No Regrets by Joe Layden Ace Frehley John Ostrosky Page A
Authors: Joe Layden Ace Frehley John Ostrosky
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sitting (or where I thought we had been sitting—Mad Dog wreaks havoc on the memory), but I could find nothing at all.
And then the alarms began to sound.
“Come on!” Gene shouted from the lobby. “Let’s hit the road!”
“Fuck! I can’t find it!”
I ran back out the front door, slipping on a pile of broken glass and slicing my hand open in the process. Then I scrambled to my feet and sprinted away. As Gene and I rounded a corner, I could see a pair of cop cars pulling up in front of the theater, sirens wailing, lights flashing.
Too tired and drunk to talk, I smiled at Gene, even as we kept running. We ended up back at my place completely exhausted, and I had to wake up my mom to help clean out and bandage my hand (since I was too loaded to do it myself).
The following day, I went down to Roosevelt and picked up a replacement diploma. They wanted to know what had happened to the original.
“It was destroyed in a freak accident at the theater,” I said.
Which was the truth… sort of.
ARE YOU EXPERIENCED?
July 17, 1970
In the wake of Woodstock, the entire music business was gripped with what could best be described as Festival Fever. Multi-act shows, sometimes lasting a few hours, stretching out over days, were all the rage. This being the height of the Vietnam War, themes of brotherhood and peace typically were attached to the proceedings, to give the whole thing an air of nobility. Really, though, it was the music that mattered.
That and the drugs.
And the sex.
The summer of 1969 had been a blast. I got into the hippie scene in a major way: drank a lot of wine, smoked a lot of pot, had sex with a half-dozen different girls. Everything was loose and easy and relatively safe. By the following summer, though, things seemed to have changed a bit. I noticed some of my friends had modified their habits when itcame to dealing with mind-altering substances. Instead of just lighting up a joint, they’d drop some acid. A few had even started shooting dope. Heroin, frankly, scared the shit out of me. Always did. Even at the height of my drug use I stayed away from heroin, partly because I didn’t like needles, but also because I honestly thought it might kill me. As for LSD, well, that was spooky shit as well. Probably had something to do with my bad glue trip and the scary psychosis that went along with it. I knew enough about acid to know that it could really fuck with your mind, and not just in the short term. I noticed that with some of my friends, if they had a couple of bad trips, the effects could linger for months, either in the form of flashbacks or depression. Then they’d start taking downers to ease the stress and anxiety that came with residual psychosis, or whatever you want to call it. All that mattered to me was this: if you dropped too much acid (and who the hell was to say how much was too much?) you had a reasonable chance of ending up in the nuthouse.
I didn’t need that risk—my psychological state was fragile enough, as the U.S. Army had determined when I was classified 1-Y following a psychiatric evaluation at Fort Hamilton, in Brooklyn. That got me out of the draft, which was all well and good, but it certainly left some lingering doubts about my mental health.
So I never took LSD. Not intentionally, anyway. I may have been dosed a couple of times, however. I remember once in high school, for example, this kid named Alex who used to walk the hallways with a goofy smile on his face. A little heavy, with a bulbous nose and a face forever flushed red, he reminded me of Santa Claus. Handed out treats like St. Nick, as well.
“Try this, man,” he said one day, offering me a joint.
“What is it?”
“Panama Red. Awesome shit.”
I smoked it that afternoon with my friend Keith, and we tripped in a major way. I’m talking Day-Glo colors and kaleidoscopic visions. I don’t know for sure if it was laced with acid, but if not, it was the strongest,strangest pot I’ve ever smoked.
And then the alarms began to sound.
“Come on!” Gene shouted from the lobby. “Let’s hit the road!”
“Fuck! I can’t find it!”
I ran back out the front door, slipping on a pile of broken glass and slicing my hand open in the process. Then I scrambled to my feet and sprinted away. As Gene and I rounded a corner, I could see a pair of cop cars pulling up in front of the theater, sirens wailing, lights flashing.
Too tired and drunk to talk, I smiled at Gene, even as we kept running. We ended up back at my place completely exhausted, and I had to wake up my mom to help clean out and bandage my hand (since I was too loaded to do it myself).
The following day, I went down to Roosevelt and picked up a replacement diploma. They wanted to know what had happened to the original.
“It was destroyed in a freak accident at the theater,” I said.
Which was the truth… sort of.
ARE YOU EXPERIENCED?
July 17, 1970
In the wake of Woodstock, the entire music business was gripped with what could best be described as Festival Fever. Multi-act shows, sometimes lasting a few hours, stretching out over days, were all the rage. This being the height of the Vietnam War, themes of brotherhood and peace typically were attached to the proceedings, to give the whole thing an air of nobility. Really, though, it was the music that mattered.
That and the drugs.
And the sex.
The summer of 1969 had been a blast. I got into the hippie scene in a major way: drank a lot of wine, smoked a lot of pot, had sex with a half-dozen different girls. Everything was loose and easy and relatively safe. By the following summer, though, things seemed to have changed a bit. I noticed some of my friends had modified their habits when itcame to dealing with mind-altering substances. Instead of just lighting up a joint, they’d drop some acid. A few had even started shooting dope. Heroin, frankly, scared the shit out of me. Always did. Even at the height of my drug use I stayed away from heroin, partly because I didn’t like needles, but also because I honestly thought it might kill me. As for LSD, well, that was spooky shit as well. Probably had something to do with my bad glue trip and the scary psychosis that went along with it. I knew enough about acid to know that it could really fuck with your mind, and not just in the short term. I noticed that with some of my friends, if they had a couple of bad trips, the effects could linger for months, either in the form of flashbacks or depression. Then they’d start taking downers to ease the stress and anxiety that came with residual psychosis, or whatever you want to call it. All that mattered to me was this: if you dropped too much acid (and who the hell was to say how much was too much?) you had a reasonable chance of ending up in the nuthouse.
I didn’t need that risk—my psychological state was fragile enough, as the U.S. Army had determined when I was classified 1-Y following a psychiatric evaluation at Fort Hamilton, in Brooklyn. That got me out of the draft, which was all well and good, but it certainly left some lingering doubts about my mental health.
So I never took LSD. Not intentionally, anyway. I may have been dosed a couple of times, however. I remember once in high school, for example, this kid named Alex who used to walk the hallways with a goofy smile on his face. A little heavy, with a bulbous nose and a face forever flushed red, he reminded me of Santa Claus. Handed out treats like St. Nick, as well.
“Try this, man,” he said one day, offering me a joint.
“What is it?”
“Panama Red. Awesome shit.”
I smoked it that afternoon with my friend Keith, and we tripped in a major way. I’m talking Day-Glo colors and kaleidoscopic visions. I don’t know for sure if it was laced with acid, but if not, it was the strongest,strangest pot I’ve ever smoked.
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