These days flit past me. Getting by, from one paycheck to another, and trying to fabricate as much fun as I can within my means. It’s a dreary middle-class story with little glamour. Friday night Vern came over after a long absence (we haven’t seen him since Thanksgiving) and we sat at the dining room table and drank two six packs, a fifth of scotch, smoke a good deal of dope and went out later to see a drag show. He wore my fathers cowboy boots and let me put my hand under his leg in the car– we did poppers at the drag show and bellowed like a couple of cowboys and drove home like maniacs. Vern is a fine cowboy. I fixed supper when we got home and he spent the night sleeping next to me in bed. Vern is a fine cowboy.