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Gay San Francisco: Eyewitness Drummer                 13





                          My Glittering Hotel
                                  by Tim Barrus

             I have never even once referred to Drummer magazine as a publication.
                Drummer was and is and will always be my glittering hotel.
                It was a place. It was where I lived. It was where the most extraordin-
             ary men walked into my life. It was a fantasy. It was reality. It was where I
             lost my mind and nearly my life. It was about the drugs. It was about the
             sex. It was about the leather. It was rock and roll gone lost in the chaos of
             a dark music so dark you, too, became naked in the shadows. It was work.
             It was sweat. It was a place inundated, crowded, and haunted by ghosts.
                Both the living and the dead. Ghosts.
                I do not dare even dream the dreams of those nights anymore. I can-
             not go back. I don’t think I could survive another stint at my glittering
             hotel.
                Scott O’Hara walks into my office unannounced: “Let’s walk naked
             down Market Street with NAMBLA at the parade.”
                “Okay.”
                Mark I. Chester walks into my office unannounced. Sits down. Puts
             head between his knees: “They’re driving me insane.”
                “Okay.”
                TR Witomski walks into my office unannounced: “I hate it you got
             this job as editor.”
                “Okay.”
                Jim Wigler walks into my office unannounced: “You will never be
             organized. It’s not possible.”
                “Okay.”
                Scott Taylor walks into my office unannounced: “I’ll set myself on
             fire if you’ll take the photographs.”
                “Okay.”
                Coulter Thomas walks into my office unannounced: “I have a new
             tattoo of a snake emerging from my rectum. Would you like to see it.”
                “Okay.”
                Australian cowboy walks into my office unannounced: “I’ve come all
             the way from Australia to see you. I’m staying with you for the next three
             months.”
                “Okay. Here’s the key.”
                Jack Fritscher walks into my office.

           ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved—posted 05-05-2017
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