
We freaks would have one last hurrah, a benefit to save Adam Purple's garden, an old man who rode around on a bicycle collecting trash, raggedy garb garnished by a purple bandanna. Few of us really knew who he was. He lived in the last of a row of condemned houses on Forsyth, south of Houston and east of Bowery, a last surviving ex-hippie from the scene that precursed ours, living with no heat or water, reputedly burning his own dried shit for fuel. Five story walkups, turn of the century built in weeks for the cost of [...]