Writer's Bane

Writer’s Bane Why does one feel compelled to write – to place words on paper – words they fear to express aloud – words that have hovered in their psyche – words that begged their progenitor for a pardon; a release, if you will – a release that will never come – at least not fully formed, as conceived inside their brains. The transition between head to paper is often a slope to be slipped on, and almost all, find themselves brushing off their derrieres from the predictable fall. Words always squeeze out from under a cluttered mind and assail a skeptical world – a world ever vigilant against one who would assault their sensibilities or attack their long-held prejudices – a world, constant in their vigil against the wrong type of word, or infinitely more damning, the wrong type of thought that they dared scribble on the trunk of a dead tree. There is a modicum of comfort in erecting a shield against the squid-like squirming protoplasm who occupy our planet, and more importantly, have suborned our daily thoughts and turned any originator into a pliable jellyfish, floating through life, afraid to turn on a light in a darkened room and ultimately subsumed into an eternal nova, where all their contributions are forever lost. How many pages of unrecognized geniuses’ words are whirring about in a ubiquitous black hole? None-to-infinite seems reasonable to me. “The pen is mightier than the sword!” is whispered behind closed doors – closed minds, more like it – for all those who smell the miasmic odor that seeps off a writer’s paper will attest to the ineptness of the structure, or thought, or conclusion, no matter how beautiful the words, or how well they flow onto the parchment. They would sheathe the sword and blunt the edge of genius, reducing all to a common denominator; one who is devoid of cogency and totally unwilling to pursue a more placid path to success.

Piano Night

What a wonderful thing it is to live in a city like New Orleans, where nonstop events are de rigueur and like-minded people laugh and cavort to their hearts content. Last evening, WWOZ hosted its annual Piano Night affair at the House of Blues. Known pianists like Marcia Ball, Bob Andrews, David Torkanowsky, and a wonderful addition from Cuba, Jorge Luis Pacheco, plus a host of others delighted a large audience in the three venues within the HOB. I was privileged to be in the Foundation Room again this year, and the evening wound up, where spindly pianist, Brian Coogan soloed and then was accompanied by a flutist and a soulful singer. (It's shame on me, because I do not remember their names.) This old man went to bed very late, but sated. I am looking forward to doing it again next year.

The Dixie Cups

I am constantly amazed that people in this city are mad about Jazz Fest and luke warm about the French Quarter Festival. As far as I'm concerned, the FQF is by far the more pleasurable venue; and it's free. Jazz Fest is expensive, particularly if you factor in that you have to stand several hundred yards away from any main attraction and pay dearly for the privilege. I went last night to the patrons party at Antoine's Restaurant and saw Charmaine Neville and the Dixie Cups. Great food and a great night.This is the second year I've gone and it was always good to see old friends; i.e. Jackie and Buzz Clarkson and their movie star daughter, Patricia Clarkson. Hadn't seen her since she was a little girl. Tempus fugit, my friends. I wanted to insert a picture of the Dixie Cups and me here but I haven't been able to upload it so far.

Wonderful Night at Basin St. Station

What a wonderfully unique place we inhabit. People all over the world know New Orleans for things like Bourbon Street, the Superdome, Cajun food, and Mardi Gras. Every one of those things would not be unique to us, unless they were mixed with music. Traditionally, the music we exported was jazz. Since I have returned to civilization some year and a half ago, I have been privileged to attend several musical events in small venues that I would have

Sharon and me

hoped everyone could have participated.

Last night was another special event that I wish everyone could have seen. It was on the fourth floor in the beautifully restored Basin Street Station, where WWOZ radio station filmed two artists that all New Orleans should treasure.

The first hour swiftly passed as saucy Ms. Sharon Martin, sang songs in her energetic style, with such panache and ease, that before long the room was putty in her hands. At the end of her show, the entire audience rose as one, giving her a well-deserved ovation. I hope to see her again soon, as she is one New Orleans must cherish.

Mario and me

The next and last hour was frenetically used up by the Mario Abney Sextet. This is a style of music New Orleans people haven’t heard lately; if ever. All six musicians were excellent. Mario is a trumpet player and is the leader of his group. His energy pervades the other five members, who are all accomplished solo players in their own right.

I’m glad there wasn’t a third group, as I expended all my energy on the first two.

Welcome

WELCOME HOME ABBIE We all missed you and are elated that you have returned to us.

Hooray for Hollywood

Whenever someone in Hollywood tells you “Hello,” their true meaning is “Goodbye.” If they come up to you and plant a kiss on your cheek and tell you how much they love you, it’s really similar to a kiss from a particularly odious cosa nostra Don who, after ordering your death contract, arranges your funeral with tears of remorse streaming down both of his swarthy cheeks. I have been in many negotiations where I knew the other side was trying their level best to screw me, but in H-wood, one never knows where they stand, even after a deal is consummated. The one thing you find out in short order is, they are going to screw you, and the only suspense is how they are going to do it.

            This particular saga begins in Paris in the early summer of 1975. Strolling around the Left Bank, hopping from one sidewalk café to another, I appeared on the surface to be a resolute, and possibly a secure man. But I was merely your pathetic hero, just waiting for the hunter to spring his trap. And spring he did.

            A friend of mine from college, Laurence Snelling, was a writer-in-residence in Paris. He lived in a pied a terre in the 14^th arrondissement where he plied his scribbling trade.

            Larry is a tortured human being. My guess is his father’s suicide contributed greatly to his psychological disorders. His academic brilliance was always offset by his laziness and reluctance to face head on, anything out of his structured world. His widowed mother forced him to attend Sewanee instead of Princeton, where he envisioned he would be aligned with the F. Scott Fitzgerald branch of that vaunted institution, and he resented this missed opportunity, greatly. As far as I know, he still writes his novels, in bed, with a fountain pen, and eschews the computer as if it were a pariah, most vicious. His sexual appetite is legion, and no prey is off limits to him.

            He attended Harvard Law School for one year and quit. His stated reason being, “The law was not for him.” I figured, once Larry realized he would be eaten up in a competitive world, he chose to write instead. He has had about six fictional novels published in his name, along with two mystery type books under the pseudonym of Peter Mallory. Most of his adult life was spent in Europe, primarily in France and Italy, and presently, he lives in New Orleans with his five cats. For all the time he lived in Europe, he was married to a lovely, intelligent, and long suffering wife, Virginia, whose saving grace was, she was rich as Croesus. Her wealth permitted Larry to live in a style far in excess of his means.

            Snelling was fairly successful with his first three novels in the early to late sixties, but since then, had found it more difficult to sell his works, particularly since he fired his agent, Sterling Lord. His way out of this declining slump was to have one of his first books made into a movie. He assumed once a movie was made, he could sweep out his closet and republish those books that formerly did not sell particularly well or those he had not yet succeeded in getting published. All I knew at that time about a movie was, you walk up to a little kiosk, plunk down a few dollars, they sell you a ticket, and you gain entrance to a theater where someone shows you a flick. That’s seeing a movie; making one is something vastly different. In my naiveté, I actually didn’t fathom the difference.

            Larry introduced me to a friend of his, Robert (Bob) Swaim, a movie director, who also lived in Paris. Bob Swaim was young and charming, with a beautiful French wife, and several children. He lived in a lovely apartment, spoke perfect French, and thoroughly enjoyed being recognized as someone involved in the movie industry.

            However, what I eventually found out is, everyone in that phony trade is constantly trying to be someone or something else. In Swaim’s case, he wanted to direct a major movie. Up until this point he had only done commercials and minor movies, all in French. He convinced Snelling he could write the screenplay and direct the movie made from one of Larry’s books, namely, The Heresy. This was a plot set in the south of France in the early 1200’s, about the time of the sixth crusade. It involved an obscure group of gnostics, the Cathars, whom the Pope, through his Holy Inquisition, eliminated at their fortress town of Monsegur, by stoking up a few stake fires and throwing the harmless Cathars in, feet first.

            The explanation and transition from Larry’s novel to movie was so convoluted, even I didn't think such an esoteric theme would translate well to the golden screen. However, Snelling was persistent, so we made a deal with Swaim to write a treatment for me to peddle to some naive investor. Swaim, being inherently lazy, began dragging his writing hand, and consequently I was still begging him in September to finish it. He never finished the treatment, although I believe Larry ultimately did finish one, which was horrible. It made no difference, for the hook was set. This boy wanted to be in the movie business.  

            When I returned to the States, I received Paris calls from Larry who told me I should go to California to meet one John Oldman, a mover and shaker in the movie trade, to see if a movie could be made from another of his books, The Temptation of Archer Watson. He indicated Oldman had read the work and was definitely interested in doing something with it. I felt this work was much better suited for the movies than Heresy was, and this revived my interest in doing a movie. Archer had everything; witty dialogue, sex, and tennis, which was served on every yuppie’s platter during that time.

            Oldman had apparently snookered poor Snelling into believing he was the reincarnation of Louis B. Meyer. Larry, being the only person in the world who is more gullible than I, convinced me to travel to Los Angeles to meet this captain of industry; John Oldman.

            How wrong first impressions can be. John Oldman dressed impeccably, drove a Mercedes, and sported a wad of cash. Later on I realized the clothing outfit was one of the few he owned, the Mercedes was leased, and the wad of cash he was sporting was borrowed from the absolute last person John could hit up. John was very reticent on first blush, and warmed to conversation, only after some verbal prompting. I saw him make several “pitches” to persons expressing interest in one of our projects, and every time, his voice never rose above an ear-straining level. I finally took over John’s duties as pitchman, seeing how everyone on the receiving end of his pitches, had to move so close to him, I thought they were kissing.

            My last contact with John probably best exhibits his personality. I got a call from him late one night telling me he was about to be evicted from his apartment and needed $400 to placate his landlord until his check arrived, from wherever he was working at that time. I sent him the check. Of course, several months went by and no Oldman call was forthcoming. Through a mutual acquaintance, I obtained his new number, found out where he worked, and finally got him to answer my call. “I was just getting ready to mail you a check,” he said, after the usual banalities were completed. True to his word, several days later, I received his check for $400. The check bounced.

            We formed a corporation known as Oldie, Inc., we opened an office in L.A. (the only way those people refer to Los Angeles), and we “took meetings.”  Everyone on the business side of the movie industry takes meetings in H-wood. I was loving it. I just couldn’t take enough meetings.

            Oldman convinced me he was a close tennis-playing friend of Jack Gilardi, a theatrical agent at International Creative Management (ICM) and reported Gilardi was poised to help us succeed. Oldman actually had a business card giving his address as c/o Jack Gilardi at his ICM address, so what more proof does a foolish lawyer need? I merely assumed my good buddy Jack was in on the deal.

            Gilardi was punctilious. A façade masked the hard, crafty underbelly of a theatrical agent involved in the promotion of a few of the piles of human detritus that orbit Planet Hollywood. He knew all the right people, dressed perfectly, spoke with an educated twang and, as best I could tell, really enjoyed what he was doing. Like everyone else in the town, he could lie convincingly, which is the only attribute I found permeated the entire society.

            Gilardi, at the time, was married to the ex-mouse, Annette Funicello. He lived in the appropriate H-wood mansion, drove the obligatory Mercedes, and was California charming. He convinced Oldman, and later me, he had under contract a budding young writer, Jonathan Axelrod, who was described to me as the next Raymond Chandler.

            Sitting in Gilardi’s office at ICM, anticipating the arrival of a young writer, who was allegedly on the cusp of greatness, my little heart was all aflutter. Once the door opened, I was confronted with this braggadocios, name-dropping, talentless kid, who would have been a permanent embarrassment to the founders of the Screen Writers Guild. My fears persisted, even as Gilardi and Oldman attempted to assuage them, after Jonathan left the office. Those suspicions were confirmed absolutely when I received the first draft of his screenplay.

            I remember a confrontation with Axelrod after he delivered the first draft of Archer, where I yelled, “this thing is supposed to be funny and there are absolutely no yuks in this crap you wrote.”

            “I can make it funny,” he pled, almost in tears. It certainly didn’t appear to me he could make it funny.

            Gilardi had told us we were getting a huge break catching this writing genius before he became a household word and Axelrod would do the screen version for $25,000. If we agreed, we had to post one-half of the total sum immediately. This I did, not wanting to lose another golden opportunity. We were told Axelrod had written the last Barbara Streisand movie and had worked on several other H-wood luminaries’ movies. "Worked on," as used in the movie industry, means anything from he wrote the entire script without help, or it could also mean he once fondled the front cover of an unsuccessful screenplay.

            In either case, the meaning is the same; you had no earthly idea what the guy did on any movie, ever. To hear any of these shameless people talk about their credits is an experience all by itself.  Everyone in H-wood has a meticulously prepared five-minute speech laboriously outlining their numerous talents, credits, and exploits. I’m not talking about the recognized stars; I’m talking about the lowly office clerk who is just waiting for Mr. & Mrs. Opportunity to come a-knockin’.

Ultimately, we got the first draft of this screenplay and I went into apoplectic shock. You think Franz Liebkind, writer of “Springtime for Hitler,” wrote a bad script; this was ten times worse. Had Mel Brooks known, he would have used the Axelrod masterpiece as a model for the world's worst script, in his movie “The Producers.” What was to be a script based on Archer Watson, a novel full of comic characters and situations, and funny, ironic, witty dialogue, was transformed into a juvenile piece of pap, which was tedious and ungrammatical. It was little more than a trite, heavy-handed, cliché-ridden message flick featuring a sixties atmosphere that was long gone, and never existed in New Orleans in the first place.  

In retrospect, there was no way Gilardi read the manuscript.  His interests were in the ten-percent commission and getting Oldman, his tennis-playing buddy, out of his hair, in that order. 

            As soon as I refused to tender the additional $12,500, the inevitable lawsuit ensued. Oldie, Inc., Oldman, and Abadie were all made defendants in a State Court in California. We hired our California lawyers and counter-sued ICM, Gilardi, ICM’s lawyer, Michael Black, and Axelrod, alleging fraud, misrepresentation, etc. After attorney fees, court costs, and a cost of defense settlement, I was out plenty. This coupled with the L.A. office lease, keeping Oldman alive, my flights to L.A., and my bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, it felt as if someone had vacuumed my wallet clean of all its dead Presidents.

            Later, Larry rewrote the Axelrod masterpiece and we then had a screenplay to peddle. For some inexplicable reason, I assumed once we had a product we all felt had commercial value, the rest of the puzzle would easily fall into place and then, we would make a movie. What I didn't count on was I, along with every other man, woman, and child in H-wood, had a screenplay to peddle. They walked down every street with it neatly tucked under their armpits and breathlessly anticipated taking a meeting with any producer or producer want-to-be, so they could flog their product. 

            For the next several months, I attempted to peddle the script, but each time was faced with more calculated resistance. I met numerous celebrities, quasi-celebrities, and others calling themselves celebrities, all of whom told me how much interest they had in doing this film, if only I had come two days earlier. If I hadn’t run out of cash, I might still be there, getting the door slammed in my face, and loving it.

            One of the people I met was a very funny man, a theatrical agent named Roy Silver. Roy was quick witted, intelligent, and exacting. You could tell he had negotiated many deals for his former clients, Bill Cosby and Tiny Tim, among them. His interests were eclectic as evidenced by his love of Oriental cooking. He regaled me with stories about the people he represented, and the best was one about his client, Herbert Khaury, a/k/a Tiny Tim. Right after the marriage on the Carson show to Miss Vicky, Roy booked the ukulele-playing songster into a Las Vegas hotel.

            One night, several white-on-white, dark suited behemoths forced their way into Roy’s more modest accommodations and announced to him they were the new managers of Tiny Tim and were taking over his contract. I asked Roy what he said to them. He replied, “Nothing. I packed my bags, left the hotel, and never saw of, or spoke to, Tiny Tim again.” Roy understood the business better than most.

            Presumably, Oldman wanted to deflect me away from the fact he could not get the movie sold, so he took a different direction. He came up with the brilliant idea of putting together a television tennis tournament, with the top four female tennis players in the world making up the field.  Up to this time, women’s tennis was almost unknown. They were just beginning to get a smattering of television coverage. It took a farcical match between Bobby Riggs and Billy Jean King to vault women's tennis into the limelight.

            A lawyer friend of Oldman’s, Dennis Bond, said his client, Paul Williams was performing in Tucson, Arizona as the opening act for Olivia Newton-John. He convinced us to travel with him to Tucson to the Margaret Court Racket Club Ranch. At that time, Margaret Court, Billy Jean King, Rosy Cassales, and a young neophyte, Chris Everet were the four best women players in the world.             Off to Tucson, on my nickel, to convince the manager of this beautiful club he really wanted to host this TV extravaganza. Oldman swore to me he had an in with an advertising executive at Coca-Cola who would jump at the chance of putting up seed money and would sponsor this unusual event. The Margaret Court club manager was naturally receptive; he got a television first at his club at minimal cost to him.  

Several weeks later, a friend I met in California, Paul Schulman, set up a meeting with the head of sports at several major networks in New York, who unbelievably expressed interest in our project, providing Oldman produced Coke as a sponsor. Of course, the closest Oldman had ever come to a Coke executive was his putting a dollar into the slot of an airport vending machine to purchase this delectable potable.

I just couldn’t keep up with Oldman, because occasionally, I had to return home and practice law in order to replenish my rapidly evaporating resources. Only God knows what he was doing in my absence. Every time I saw or talked to him on the phone he always had some fantastic scheme that was going to break the bank.

It did; it broke my bank account. In October 1977, I was still passing out scripts to alleged interested persons, who either knew someone to whom they could create interest in the script, or they swore to finance it themselves–all a pack of lies. At the end of 1977, I had enough of the movie, TV, and entertainment industry to last a lifetime. I had taken my last meeting in Southern California.

“California is a fine place to live – if you happen to be an orange,” said Fred Allen

In spite of everything, I will always have the memory of Gilardi, a gorgeous Jill St. John, and me, lunching in the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel, with this pathetic drool cascading off the end of my chin and clinging to their every wink.

Eat your heart out, boys.

Bernie–the–Bear

Bernie-the-Bear

            I first heard of Bernard John Darré during September of 1954. His father died in the stands when his Fortier High School football team was playing my high school in the initial game of that season. Bernie was a sophomore and I was a senior. I preceded him at Tulane by two years and was formally introduced to him in September 1957, when as a 165 pound interior lineman, he was granted an athletic scholarship after the importuning by his high school coach persuaded the head coach at Tulane to add him to the roster. Rumor has it was more a leveraging of the Tulane coach than importuning, since the Fortier coach had previously persuaded several larger and infinitely more talented athletes to complete in the university’s football program. Tulane’s coach was forced to accept this token player as a down payment on future fledgling stars. After the death of Bernard’s dockworker father, the family, never very wealthy before, now fell on even harder times and without a scholarship, he certainly would never have been financially able to attended Tulane, and I would have been deprived of one of the great joys of my life; having known Bernie-the-Bear.

            One thing I failed to mention above, he was a straight “A” high school student, something that surely escaped the clutches of your humble narrator, plus he had just celebrated his seventeenth birthday at the time of his freshman matriculation. Once he began eating regularly, exercising, and growing, Bernard’s body matured. This skinny boy, whose family lived on a street in New Orleans opposite the docks and next to a raucous barroom, morphed into to this two hundred forty pound athlete good enough to be selected to play in the College All Star Game, the Shriners’ East-West Game, and subsequently became a high draft choice of the Washington Redskins Professional Football Team, where he labored for two years.

            Once again, I forgot to mention, he graduated as an ‘A’ student from college, with a major in chemistry; an unbelievable feat, given the fact football took up so much of his time. He was able to save enough money from professional football to quit that avocation, and pursue his doctorate in chemistry from Ohio State University, which he received in the mid-sixties.

            Returning to Louisiana, along with a fresh Ohio bride, he took up residence in Baton Rouge, with a job in the Ethyl Refinery as a research chemist. Several years later, and obviously bored with a mundane laboratory existence, he left for the more intellectual confines of Stanford University, where he obtained his Masters of Business Administration degree.

            Welding together those academic pursuits, he was hired by the Shepherd Chemical Company of Cincinnati, Ohio, where he rose to lead them as their president and CEO until his tragic death on April 26, 2006.

            When I think back over the last fifty years of our friendship, I cannot remember one harsh word spoken between us, and that from one who has harsh words with almost everyone. I never heard him utter one negative comment about any human, animal, or flower; but do not mistake that for weakness. For while he was never a syrupy gusher of complements, and he took the people surrounding him in stride, he exuded an unmistakable aura of strength, which brought reason to discussions and comprehension to opposing views. He was totally secure in who he was, and who he was dealing with, and had no time or understanding of those who would not play the game by the strictest moral code. Everyone got the benefit of the doubt; often to his detriment, but he never wavered from his unalterable moral position and never compromised his gentle behavior.

            But that was the mature Bernard. There was another side to this gentle giant.

            In undergraduate school, Bernie was infatuated with this young lady, Cathy Bishop. For some unknown reason, she and he were discussing the effects of underarm deodorants on the human body and she apparently was complaining to him about the cost of purchasing the designer products and how they negatively reacted with her super-sensitive skin. Bernie, in an attempt to impress her, told her what a magnificent chemist he was and he could brew up a batch of sweet smelling stuff that would make the Dior’s of the world ashamed to market their inferior product, and at the same time would treat her skin like talcum powder.

            “Oh, Bernie. Could you make some for me?” she asked, batting her eyes seductively.

            Well it’s all Bernie needed. His weakness for eye batting placed him at a distinct disadvantage and he repaired to the laboratory to brew up the promised elixir. In actuality, what he did was borrow a bottle of his mother’s deodorant and began replicating the ingredients listed on the bottle. Several days later he extracted the final product from his lab caldron and presented Cathy with the resulting brew.

            “Oh, Bernie. Thank you so much,” she said, still batting her eyes at this poor schmuck, causing his knees to buckle like a piece of overcooked spaghetti.

            Cathy took the little box home and couldn’t wait to administer it to her waiting armpits. In all fairness, I did get a whiff of the mixture before he gave it to her and it smelled pretty good to me. By this time, Bernie was bragging to anyone who would listen, that he had created an aphrodisiac that would turn his new love into this compliant slave.

            To Cathy, the deodorant smelled wonderful, and the dulcet aromas sneaked out from under her arms and wafted beneath her nose. “Smell this,” she said to all of her friends, producing the newly minted bottle from her purse. “Bernie made it just for me.”

            When Cathy got home and took off her clothes, she noticed any area where she applied Bernard’s mixture, was covered in a bright red rash. Over night, the rash blossomed into these horrible looking sores and she itched like a fresh dose of the chicken pox had invaded her skin.

            It turns out Bernie had added or subtracted several ingredients from his mother’s bottle and that, plus the fact he was drinking beer with me in the lab during the brewing process, certainly detracted greatly from the final product. That was the end of Bernie’s love affair with Cathy; even though he told her he could correct his mistake and brew a perfectly acting liquid the next time. Cathy was too smart for his line.

            The second Bernie story which accurately illustrates another side to this complex man, happened one summer while I was attending summer school at Tulane. Bernie didn’t have to attend summer school because he was a straight ‘A’ student, while I was often grateful for the professor’s gift of a ‘gentleman’s C’ and had to attend one summer session in order to keep up with my aggressive classmates. Bernie was hired as a laboratory assistant by the chemistry department, so we were both living on campus without much to do.

            I called Bernie one day to get him out of the laboratory and accompany me to one of the nearby watering holes. He answered on the first ring.

            “What do you want?” he asked, knowing full well I wasn’t calling him asking for the atomic weight of helium.

            “How’s about a drink?”

            “Come over here and pick me up. I have to finish this experiment before I can leave.”

            When I arrived at the chemistry lab, Bernie was busy pouring some awful-colored mixture in with a clear liquid causing the reaction to bubble over like a Doctor Frankenstein experiment.

            “Brewing up a little something else for Cathy,” I asked, never letting him forget about his romantic blunder.

            “No. This is grain alcohol mixed with something else.” Bernard was smart enough to know I wouldn’t have any comprehension of the ‘something else’ liquid.

            All I heard was the word ‘alcohol,’ so I asked, “Can you drink that stuff?”

            Bernie looked at me like I was crazy. “Yeah, you can drink grain alcohol, but you have to mix it with jungle juice or something, because it’s one hundred and ninety proof. That stuff can make you blind if you’re not careful.”

            It was all I needed. Before we departed from the local watering hole, I convinced Bernie we were having a party at a friend’s house that night, and he and I would mix up this delectable potable to be served to all our friends and their dates. That afternoon, Bernie, our friend, Cameron Gamble, and I began mixing up this homebrew with the primary ingredient being the grain alcohol Bernie had purloined from the chemistry lab.

            In order to make sure the brew was tasty and the juice-grain alcohol mixture was correct, we needed to sample it throughout the afternoon. By the start of the party, Bernie, Cameron, and I were giggling like teenage school girls; the liquor having already taken its toll.

            All I can remember about the party was most of the girls were passed out on the floor, and their dates were so drunk, they just left them there and presumably staggered back to the dormitory.

            I woke up in a filthy ditch in front of Cameron’s house, trying to get up so I could also stagger back to my room in the dormitory before I drowned in all the gutter muck. I have no idea how long I was lying there.

            I looked over to my left and Bernie was face down in the same ditch. I thought he was dead. Fortunately, he wasn’t dead and I sat him up and shook him as hard as I could.

            “Get up Bernie. We’ve got to go home,” I mumbled, with the ditch’s refuse still stuck to various parts of our bodies.

            “Hell of a party, Pierre. Hell of a party” my great friend said, as he sneaked a smile past his drunken lips.