12/01/1989

Slow slow stillness leads me not to write. Comfort. Beer and all just non-stop. Last night Maura, Samantha and Maura’s flatmate Sarah, and I went out and only reached 3 pints maybe when Sam went to the toilet and threw her guts up. Maura followed when we reached the flat. Great beer, tho. Stella something or other, from Amsterdam, as all great things point to.

Boom shanka boom is the song for street walking and tonight even. “Daylight people ought to go home!”

In this crazy Frog and Firkin pub, a gay guy steals my beret, musses my hair, and Sarah feels like shit, so home we go. No tolerance to be found, but I am out with girls night after night and man for some guy talk! “Who is the hottest?” “Samantha” and all all all.

We (Maura, Sarah, and I) went to St. Paul’s today. Amazing. The main dome is about a mile high and has a painting of a higher level with angels and God playing in it. Great.
St. Paul's

I saw Fugazi the other night. Crushed in the crush. But eventually to the stage and my two (get that, two) souls to save from the crush of the pit. Two girls. I put all I had into not letting them feel the pressure of the crushing pit, but that was a kick fuckin’ ass show. And, now Friday, on Monday to see Mudhoney.

All drunk now. I saw Rich M. across the Ashes tonight. Hair all all, smoking what could have been a clove or jibber or Camel, and The Cure, New Order, Smiths, Siouxisie and Talking Heads played all night. I now know that I am no alchy as my last pound went to the jukebox and not the bartender’s boss, but I did steal this dude’s beer that he just let sit there, and even after confrontation I passed it off and left half of it dead laying there dead on the bar and left the place just because the second bell had rung, and I was too and still am drunk and there was no more music and he practically causing a scene.

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