From when I was about 5' 8" to 5' 10" tall, weighing about 180 pounds most of the time, to go down to 150 pounds, was really cool. But to go down to about 135 just astounded me.

But the 1980's was a fantastic time. Although I was only making a measly $6.50 per hour at the job I'd finally got at Star Magic, I'd always found myself with money in my pocket. I could easily pay the bills, eat in restaurants every night, go to movies three or four times a week, drink heavily every night & still have money for street musicians. Now, this was living.

I've, previously, mentioned one of my look-alike experiences at the wondrous Downtown Beirut -- the dive bar on the Lower East Side where I'd spent entirely too many of my evening -- & late night -- hours. Every night I would be told that I looked like some famous person. More often than not, I was told of my looking like some unnamed musician. Presenting myself in my skinny form, tight pants, long hair, beard & round-rimmed glasses, it was rare -- but frequently enough -- that I would be compared in looks to the aforementioned icon, John Lennon.

John had been murdered only a few, short years before my arrival in NYC, & I think we were all still mourning his death. I should think any skinny, bearded & round-rimmed glasses wearing white guy would have brought back memories of pictures of John.

By this time, Faustus & I were sharing an apartment on the border of Astoria & Long Island City, Queens, & both he & I were working at the uptown Star Magic -- he was full-time there, while I was still splitting my hours between that location & the Broadway shop in the Village. On the days I worked at the uptown shop, I'd normally get off of the RR train from Queens at the 59th Street station that I could walk through Central Park to W 72nd Street, walk past the famed Dakota apartment building where John & Yoko had lived since 1973. But, after late 1985, the western portion of Central Park at 72nd Street had been redesigned as a memorial to John called Strawberry Fields, & I -- the vague John look-alike -- passed through here frequently on my way to work.

Each time I'd walk through Strawberry Fields, I would find numerous people idly passing through or sitting on the benches, naturally, thinking of John. I can't tell you how entertaining it was to me to hear the gasps & see the people pointing at me on my way through. I'd kept expecting to read stories of "The ghost of John Lennon haunting Strawberry Fields" in the New York Post!

While I'd never found any such story, there was one night I was heading to a bar near Star Magic North, as it was referred to by my co-workers (simply to differentiate between the San Francisco shop -- SM West -- & the Broadway shop -- SM East) for some after-work gathering when, passing The Dakota, I'd experienced the most entertaining event of my entire NYC life. As I was approaching the gated courtyard entrance, a limo had pulled up from Central Park West & stopped in front of the gates.

This was by no means a strange event. Many of the residents of The Dakota were celebrities & got in or out of limos in front of the building. But this night -- the second I found myself next to this particular limo -- who steps out of the back & looks up at me in confusion? None other than Yoko Ono. Naturally, after her initial surprise, she'd realized that she was not looking at her dead husband, but some random white boy walking down the street.

Yoko & I exchanged bemused grins, & each of us, continued on our ways.

London 1

Armed only with my guitar, & my pen -- &, of course, a couple changes of clothes -- I'd arrived. All the stories, all the biographies, all the history books I'd read had not prepared me for the wonder of Victoria Station. The trains on the platform, the people scurrying everywhere, the news stands & their barkers -- all that steel & glass high over head -- these were almost overwhelming. Not even standing in the middle of Grand Central Terminal during rush hour compares to the things I'd felt standing there taking it all in. I'm surprised no one had physically pushed me out of their way because of my gawking.

I'd wandered round, not knowing even which way it was to the street, & stumbled upon the tourist office. A very helpful old woman understood that I wasn't interested in even two-star accommodations & kindly indicated on the Underground map to a "safe" hostel near Earl's Court. I had certainly heard of this neighborhood, but was not aware that it was where most twenty-something's from all over the world tend to wind up when heading to London.

I took the Tube to a station I now forget one or two stops before Earl's Court, found & checked into the hostel -- finding I was sharing with five other fellow travelers in a room with ten beds. Each had looked up when I entered the room & promptly ignored me. I decided at that minute that I would spend no more than one night here.

I'd secured my guitar with the proprietor & took the rest of my belongings off to find a pub. Considering I was so close to Earl's Court, I chose that direction & off I went. I was very hungry & in need of a pint, so I stepped into the first pub I'd come by once on Earl's Court Road. It was a nice looking, fairly stereotypical English Pub. The people there were mostly foreign as well as a number of locals, all of the working or traveling classes. I felt immediately at ease.

The first person with whom I'd spoken was a young Welshman who'd come to London to seek work as a hotel concierge. I could only understand every third word he'd said, but we had a good time drinking & joking despite my continually having to ask him to repeat himself more slowly.

At some point he'd asked me if I was looking for a place. I told him I had little money, but that it would certainly last longer in a flat than it would at the hostel. As it turned out, he had just taken a room in the neighborhood & needed a flat-mate. We agreed upon a price & a time when I would leave, & we made plans to meet the next afternoon to go to the place.

The flat really was just a room in a flat -- a flat consisting of a room, a small bath & a sitting room & kitchenette to which we had no access. The Filipino woman renting us the room apologized that she couldn't share the sitting room & kitchenette, as they were her room, & said that she understands that we would need hot water for showering, but that my room-mate & I would have to switch off days because she refused to pay for all that electricity & water. We chose to agree with her, but each of us would wait till she would leave in the morning & then each of us would shower anyway.

Because my room-mate had a "bothersome" bladder, he wanted the bed near the door that he could easily get to the toilet at night. I certainly didn't mind taking the bed by the window witch looked out on most of the stretch of Old Brompton Road up to, & a bit past, the back entrance of Earl's Court Station. There was a row of quaint houses along there, the view was rather nice.

Each morning while he was showering, I would sit up in bed, open the window & smoke a cigarette while the suits from each of those quaint houses kissed their wives goodbye at their door & walked up the block to take the train into town. This would happen every ten or twenty minutes just before the next train was to arrive.

One morning I'd lingered a bit longer at that window than usual & noticed that after the street had become clear of these husbands a man came out of the Tube station & walked to one of those houses. I couldn't be sure, as I'd not been paying much attention, but I didn't think this was the man who had left only moments before.

Next morning at about the same time, I watched that one house. The door opened, the husband stepped out, the wife leaned out, they kissed goodbye, & he walks off to the station. After the street clears, here comes the other man from the station -- not in a suit -- & walks right up to that door, & calls something I couldn't hear out. The wife looks out the window, & a few seconds later she opens the door, kisses him & lets him in.

This went on for some weeks while I watched. I'd had a strange feeling that Old Brompton Road was important somehow. I couldn't remember ever having seen the name except on the map after arriving in London. But there was something about it.

As I was nearing the end of my London trip, I'd decided to get the address of this house because while there are countless historical & ill reputed locations in London, I was sure that this house would be discussed in one of my books still in NYC.

Then, once back in my Queens apartment, I picked up the book I knew had this address in it. It took me a little time, but there it was, staring at me & laughing. That house on Old Brompton Road was the very same house in which Aleister Crowley & his "dipsomaniac" wife Rose Kelly had lived not long before Crowley had finally decided to divorce Rose.

6 October

In the mid-1980's, I was just another skinny, scraggly haired, twenty-something, Wanna-be artist. Like the majority of the twenty-somethings in NYC, I'd had my guitar, & my pen. I would play my guitar for no one, write my poetry to impress young, unsuspecting women, & draw little cartoon characters in my notebook. Unlike the rest of the wanna-be's, I had no delusions of fame & fortune. In fact, I think I can honestly say that I never even wanted either. Sure, fortune would have been great, but having grown up in the forest, I had then -- as well as now -- valued my seclusion & liberty above all else. My only plan was to have a good time & get my ass to Europe.

But NYC was, perhaps, the best distraction I've ever known. While I had, later, had an incredible time that short summer in London, my time in NYC will unlikely ever be surpassed.

During this time, I had looked vaguely like John Lennon -- as much as any long-haired & bearded guy. Well, I don't really think I looked like John, but people will make many allowances when they think someone looks like some personality they like. But it didn't stop with John Lennon. In Beirut, among other unnamed musicians, I was frequently called that "Seals & Croft guy", or "That guy in Seals & Croft" due to -- & to this day I've no idea which one it was -- the simple fact I often wore a flat cap, as did witch ever of the two, Seals or Croft, wore a similar hat.

But as time went on, & the idea evolved, the Beirut folk came to realize that I was just a little young to be either Seals or Croft. Finally, everyone simply settled on my being in some famous guy no one could agree upon from some famous band no one could name, but for some reason I wouldn't admit to anything. The reality -- apart from the fact I was no one famous, or anyone in particular -- was that I had, for a long time, just insisted they were confusing me with some fantasy.

But being an honest man, but having a rather twisted sense of humor, I couldn't possibly lie to anyone -- but what fun was there in just being honest? The low road, perhaps, but I do love entertaining myself. I took to simple evasion of the issue. After all, no one believed my denials, people believe what they want to -- even if they're shown proof to the contrary.

So, there I am one night. A few Heinekens, & not too few of the house special watered-down vodkas deep, & some guy I've never seen sits on the empty stool next to mine. In NYC it's very easy to never come in contact with others -- one can even very successfully hide in open sight there. But, here, I'd been in Beirut nearly every night but Fridays & Saturdays ("tourist" nights) for close to a year at this point. More, I'd been in most every other bar on the Lower East Side most of those nights as well, & I know I'd never seen him before.

But, as most of these conversations in Beirut had gone, he opens with: "How ya doin'?"

I reply "S'up." This had happened at a time when the contraction "What's up?" was running through NY, burning up conversations among all the cool kids. On the other hand, the really cool kids -- like those of us who'd worked at the famed Star Magic (more on SM later) -- thought that it was such a stupid phrase, we'd condescendingly contracted it even more. Of course, we were probably not the first to do this, but those of us working in (what we thought was) the coolest shop in NYC believed we were all ahead of the curve.

"Never seen it this busy in here," he says, taking a draw from his Heineken.

I ignore this & wonder when he's going to ask. They all do.

"Can I ask you something?" he asks.

I give him a long side glance, & smiling wryly, I say "Sure".

"Well, this girl over there" pointing to some blurred silhouette against the wall talking to someone else, "says you're this famous guy, but that you won't talk about it. I say she's right, but we can't think of the band you're in."

"OK" I say.

He looks at me expectantly for a bit while I light a cigarette. And he asks, "Well, what band are you in?"

I look at him & respond: "I never said I was in a band."

He starts to say something, then stops. "Oh, I get it" he says with a smile. "You're not admitting to it, like she said. Tell you what, I don't know why you don't want to admit it -- I'm sure you have a good reason for it -- but what if I told you I'd never tell anyone? Would you tell me then?"

I look him in the eye & exhale smoke slowly for effect. Finally, I say, "If I haven't admitted to being in a band -- & I'm not doing so now -- to anyone here before, why should I trust you -- assuming you're right -- not to tell anyone?"

This goes on for what seems a long time. When I think I've got him hooked, I lean toward him motioning him to lean closer. I look at him, as if I'm about to reveal some ancient secret, & ask him: "Do you know what a hypothetical situation is?"

"Of course", & to prove it, he actually defines it for me.

Covering the fact laughter is about to explode from me at any moment, I take the time to put out my cigarette, take another drink from my beer, & light another cigarette. I know I can tell this guy anything. I could probably have told him that I was the long dead JS Bach, & having found some magic potion, had taken to moving from one band to another throughout the ages, spurring each one on to fame.

Instead, I went with a simpler plan. I leaned toward him again & told him, "Let's say there's this band -- hypothetically speaking -- & in this band is one member -- & I'm not saying that I'm this band member..."

Oh, right, right. I'm with you" he says, believing I'm telling him something I wouldn't tell any of the people with whom I'd drunk on many occasions in Beirut.

"Now, this hypothetical band member has a habit of picking up girls by telling them he's in this..." I move my fingers indicating quotes, "famous band."

"OK. Yeah...?"

"So, one of the rodies of this famous band & I...or, rather this hypothetical band member, right?"

"Uh-huh," & he winks.

"Anyway, this roadie bets this band member he can't go one year without admitting he's in this band -- except, of course, radio stations, magazines, & management types don't count -- because this roadie doesn't think the band member can get laid without using this line."

"Yeah", says this guy. I get it now. But what do you get?

"Oh, not me -- the hypothetical band member."

"Oh, sure. Sure. Not you."

"Well, bets made when drinking are not necessarily the best of bets. This winner gets a year's pay from the other. Naturally, since the band member makes a lot more money than the roadie, the hypothetical band member really doesn't want to lose. Does this make any sense to you?"

"Yeah. I can see that. You're secret's safe with me, man." He shakes my hand & walks away.

I snicker to myself, finish my beer & leave to find more interesting things to do in East Village.

The next night, I'd left work hungry, but I wasn't in the mood for Polish that night, as I often was. That night, I'd stopped at my favorite falafel house, got dinner & walked the block to Beirut. As it was early, there were only a few of the neighborhood kids talking near the jukebox. I sat at the end of the bar near the door, took my dinner out of the bag as the girl working the bar came over. She takes my order & goes off to get it, as I start eating. When she returns, she leans over & asks, "So, Angus, are the rumors true, after all?"

I"m sure my laughter could be heard as far as Mid-Town & Wall Street.

In the beginning

Mid-1980's. This is NYC where one could find little refuge from the power-hungry, cocaine-frenzied traders, the big-haired girls of Bensonhurst, or the life-destroying effects of the gentrification plan of one fascist mayor. The sights of junkies & homeless, & the smells of urine & fermenting garbage of the city were often too disgusting to describe, but this was my home -- for what seemed a very long time.

Downtown Beirut -- no, not the war-torn capitol of Lebanon. Downtown Beirut bar from the outside was little more than a graphiti-strewn store-front painted, originally, black -- the little, plate sheets of glass covered in years of soot, tobacco tar, beer & a multitunde of alien substances allowed one to see only ghostly, blurred images within. With the door closed, one could only just hear, over the sounds of the First Avenue traffic, music coming from within. Uninviting, yes. This was only the scene from outside.

Stepping inside the door, which would slam shut behind you with a crash that jarred over the sound of the juke box, you would be immediately assulted by the loud music, the darkness interrupted only by flashing xmas tree lights, the closeness of the graphiti-strewn walls accentuated by the closeness of the people inside. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer & sweat. The people, a mix of neighborhood artists, freaks, & skin-heads.

When I'd first found Downtown Beirut, it had a very dangerous reputation causing the suits & the Bridge & Tunnel people -- those who lived in the outer boros, Jersey & Long Island -- to tread past quickly in fear. Bad drug deals, wallet-snatching girls & skin-head beatings were the experiences of most who'd come here, but these people came only once. I had, in time, become a near-nightly fixture.

It was here where I would meet some of the most incredible characters who've passed through my life. And it was here where I would experience some of my more bizarre & intense memories. Some of these experiences had involved hallucinogens or over-indulgence in cheap beer or wattered-down vodka, but most were when I was completely sober.

Of all the places where I have lived, I believe I'd lived more in that cesspool NYC, than I had in all the years, in all the other places, combined.

But wait....