NYC September 1973. I can’t believe it. I’m on the 9th floor of One Fifth Avenue, facing south. Apartment 9H to be exact. It’s a plush hotel suite being used as a Parsons dorm. My new residence. I love it! I have three roommates, curly haired Tom Fox from Florida (who doesn’t yet know that he’s gay, but I do), and two Chinese brothers in the next room. The living room picture window looks out on Washington Square Park, and in the distance the World Trade Center looms like twin phosphorescent robots. I actually LIVE in Greenwich Village, the historic site of generations of madmen, jazz musicians, poets, painters, and revolutionaries. A dream come true.

At night, in my bed, I can hear shots, screams, whoops, air-raid sirens. When I awoke, Agnew had resigned and the Mets had won the pennant.

Fall Movies:
Women in Revolt
Une femme douce
Chloe in the Afternoon
“Pimpernel” Smith
The Inheritor (Belmondo)
Day for Night
Pal Joey
Machine Gun McCain (Cassavetes)
West of Zanzibar
Dementia 13
The Petrified Forest
The French Connection
The Damned
England Made Me
Bride of Frankenstein
My Night at Maud’s
La collectionneuse
Bed and Board

Fall Books:
Borstal Boy, Brendan Behan
Teenage Porno Queen, Anon.
More I Remember, Joe Brainard
Seventh Heaven, Patti Smith
The Wild Boys, William Burroughs
Exterminator!, William Burroughs
The Black Book, Lawrence Durrell
Superstar, Viva
Chéri and the Last of Chéri, Colette
The Confessions of Felix Krull, Confidence Man, Thomas Mann

School life. Everyone in my drawing class draws better than me. Gulp. Some days I have life drawing for six hours, punctuated by Styrofoam cups of coffee and cigarettes. I’m too impatient, I need more sensitivity to line, mass, and space. I’ve drawn flat up ’til now. I’ll need to render if I want “mood.” I want “mood.” I need more articulation. Teacher asks me if I was stoned when I did my homework. Was I?

The Parsons lunch room is filled with the fashion kids, none of whom eat either. No hippies here. The girls get dolled up every day for school. There’s a busty nympho named Daisy who never stops talking about sex. “Parsons girls love dick,” she says. Later, “I see I’m gonna have to educate you. Why dontcha eat me, honey?” which is meant to make me blush, I think. She’s just talkin’ soda pop. Says she wants someone to fill her with milkshakes tonight. Her older illustrator boyfriend painted her for Playboy. She’s got a real 1950s cheesecake figure.

My Chinese roommates had a noisy party. They danced to “Eight Days a Week.” I was in the bathroom inspecting my new shipment of crabs. The Chinese shout, “Chow HI,” which they say means “stinky cunt.” A drunk preppy girl wore a pink sweater (I’m a sucker for pink sweaters) and her brown buttons became aroused, and she jacked off on my leg. Part of being drunk. My roommate says, “Donut, you look funny tonight … you gay-boy?” and then bursts into hysterical laughter. He loves American soul music, the Spinners, Four Tops, Temptations, Supremes, Labelle, Jackson 5, O’Jays, and the very moving Al Green.

Fall Records:
These Foolish Things, Bryan Ferry
Todd, Todd Rundgren
See My Baby Jive, Wizzard
My Funny Valentine, Miles Davis
Berlin, Lou Reed
Pin Ups, David Bowie
Quadrophenia, the Who
Gene Vincent’s Greatest Hits
Tubular Bells, Mike Oldfield
Mind Games, John Lennon
At the Scene, the Dave Clark Five
Edith Piaf ’s Greatest Hits
10cc

David Essex
Gerry and the Pacemakers Greatest Hits
Seven, Soft Machine

October 31. The New York Dolls are hosting a Halloween party in the ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria. The pomp and gilded splendor of the fabulous hotel was a surreal contrast to the gathering hordes of glittering rock kids, parading up the carpeted stairs holding on to the handrails for dear life lest they fall off their elevator shoes. They had been working on their costumes for weeks. There was Zacherle, Satan, the Jolly Green Giant, Phantoms, She-Creatures, faux Hollywood starlets, and short little Eric Emerson, the wandering minstrel. Todd Rundgren was jerking his girlfriend along by a leash. He said to her, “C’mon, Elmer.”

DuPrey and I are wandering in the lobby. I’m in my Mr. Freedom black velvet overalls, with no shirt, displaying a lot of skin.

A guy in a fatigue jacket says in a New York sing-song drawl, “What are you, a movie star?”

“No, just an art student.”

“Well, you should be a movie star.”

“What’s your name?” I ask, figuring him to be a dozen or so years older than me.

“Danny Fields.”

My mind raced. I knew that name. From Elektra album covers. Hold on … I got it. “The Doors, the Stooges, the Velvets, the MC5, THAT Danny Fields?”

“Mmm hmm,” he said lazily. “You get high marks.”

“Very pleased to meet you. I’m Duncan Hannah and this is my pal Rob duPrey.”

Danny asked us over to his place on 20th Street after the show to smoke some hash. We accepted readily, filled with questions for this behind-thescenes tastemaker. Down at his dark mini loft, we got so high we could barely finish our sentences, but asked about our favorite rock musicians, What’s he like? What’s he like? Danny answered every question the same way. “He’s an asshole.” Finally I said, “Wait, you say that about everyone we asked about.”

“All rock musicians are assholes … it’s okay, I love them too, it’s just the way it is.” That was our first lesson. There’s a big photo of naked Iggy on the wall by Gerard