March 3, 2006

•   David Riddle, RIP
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  t

  My mother died recently and ever since, I have been thinking about death more than usual. This morning, I got to thinking about David Riddle, aka The Riddler. We used to get high a lot together, I’d front him pot to sell but the profits all wound up in his arm. He ended up living with his parents in his old room, would do vodka and reds and wander around town. The cops knew he was harmless  and pretty much left him alone. One time he was wandering around the rail yards, fell under a train, lost a couple of fingers. Next time he did it, a few years later, he got all dismembered. He was in his thirties, still dressed like he did in high school. Some Riddler wisdom–”If drugs are a crutch, I’m building myself a wheelchair.” Another time, in 1971, he was at my nice apartment talking loudly about dope–I asked him to lower his voice. So he knelt down, put his face by the carpet and kind of hissed “Heroin, heroin.” Still another time, someone asked him what it was like to drop acid. His reply–”What is it like to take a shit?” In life Dave really didn’t seem to belong anywhere. I guess that’s why he used to walk around a lot. For a while, he lived in the closet of the manager’s office of the Troll Palace, a rock club a friend owned. Whatever. Rest in pieces, dude.

  • 2:19 pm
  • 5 Comments