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We found her place, parked beneath the building, and moved in.

Amy introduced us to her roommate, Rachel. (She was a mixed-breed.) During the introductory conversation we mentioned our plans to see the Grateful Dead the coming weekend. Amy happily told us Rachel used to be a hippie.

We saw a picture of Rachel’s beau, a pure-breed. We asked, and they filled us in on the bar scene. We hit every spot, and smoked-out in niches, and even on the street curb like Mafioso or something, but we didn’t think it was cool… We didn’t think it was cool. (Maybe I’m harsh, but it wasn’t what we expected.)

At the White Horse Tavern the bartender had been a Pike (Pi Kappa Alpha) at Georgia in ‘87. We told him we were (omitted), and he related to us that (omitted) "got in a mess of trouble" when he was there, getting supplied along with all his frat brothers with cocaine sold by (omitted) in Porches.

I got hassled twice by a broad who had to piss.

After getting away I told Herb about it, laughing, and then wrapped it up, “So what if I used the ladies room, I didn’t see the sign. I’m from out of town, and so what if I did leave the toilet seat up, bitch.”

We bar-hopped, hoping things would change, or at least pick up. Herb unwittingly set himself up to get asked out by a scraggly old bearded fag. (The gay district was a block away from Amy’s, so we didn’t have far to walk.) We smoked-out again, and kept up the pace, as it were, for beers whose price ranged from $4 to a single greenback.

We returned to Amy’s apartment late, crashed, got up the next morning, and went out. Friday at 1:20 p.m. we were taking a journal break at Amy’s, high in the Big Apple.

We called our journal “The Queer Nation Tour” on Herb’s suggestion and my enthusiastic applause. We were in SoHo, but my sister said that most people called it “HoMo”.

It was relaxing in the living room area of Amy’s crib, gazing out a window overlooking Greenwich Village, smoking cigarettes and listening to The Grapes’ The fraternity bootleg and reading the Village Voice to see if The Grapes were in town. (They weren’t.)

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“If experience were to a human being like a transmission is to a car, what would happen if you lost your experience? Unlikely as it sounds, it is a condition that can exist. I had been operating from this neuropsychological state since 1987, but I wouldn’t even begin to realize it until after 1993 while I was attending the University of Georgia, a Drawing and Painting major and member of a social fraternity.”

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.