The details are sketchy. I’ve got a few friends in Boca, mostly musicians, this is what I pieced together.
He dressed like Johnny Cash and he slept like a bat. He didn’t hang from the ceiling. Nothing freaky. He slept on his back, knees bent, arms crossed, each hand holding the opposite shoulder.
He took a lot of naps.
He left notes. Perfect penmanship on the backs of business cards. Everyone dismissed them — now we know better. Notes like: “Does the dreamer know he’s dreaming?” and “Nothing beats New Jersey in Spring.”
And women played him like a fiddle. If they were beautiful and they asked him to tell them they were beautiful, he would. He knew the consequences — he heard the thunder — but he would tell them. He’d watch the affirmations cover them like a blanket that will disappear in the morning.