Some time around dessert, a newspaper appeared and we checked out what acts were in town. A group called “Stark Naked and the Car Thieves” was playing at a club called the Pussy Cat A-Go-Go. Everyone was intrigued by that combination of names, especially Jim. “Gotta catch this act,” he said.
        We were all in a jolly mood when we parked our three cars near the entrance of the Pussy Cat: Mike and his girlfriend, Chaney and his wife, Jim, Bev and myself. As we got out of the car, Jim took a cigarette and proceeded to clownishly mime puffing it like it was a marijuana joint.
        A security guard at the entrance to the Pussy Cat was not amused. He suddenly came at Jim with his club raised and whacked him on the side of the head. Chaney rushed the guard and demanded he stop. Mike and I demanded to see the management. Morrison went on pretending to puff a joint as though nothing unusual was happening. The security guard continued to whack Jim. Chaney yelled, “Call the police! This is an outrage!” I approached the guard, hoping to tell him that Jim was just clowning, that it was a tobacco cigarette, not a joint, but the guard turned and swung his club at me. I ducked and retreated. Jim continued to lean languidly against a wall, pretending to be totally involved with his imaginary joint, oblivious to the guard, who continued clubbing his head.
        Blood was now trickling down Jim's face. When I realized Chaney was moving toward getting physical with the guard, I put myself between him and the guard. Other security people moved toward us. An escalation of violence was averted by the arrival of two police cars.
        The cops took one look at the scene and went straight for Jim and manhandled him away from the club's entrance and bent him over the hood of a police car, then came for me, the other long hair of our group. While bent over the hood of the police car, I suddenly remembered that I had a real marijuana joint in my pocket and began to sweat. In 1968 this could get you put away in a Nevada jail for a long stretch. The police then grabbed Chaney, presumably because he was a black male, but after a brief conference, recognized him as a local maitre d' and let him go. During this interlude, I managed to get rid of the joint by tossing it under the parked patrol car, just before the cops returned and searched us.
        They handcuffed us and put us in the back seat and drove. Jim now got into a chant-like rant, saying things like, “Hey Bob, ain't these peckerwood rednecks the most pathetic motherfuckers you ever saw?” And other such endearments. One officer turned around and said to me, “You'd better shut your friend up, or we're gonna have a party after midnight when we get off duty. We're gonna take you guys to a cell where we can be alone.”
        Hearing this threat only raised Jim's rant a few decibels. I knew him well enough by this point to realize that he had just enough wine in him to be entering his death-defying zone. Not much anyone could do with him when he got into that space. He was the only human being I'd ever met who showed no fear of death. All break-through art demands a death-defying courage and Jim had it in spades.

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