Getting Fucked Up with Tom Baker, Norman Mailer, and Jim Morrison

Homepage photo of Norman Mailer by Ron Galella, Ltd./WireImage.
Homepage photo of Norman Mailer by Ron Galella, Ltd./WireImage.

"Wanna go for a drink?" I asked Norman Mailer, standing on the corner of Sixth Avenue and 14th Street, when I realized I'd fucked up. I'd been out all night at the Mudd Club with a skinny Jewish girl with large breasts, drinking, doing coke, and getting my dick sucked, when I suddenly remembered that I had a girlfriend…

"No," Norman huffed, pulling up the collar of his ski jacket. "Not now…”

I didn't want to show my disappointment, but I was so hungover that if I didn't get a drink or a valium soon, I was in for full-on delirium tremens. My nervous system was so shot even my synapses were hunchbacked. Norman was brooding about something, went to a pay phone to make a phone call, so I couldn't tell if he was annoyed at me for asking.

"Just one beer," I prayed, deluding myself again.

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Retrieved on 17 December 2018 from

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