gets a little better but it never goes away. Sometimes it gets
worse. A slowing burning. Fucking. It’s fucking that caused all this. Desire can make a lot of shitty things happen, it seems.
“… I just need to get back to Boston… And then I think things’ll get better.”
“Away from me?”
“No… Not ‘away from you’ really… I just need some time… Life sorta stops out here on the island… You know?”
“That’s why I like it.”
“I mean I do too… It’s just, I need to do a few things first. I need some time, Jimi.”
Why don’t I have the balls to look her in the eye and say, “Look Lindsey… I know this thing’s doomed so let’s not even worry
about it anymore. It’s over so let’s shake hands and fucking walk our separate ways!” No… Of course I can’t do that! I have
to stay in the misery and plead for Lindsey to linger on with me for as long as we can take it. The worst part is that I’ll
wade through this word-game shit for hours, knowing damn wellI’m just trying to get my dick in her ONE MORE TIME. That’s the worst part! Even at my lowest moments, I’m still thinking
“What’s in it for me?” At my age, lust is stronger than love. I want some more of that shit! It’s my self-duty to convince
Lindsey that the only cure for the pain and confusion is a good old-fashioned coming. The Good Witch and the Cats understand.
Oh sweet Lindsey… Just another pin in the balloon of life. I mean WHO ever felt all that good about life to begin with?
I get up out of bed and tiptoe my way down to the kitchen. I peek into the fridge… BINGO… A stray chilly beer just waiting
to nurse Jimi’s aching liver. I take a long, suffocating slurp and look out the window. It’s late at night. I don’t know the
time, but late enough that I feel some peace. I love the night. There’s nothing to prove at night, as long as the imagination
doesn’t run wild in the wrong direction. Diane’s sound asleep. Her breathing whispers down through the foyer, serene, unscathed
by the monster of worry, or doubt. One last look at the dick. Yep, sores abloom. Another sip of beer… And another… And another…
And the street… And all the yellow lamps… And all the figures off in the distance… And another… And another… All the people…
All the places… And all the tears… And all the laughter… And all of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood… It isn’t real… This is a
fantasy… None of this is real… And another sip of beer… Success is just a fool’s word for survival.
PUIP 30
“It’s just so fuckin’ odd. She called you DOOGE when I talked to her.”
“Whatever… The Groucho Club’ll be fun no matter what she calls me.”
“It sounds cool. Her boy ‘Willi’ is in town… Says he’s ‘dying to meet me’… I’ll bet.”
“As long as Willi’s buying, we’re dying to meet him too, Jimi.”
We got a couple hours before we go to the stuffy London club. Doobe and I sit down in Gilbert and Sullivan and drink whiskey—beautiful
sour mash by the bucket, not shitty ale, GOOD WHISKEY. Helms and I don’t trust ourselves, so we tell our Gracelandish barkeep
pal to keep us abreast of the time. Early evening in Leicester Square, with all the workaday frenzy. My favorite TV show,
and the butterflies are coming in my stomach. The Beginning of Night. The hum… The pulse… The buzz… Call it whatever you fucking
want, the shit is real. I remember running up my street on Friday nights when I was younger, running up to meet my friends
in the woods to smoke weed out of our latest “Monster Bong,” to drink that warm Iron City keg, to getdrunk enough to go meet girls and act tough. It meant everything to me.
Diane said the Groucho Club is some heavy-duty club where all the London writers hang out and talk about their next “Movie
of the Week” assignment or “that latest piece on the new cafe,” the one “all the Harleys park in front
worse. A slowing burning. Fucking. It’s fucking that caused all this. Desire can make a lot of shitty things happen, it seems.
“… I just need to get back to Boston… And then I think things’ll get better.”
“Away from me?”
“No… Not ‘away from you’ really… I just need some time… Life sorta stops out here on the island… You know?”
“That’s why I like it.”
“I mean I do too… It’s just, I need to do a few things first. I need some time, Jimi.”
Why don’t I have the balls to look her in the eye and say, “Look Lindsey… I know this thing’s doomed so let’s not even worry
about it anymore. It’s over so let’s shake hands and fucking walk our separate ways!” No… Of course I can’t do that! I have
to stay in the misery and plead for Lindsey to linger on with me for as long as we can take it. The worst part is that I’ll
wade through this word-game shit for hours, knowing damn wellI’m just trying to get my dick in her ONE MORE TIME. That’s the worst part! Even at my lowest moments, I’m still thinking
“What’s in it for me?” At my age, lust is stronger than love. I want some more of that shit! It’s my self-duty to convince
Lindsey that the only cure for the pain and confusion is a good old-fashioned coming. The Good Witch and the Cats understand.
Oh sweet Lindsey… Just another pin in the balloon of life. I mean WHO ever felt all that good about life to begin with?
I get up out of bed and tiptoe my way down to the kitchen. I peek into the fridge… BINGO… A stray chilly beer just waiting
to nurse Jimi’s aching liver. I take a long, suffocating slurp and look out the window. It’s late at night. I don’t know the
time, but late enough that I feel some peace. I love the night. There’s nothing to prove at night, as long as the imagination
doesn’t run wild in the wrong direction. Diane’s sound asleep. Her breathing whispers down through the foyer, serene, unscathed
by the monster of worry, or doubt. One last look at the dick. Yep, sores abloom. Another sip of beer… And another… And another…
And the street… And all the yellow lamps… And all the figures off in the distance… And another… And another… All the people…
All the places… And all the tears… And all the laughter… And all of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood… It isn’t real… This is a
fantasy… None of this is real… And another sip of beer… Success is just a fool’s word for survival.
PUIP 30
“It’s just so fuckin’ odd. She called you DOOGE when I talked to her.”
“Whatever… The Groucho Club’ll be fun no matter what she calls me.”
“It sounds cool. Her boy ‘Willi’ is in town… Says he’s ‘dying to meet me’… I’ll bet.”
“As long as Willi’s buying, we’re dying to meet him too, Jimi.”
We got a couple hours before we go to the stuffy London club. Doobe and I sit down in Gilbert and Sullivan and drink whiskey—beautiful
sour mash by the bucket, not shitty ale, GOOD WHISKEY. Helms and I don’t trust ourselves, so we tell our Gracelandish barkeep
pal to keep us abreast of the time. Early evening in Leicester Square, with all the workaday frenzy. My favorite TV show,
and the butterflies are coming in my stomach. The Beginning of Night. The hum… The pulse… The buzz… Call it whatever you fucking
want, the shit is real. I remember running up my street on Friday nights when I was younger, running up to meet my friends
in the woods to smoke weed out of our latest “Monster Bong,” to drink that warm Iron City keg, to getdrunk enough to go meet girls and act tough. It meant everything to me.
Diane said the Groucho Club is some heavy-duty club where all the London writers hang out and talk about their next “Movie
of the Week” assignment or “that latest piece on the new cafe,” the one “all the Harleys park in front
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