Mike had gone to Occidental University on a science scholarship and had not encountered many with a mind to match his own. He was a Doors fan but nothing he'd heard or read about The Doors had prepared him for this offstage Morrison who could be dangerously demonic-possessed one moment and scintillatingly brilliant the next.
        When Bev and I woke up the next morning, we found our two poets sprawled on the desert floor about fifty yards from Mike's apartment, sound asleep with the empty Jack Daniels bottle between them. Mike had to take a quick shower and hurry off to his job as a blackjack dealer. Jim, Bev and I went to one of those lavish casino buffets for brunch. After a couple of beers and a meal, Jim was ready to do another few days in Vegas. Bev and I insisted we had pressing business at home. We piled back into the car and hit the interstate with Jim disgruntled about leaving Vegas behind.
        Back in LA, we went to the Whisky A Go-Go, where Bev and I were surprised to learn Jim was expected because The Doors were playing that night. Had he forgotten? I'll never know. Waiting to go on, he got into a pensive mood and talked about their gig at the Whisky. The thing The Doors liked best about it, he said, was that they could try out musical ideas and improvisations on live audiences. We stayed and caught their first performance, and I was again awed by the originality The Doors were bringing to rock music—and by Jim's powerful stage presence. To this day, I think his presence was so overwhelming that the ingenious melodies and compositions of The Doors have never been fully appreciated. And, of course, context made a big difference—the Whisky was a world away from the Moulin Rouge.
        About a month later, Jim came out to Malibu glowing with the exciting news that The Doors were going to tour Europe. I was going with them, he said, and I was going to write a book about it. Okay?
        I was happy to hear about the tour, happy to be asked to come along. But I didn't give Jim a firm answer, hemmed and hawed and said I'd get back to him. I was waiting for a friend to call from New York with further word about Herb Alexander's “situation at Pocket Books.” Something mysterious was happening, it seemed. I'd been calling Herb, being told he was “out.”
        Meanwhile, the anti-war movement had heated up and I was flying to Washington and San Francisco to cover marches for underground papers, meeting Abby Hoffman, Hunter Thompson, Lennox Raphael and other Movement people. The Federal Government was tapping phones and using provocateurs to sabotage the lives of Movement people. I was making plans to attend the 1968 Democratic National Convention that summer and do a film about it. I knew The Doors group was a rare and spectacular orchid in the rock 'n roll garden, and felt I had it in me to write a book that would plumb the depths of their contribution—but should I give up tracking the Movement to go to Europe and follow The Doors?

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