I have on several occasions been transported from the sidewalk in front of the Towne Lounge to the drunk tank in Oroville. Once, however, it was to Enloe Hospital that the paramedics delivered my unconscious body. Early in the morning of August 9, 2004, I was doing what I had done for thousands of early mornings--sipping Jack Daniel's and water, no ice... Roger Montalbano and a friend dropped by, and they each bought me a drink. Then David "Twelve-pack" showed up; and he bought me one. The bargirl gave me one on the house; and I think I bought myself one or two. I do not remember leaving. I woke up in the Emergency Room, with a forehead smashed by the curb at 327 Main Street. Enloe kept me there for six days. I have not been in the Scrounge Lounge since then. The memories will always be fresh in my mind, and heart. In many respects, it was the closest thing to a sanctuary in my battered, bipolar days. I wrote some of my best poems and columns therein, met some of the finest women. I wish I had the courage to go back there, just once more, and sip away a few hours revelling in reminiscence, thanking in my soul all those who enhanced my hours there.
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A SELF UNSHARED SHRIVELS.