“I realize that I’ve been hypnotized.” — Jimi Hendrix
Where do self-destructive impulses come from? I had romanticized images of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin but they were dead long before I heard of them.
The first time I shot heroin was down at St. Mark’s place in 1978. I was a 17-year-old aspiring artist looking for a place to sell my Pollok-ish hand-painted T-shirts. I’d seen people leaning against the walls of Cooper Union, selling their junk on the strip between Lafayette and Third Ave.
I have no idea where my self-destructive impulses came from. I was prone to dark thoughts and there’s a history of suicidal tendencies in my Russian Jewish bloodline that dates back generations.
One uncle shot himself in the chest and died before he hit the bed. His brother died from a second heart attack; he’d ignored the doc and kept on popping pills and smoking four packs a day. On the paternal side, my aunt was found with a plastic bag around her head. The topic was taboo but what’s more enticing to a teen hellion than something you’re not supposed to do?
I had romanticized images of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin, both long dead before I’d heard of them. Suburbia was traumatic for me and I was sick of arguing with my parents. I ran away at 15 and bee-lined for Greenwich Village where remnants of the sixties were everywhere. Guitars and radios played Bob Dylan, Neil Young; people singing waved me to come over. I liked the cool head shops on Eighth Street and hung around them, eavesdropping to learn about drugs and paraphernalia.