In the summer of 1968, 6 of us friends went to Baton Rouge to see Jimi Hendrix play at Independence Hall. First show was at seven, next show was at 11, I think. We went to the early show, and afterwards we went to the hotel next door, wandering around as kids will do. We were all about 16.
A bell hop asked us out of the blue, "Are you looking for Jimi's room?"
He gave us the room number, and we rode the elevator up, knocked on the door. Blonde chick opens the door and marijuana smoke (I've been told what it smells like, ok? A sickening, sweet smell, right? That's what they say. Anyway...) and incense came pouring out of the room, which was lit with red light bulbs.
"Is Jimi here?" I asked, because there was nothing much else to say.
"Just a second." She goes back into the room (dragging her ass in annoyance is more like it). Jimi Hendrix comes to the door. We tell him how much we liked the show. He shook all our hands, and smiled and joked a bit, and that was that. But not really, because the story never wears out.
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