Jimmie Carl Black, Wild Man Fischer, and Rodney Bingenheimer are among our regular sightings at the corner where we've been hawking Spike's dope for weeks now. It's a hip location. That's why they're here—or the other way around. And business is brisk. Of course, selling someone else's product's never gonna get you rich; but Bob and I've managed to skim enough off the top—with a series of lame-ass excuses—to be able to save almost whatever bread it'll take to move the hell outta the old man's place and into a racket of our own.

Like tonight, we just need one big century-note to make quota ... and we've figured out the way to get it. We're gonna tell Spike that we got beat for a whole bag of downers and a dozen hits of mescaline and we're just fucking lucky to've gotten away with our lives. Uh, like I said, real "lame-ass"!

First things first, though. I'm busy watchin' Niznik just minutes into chattin'-up this barmaid Loretta from the Whiskey A Go Go who on her way to the club's stopped t'cop some speed 'n already she's about primed to let us in through a side door. Only a matter of time Bob's saying with a nod & wink.

And, hey ... LOVE's playing. Fuck, yeah! So, you better believe we've already given serious thought to even buying tickets for this one. But, shit, that'd break one hellofa streak and we got our goddamned rep to maintain—Arthur Lee or no Arthurly!