it's like a full moon fall night in the valley, slowly navigating mulholland and turning onto topanga canyon, a midnight run up the coast, ripping thru the hills, clinging to 500 pounds of glitter and flash, working up and down the gears, leaning into the turns, letting the machine be the guide to the ocean, hoping for a green light at rt. 1, not really caring if its red, allowing the bike to work its magic. its like 4a.m. on January first, as the coke wears off and the booze finally takes hold, the guests all gone, the only thing missing, really necessary, is that last cigarette, which have all been smoked, when your friend comes up to you, says "Happy New Year" and gives you the best gift ever, before and since, an unsmoked marlboro 100. its like bet the rent. well maybe not exactly, but it was for me.

One night I was sitting on the bed in my hotel room on Bunker Hill, down in the very middle of Los Angeles. It was an important night in my life, because I had to make a decision about the hotel. Either I paid up or I got out: that was what the note said, the note the landlady had put under my door. A great problem, deserving acute attention. I solved it by turning out the lights and going to bed.