Okay, so, it was the spring of 1967, and I had run off to Woodstock where I lived with a sweetheart of a guy named Tim who took me in, fed me, and nursed me back to health after a ridiculously long, frightful bout of flu. I had been reading a lot of Baudelaire, Jean Genet, and Arthur Rimbaud, and aspired to be a poete maudit, the "anti-Christ" as I liked to call it.
After I regained my balance, while Tim went to work, he worked a night job, I put on my low cut dress, my black silk stockings, high heels, and strutted off to a bar called The Elephant.
One night, or should I say one morning at about 2 A.M., I was sitting with a group of people I barely knew, drinking a lot, and being generally rowdy when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the most beautiful man----tall, very slender, high cheekbones, with the longest fingers I have ever seen on anyone. He was wearing a pink satin outfit. All I could think was "what a phenomenal looking man," and then I realized it was Jimi Hendrix. Jimi was with two middle-aged white guys in suits. They walked across the room, and sat down at a table about 50 feet away from me.
The people at my table started to scream "Look, that's Jimi Hendrix, that's Jimi Hendrix," so I took my chair and turned my back on all of them. I folded my arms dramatically, and rolled my eyes up signifying my embarrassment.
I turned my head to the area where Jimi was sitting with his two manager-looking types, and saw that Jimi quiclkly moved away from the guys he was with, folded his arms dramatically, and rolled his eyes back in his head. Our eyes locked, and we both started laughing. We shared a moment. One that has never left me, and never will.