As a photographer, I found myself associating with a rather eccentric New York crowd; artists, writers, dancers; the whole panoply of Manhattan revelry and nightlife. I had moved into a building on West 68th street near Central Park, and soon discovered that I was the only straight single male in a building who’s population was 90% young female dancers, actresses, and models. I became very popular with the girls there, all of whom loved my cooking, especially my buckwheat sourdough pancakes. I soon had a lot of overnight guests, only partially due to my famous breakfasts!
I could not drink alcohol for fear of malaria attacks, but was never really much of a fan of the Dionysian pleasures anyway. Thus I found myself a valued member of many a partying crew because being sober and having a car promoted me to the vaunted rank of perpetual designated driver. I fell in with a small but boisterous group of fellows; one an odd pothead poet named Jack Kerouac, another rather furry versifier called Alan Ginsburg, and a third oddly sinister and sartorially splendid literati from Brooklyn, William Burroughs. For a couple years I partied with these strange and interesting souls, and enjoyed ferrying them to and from their inebriated revelries.