Subtitle: The Transitory Recognition of Improbable Solutions
It was the early 1990’s in NYC. The East Village was a cross cultural hybrid (cinematically speaking) of Casablanca meets frontier Tombstone and the after hour clubs were at a sustainable peak. The streets were imbued with quasi-wannabe hipsters, junkies, artists, uptown refugees… the corruptible men in uniforms. In all, the embodiment of Fellini’s Satyricon and a colourful place to live and play.
At some point after midnight, I made eye contact with a blonde street-goddess utterly draped in leather from head to toe. In a trance-like gait, we began to walk toward one and other smiling then started to make-out! A brief eternity later… we introduced ourselves. Star crossed lovers... not, perhaps kindred spirits living a similar coexistence… maybe. Possibly it was my tight leather jeans and cycle boots… the chain hanging from my belt?
As the evening progressed, it became clear that Claudia (her street tag) was not one of the Usual Suspects. In fact, she was quite unique to any in my circle of friends. She was the lead vocalist / song writer in a NJ rock band and worked part-time as a Dominant at a local dungeon – received recompense for sexual flavor – possessed an impaling sarcastic wit, garnished with a Megalodonian opiate habit.
Regardless of individual circumstance and preferences, we remained close platonic friends until her passing. She chose Death to Rehab with the clear understanding that Methadone clinics were in no way going to allow her to actually recover from her addiction. They are/were notorious maintenance programs designed to keep addicts on a governmental leash in the guise of public assistance. Most if not all did not offer proper counseling or therapy and have not changed their clinical approach to addiction since the 1960’s.
RIP Baby Girl – you will be sorely missed…
