And this is one of my lasting impressions of Ian—an image I have in my head of him, like the image of him chasing the drum down the motorway or pissing in the ashtray. It’s of Ian, who liked to read Burroughs and Kafka and discuss art with Annik, asking this French guy where all the girls were. “Girls,” he was saying. “Where are all the girls?” Holding his arms to his chest and waving them up and down like a pair of jiggly boobs. “Where are all the girls?”
