Back on August 1, I published a page, Me And Tim Leary, from the work I’m doing on my memoir. But a few days ago I was looking for a book of Joel Peter Witkin’s artwork to confirm my suspicion that a photo of Trump I was planning to use was indeed Witkin’s. It was, but I couldn’t find the book in my library. Another lost thing I know for sure I have that I’ll be looking for ’til God knows when.
But I did find something worthwhile, an old yearbook from Stony Brook, albeit not my old year book. This one was from 1966 when I was just a sophomore so I don’t know why I even have it. But inside the front cover I found a whole bunch of interesting artifacts, including the letter up top from Tim Leary and this contact between the Student Activities Board, of which I was chairman, and John Hammond, Jr, who I met at the Cafe Au Go Go. Jimi Hendrix’s band, the Blue Flames— except Hendrix called himself Jimmy James back then— was Hammond’s backup band. I knew Hendrix a little from around but I had never heard him play. I was astounded when I did and asked him to come do a show at Stony Brook. He pointed to Chas Chandler and some other guys and said they were The Animals and he was leaving the next day with them for London but that he would play my school when he got back— which he did. Meanwhile, I asked John Hammond if he would come out and play. He said yes— and did. I picked him up and drove him and gave him $100. The concert was free for students. Ever hear his music? Here's another one I used to play a lot. And this one.
But I also found some unsent letters I had written. One was to my friend and former roommate Harold who I had taken some acid with a year earlier. I had a fantastic trip. Harold didn’t and, in fact, he never came down. He was committed to a mental institution up in Rochester which is where he was from. Eventually he somehow got out and committed suicide by stabbing himself with a butcher knife as he jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge or Manhattan Bridge; I can’t remember which. Anyway here’s the letter I wrote him and, apparently never sent, although Bob and I had gone up to visit him. Neither of us had ever flown on a plane while tripping, so we dropped some acid at Harold’s parents’ house on our way to the airport. We stopped to say goodbye to Harold on the way and, although neither of us was tripping yet, he immediately picked up on some kind of acid vibe and went insane and started climbing the walls and yelling incoherently. So his parents said we’d all better get on to the airport. As far as I can recall, Bob and I had a great trip on a small Mohawk Air plane. The letter is dated April 10, 1967. I had just turned 19 when I wrote it and Robin had just broken up with me.
Dear Harold,
I just thought I’d drop you a friendly line, let you know I’m still alive, etc. I’m leaving Stone Brook today to get a job and an apartment in New York. Next September I’d like to go to City College and see if I can forget about Stony Brook. Also, I’m giving up drugs, at least for a while. I’ve become too involved and too dependent on them and it’s gotten to a point where I have difficulty functioning without them.
I thought I was in love with Robin but I guess I’m too immature to really even know what love is. Anyway, we won’t be seeing each other anymore after today. I fear I’m doomed to live a hermit’s existence. Maybe things will take a turn for the worse and I’ll kill myself.
People ask how you are all the time; lots of people miss you. Even Pete wishes you were back. While I was visiting you, lots of people got busted: Alex Rise, Bruce Engelman, Barry… The heat is really on. The police keep bothering me. My room was searched twice and some cops called my mother.
Bob is in the hospital with appendicitis. He’s getting better but he’ll be in there another week or so. Well, write to me if you want to.
Your friend always,
Howie
I did drop out for a semester but instead of getting a job, ending drug use and going to City College, I started shooting heroin again and spending time in Boston with Sandy Pearlman, who was a grad student at Brandeis. While he was in class, I would sell acid to Harvard students in the hope that when they graduated and took over everything, they would be groovy and wouldn't start wars. That didn’t work. I don't have a photo of Harold but here's one of Bob and Robin, who got married and have a couple of sons, one of whom, Adam, wrote some stories about his time in Ghana for my travel blog.
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