I remember doing drugs with Darby Crash. Only one time, I think–joints don’t count–and it must have been 1980. We–me and my wife, or wife to be at the time–were at the Capital Records swap meet. If you were in L.A. back then you’ll remember that scene, a parking lot full of record geeks and Hollywood freaks. The Capital Records building towered over us just like marble, a huge concrete stack of 45’s. We were new in town but knew people who knew people who knew everybody. We were hanging, a bunch of us, nicely stoned and digging the weirdness when up walks Darby Crash. He was already legendary by that point, a superstar in the tiny punk rock world of Los Angeles. Scenesters and heavies circled round. Someone–a chick with wild dyed hair and black nails–pulled a jar full of variously colored pills from her purse. We all reached in for a few and washed them down with warm beer. No idea what they were. The night swirled by in slow motion and euphoria, colors and weirdness and sounds. Strange notes hung in the air from a hundred portable phonographs. As the witching hour drew near the event began to break up. People followed Darby over to Oki Dog. We wandered off on our own, down Vine past the weird bars and the drag queens dressed just like Garbo. There was a strange, giggly bus ride home. Sex all night. We were young and punk rockers and in love and L.A. was crazy and exciting, and the matter that ran through our heads was too concerned to fall.