The Grateful Dead were playing at Kezar Stadium that day. I was having an affair with Joey Merlino, A hot little Italian boy, who was one of the “Angels of Light”, a ragtag hippe/witchie/artiste’ types who put on multi media productions for free. It was a glorious, sky’s the limit Saturday in the Haight. A contingent of Angels descended on my Stanyan St. apartment to drag me along. All to eager to be with that group and Joey, I hurried into the bathroom to put on a face of clown white, orange eyes and blue lipstick. A black beaded old ladies’ dress top over jeans, white adult sized baby shoes, a royal blue padded shoulder sport coat, and a thousand rings and things completed the picture. Joyously, I leapt down the steps to join the rest of the Angels. Conveniently, I lived directly across the street from Kezar. While everyone was decked out in his or her Saturday worst, our entrance created the scene. Capes and colors and rosaries and furs and glitter and theatricality that could have only been produced by minds blinded by drugs; royally swept down the aisles to the front. We were all on tripping. Paul Darling, one of the most cherubic of the angels had, unfortunately, taken too much. His best friend the multi talented and adoring Miss T a black angel of great repute came to his rescue. The ever-present paramedics, expecting such occurrences were ready to administer Thorazine to the fallen Angel. Miss T, ever sharp, and thinking only of additional chemical comfort informed the paramedics that Paul was allergic to Thorazine, a useful lie for the moment. No one of us, save the truly twisted Juanita Weinberg, actually enjoyed Thorazine. So Miss T, unbelievably to us, convinced the paramedics to inject Paul with morphine to bring him down, and they, overwhelmed by the authority and grandeur of the black angel, complied. Paul, the fallen angel, gently awoke to a new dawn for the second time that day
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