The introduction: ( I wrote this a few weeks ago)

I have a well-earned respect for drug addicts. I myself had been a regular drug user during my 20’s, and it was during this time that life took on a strange context of normalness and sanity. Looking back upon those days however, I’m careful to realize that the majority of my experiences were drug-ridden flights of fancy that had very little basis in reality. The memories I have of those days are filled with inaccuracies and perhaps downright lies, but I still tell the stories and I still relive the memories both real and imagined as if they were irrefutably proven hard facts.

My decent into the decadence of the underground drug culture began innocently enough in an alleyway in San Francisco’s SOMA neighborhood as I crawled out of my 1978 Honda Civic. The car was a perfect extension of my personality with its duct tape racing stripes precisely applied to cover the rust spots on the roof, but appearing to give the offset appearance of the European racing cars of the 1960’s. The ample rust taking over the rear hatch had been covered with the remnants of a stack of stolen bumper stickers from an Army/Navy surplus store in St. Louis. The hatch screamed out “Hullabaloo” in bright orange and yellow.

It was from this car that I was crawling when she walked up to me and changed my life forever. Her name was “Concha” and she was a child of the night. An ample girl of at least 300 pounds, yet standing only 5′8” tall, she was covered in a lace moo moo styled dress obviously purchased from a second hand store due to the aging and yellowing yarn crochet work not seen since the late 70’s. She had a small ring thru her nostril and was waving an unlit cigarette in my direction asking for a light. Not having a book of matches I suggested the cigarette lighter in my car and off we went back to the car to help her get her nicotine fix. Once we had her cigarette lit, she firmly took hold of my arm and said in her unique and completely flattering way “You’re adorable, come with me you have to meet my friends”. When Concha would speak, she spoke with an earnestness that was not questioned for she believed her words with complete conviction.

The rest of that night became a blur of bright lights, hours on the dance floor and an endless number of trips to the special VIP lounge on the upper floor of the nightclub. The VIP lounge was located upstairs towards the front of the club and was guarded by a serious looking drag queen/club kid and the ubiquitous velvet rope. Concha was well known and just a nod of her head and the rope was pulled aside and we were whisked into the confines of the inner sanctum.

This new world fascinated and enraptured me. Once inside the lounge she continued her tight grip on my arm and dragged me towards the VIP lounge restroom, a small room off to the side with just a small sink and toilet. Once we were inside she said “Meet Chrissie” and handed me the little plastic pouch full of a white powdery substance that would be both my devil and my savior for the next few years. Speed, Crystal, Chrissie, the names were not important but that white powder did an amazing thing to me as it burned its way into my brain via the lining of my nasal passages. Time melted away along with any insecurity I had been hanging on to. I was a beautiful boy, full of life and wit. I had enough energy to talk all night long, and that is exactly what I did for in another area of the VIP lounge there was a fireplace with beanbags strewn around on the floor in front of it. Concha and I had conversations of such depth and importance that we’d missed the fact that the sun had risen and the music had stopped. People had joined us for brief moments of an hour or two, until they would wander away to dance or further enhance their own chemically altered existences.

The people I met that night were unlike any I’d ever seen in my life before. Colors and clothes I didn’t think possible were on display for all to see with each person attempting to show themselves as more “fabulous” than anyone else. This was not just people dressing outlandishly for their own fun, this was a downright competition and the losers would swear to beat them the following weekend, often spending hours hunched over sewing machines and picking thru thrift stores for an idea or two they could latch onto to outshine everyone else. They had club kid names like “Richie Rich” and “Robnoxious”, and were people I would soon call friends as I too would merely nod at the VIP Lounge guard and the rope would be pulled aside for me.