I recall that one night a young woman vomited on this painting.
At this point in time I was having many wonderful parties at my small private art gallery on Harrison Street at 3rd in San Francisco. (This was my gallery and I showed only my own art) I recall on one such evening a merrymaker accidentally knocked this painting off the wall and barfed on it. Fortunately, one of the other guests cleaned it off before her stomach acid had a chance to eat through the paint. I used to bring 2 or three ounces of magic mushrooms for these parties. We would cook them up into a thick brown pungent tea. There was plenty of good pot, beer, wine, booze and just about anything else except sobriety. The drinks were free, and they were all spiced with the tea. Or you could have the tea straight. The shit DID fly at those parties.
Some nights we would pack over a hundred people in my gallery. There was load music and fights and drunks and strippers and broken furniture. I had a wine bottle embedded in a wall. How that bottle didn't break I do not know. Sometimes people would even comment on the art.
I would usually black out a few hours into the party and would wake up in the morning with the wretched sun boring into my red eye sockets. I would lay on the floor masochistically enjoying the pain and depression. Usually there would be two or three other bodies strewn beside me in the wreckage of beer bottles, wine stains and tipped over furniture. I could afford to relish my pain because I would always have a secret stash of vicoden or morphine tablets hidden. I would crawl to them and wash them down with whatever liquid I could locate, then close my eyes and wait for the awful sweet pounding pain to be replaced with the golden euphoria of the narcotics! Within an hour or so of ingesting my 'hangover concoction' I would rise from my floor and feel a little like God. My habit was then to walk up the street where I would dine on slabs of bacon and poached eggs! ... AHHHHH! ... Those WERE the days!
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