So Joe came over after the show. We talked, smoked, drank, drank, drank, smoked, and it was bigger than both of us. Joe, being from a liberal family from Berkeley and an arch radical, suffered from typical Catholic schoolboy pangs of guilt, and had some superstition in his mind that if he didn’t actually “sleep” with me, it was not so bad. So he slept on the couch, awaking me in the morning with more caresses, and then saying, “How can you do this and say you’re a friend of Robin’s? Poor Robin, sitting at home with the kid!”

By this time I was laughing my head off it was so hilarious, and asked him if he knew Michael Lydon, whom I didn’t want to discover our adventure. He said not personally but that Michael’s former old lady was living with him and Robin since apparently some “other woman” groupie slicky had [lured] him away. When I told him I was that [groupie slicky], he held his head in his hands and moaned. I explained to him that these things happen, especially with nice people, since they’re bound to know and like each other. That wasn’t much solace, and he begged me not to come to San Francisco for a while and please never to let either Robin or Michael get wind of l’affaire extraordinaire.