Sex? Drugs? Rock 'n' Roll? Get the book!
I was friends with her boyfriend before I ever became friends with her--one day I was walking down upper Waller Street and I saw this handsome guy sitting in the sun on his steps, playing slide-blues on a Dobro guitar. I stopped and whacked up a conversation with him. He looked cool and dirty--shabbily dressed but in a composed mix of thrift store stuff and standard slacker-grunge wear. He was a little on the skinny side, but somehow seemed larger-than-life. His name was Michael, and he turned out to be the singer in that very cool sex-rock band, Bomb, enjoying his day off. His influential, almost mythological, genre-bending, queer-friendly, girl-fucking, acid-opiate-thick music was some of my favorite stuff on earth.
(The Author)
He introduced himself with, "Hey man, whassup? My name is Michael"
"I extended a paw and replied, "Cool pickin', Mike, I'm Cash Newmann."
I liked his correction--"The name is Michael. It's easy to remember: 'Michael' was the angel who threw Lucifer out of heaven. 'Mike' is the guy who checks your oil at the gas station.
"Oops. Sorry, man."
Michael said, "So 'rite. 'Mikey', however, is quite acceptable."
I was impressed
We hit it off prestigiously. Whenever I was in the Upper Haight, I would stop in and see him. He was funny, articulate and suprisingly intelligent (one would doubt this to listen to his stoned on-stage ramblings, which usually consisted of garbled endorsements of sex and narcotics.)
He took me out to dinner once with Melody and her sister. He didn't let on that Melody was his gurl, even while I tried in vain, throughout the dinner, to pick up on her. He was smiling the whole Cha Cha Cha time. Melody and her sister thought it was pretty funny, too.
Another day that I came by to visit him, someone had spray painted something huge on the sidewalk in front of his house, but I didn't really notice. I stepped over it and rang the bell. Melody answered the door. I inquired, "Is Michael here?"
Melody, all of 17, was crying. She pointed at the sidewalk. The graffiti read, "melody. you broke my heart in a million places. I have gone back to nebraska forever."
She asked me if I would walk with her. In an hour we were at my secret, special place in Golden Gate Park, having an impromptu picnic with some wine, bread, and cheese that we picked up at a corner deli in the Avenues. In four hours we were lying in my bed with my seed running down her leg, tears running down both flushed cheeks, and the words, "I love you, Cash!" purring into my ear.
Smack home