So there I was, sitting at that table. On my left I had Winkle looking like he wanted to kill me. Across from me there’s Feldman, probably wondering if John, Paul, George, and Ringo ever gave Brian Epstein this much trouble. My pancreas was burning like a son of a bitch, my career was slipping through my hands, and all I could think about was Eliza. Pitiful. I wanted to run out and find her and tell her how much I hated her. And I do. Because I’m sure I could make it through these cataclysms and survive my undoing with genuine amusement if only she were down on Ludlow Street waiting for me.
