3. An indignant L.A. Times reporter rising unsteadily at the end of a strained and drunken restaurant interview, telling Xavier, our frontman, who kept mimicking her, that she didn’t give a shit what NME said: He wasn’t fit to suck Mick Jagger’s dick.
4. Glimpsing the five of us, scrawny and hirsute, in torn jeans and thousand-dollar jackets, conscientiously vapid expressions on our faces, cigarettes dangling from the corners of our mouths, on the cover of a British music magazine on a Heathrow newsstand. And being achingly, crushingly jealous of myself.
5. The look of horror on my graying parents’ faces when I informed them, in the sun-filled great room of their Long Island McMansion, that the White Devils had signed a three-album deal with a record label so huge they’d actually heard of it. And that I’d be quitting Hunter in the spring to start touring.
6. A blonde Ms. Porter’s type, eighteen at most, spreading her legs in the back of a limo to show the Devils (and her two friends) that she really wasn’t wearing underwear. And that she didn’t color her hair.
7. Sitting in the stark white dressing room of a Fifth-Avenue Gucci store, passing around a bottle of warm Tanqueray with Xavier, a hot CBS intern named Mirielle, and a busboy from some Burmese restaurant we’d just been to uptown. This last comprehending not a word of English.
8. Kissing Trent, the Devils’ other guitarist, over a lit-from-below tabletop in a Soho nightclub called Increase, a half-dozen cameras flashing around us.
9. My first ever $500 haircut, which began, and essentially ended, with my bangs being lifted and chopped unceremoniously an inch from my forehead.
10. Receiving in the mail, with no explanatory note of any kind, a photograph of myself propped up unconscious on a nightclub sofa, a penis dangling inscrutably next to my right ear.
11. Vince, at the Devils’ first-ever Manhattan gig (the Wild Boar, East Village) vomiting up pure triple sec all over his snare drum. Randy ripping, bloody fisted, an untunable string from his Fender bass. Trent tumbling backwards over a stage monitor, breaking a tuner off his Gibson. Me bouncing frenetically in Chuck Taylors, wrist pistoning, smoke from the cigarette in my mouth making my eyes clench involuntarily shut. Xavier clutching fistfuls of his own hair as he sang at the edge of the stage, staring psychotically, pleadingly into the crowd’s eyes.
12. Jerry, one of our three roadies, a Dartmouth dropout, informing us backstage at our only CBGB show that he'd seen four people engaged in an unnatural act downstairs in what he was pretty sure was the women’s room. Me wondering: What the fuck was Jerry doing in the women’s room?
13. Snorting cocaine, for no other reason than to say I’d done it, off an Elite model’s narrow white ass.
