protein wisdom’s Democratic National Convention coverage, 15
Woke up under a pile of windbreakers and ponchos in the backseat of James Taylor’s tour bus at about 3 am EST, one of the Kerry daughters passed out nude in the aisle, Tipper Gore folded over JT’s lap like a fleshy pink topcoat. The bus was cruising through Connecticut on its way down to the Carolinas, the driver told me, so I begged out, and he was cool enough to drop me at a Denny’s just off highway 84 near Waterbury, where I spent most of the night stuffing my face with pancakes and chatting up the waitress, Bethany S., a UConn junior with an easy smile and small, perky breasts.
When her shift ended Bethany took me back to her place and let me crash for a few hours, then gave me a lift to the airport this morning, so I hooked her up with a handful of Lorazepam and one of those fiendish Willy Nelson joints I’d begged off Lester the roadie. The last two quaaludes I saved for myself, to help take the edge off on the plane ride home. I should be back in Colorado in about 3-4 hours, I figure—and when I get there, I plan to drive my Jeep into the mountains, fire up the remains of Lester’s stellar herb, throw in a John Denver CD, and reflect on the past 4 days. Talk with y’all sometime after that.
Man, being a reporter is fun…