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Jim is a speed-freak bike messenger whose devotion to her drug habit rivals the intensity of her adoration for Ally, her brilliant stripper girlfriend. When she's forced to choose between drugs and the girl, time and again she succumbs to her addiction-but somehow she's still unable to attain the ultimate high she seeks. After losing her messenger job, Jim works first as a downwardly spiraling drug dealer, then as a roadie for a touring all-girl punk band, and engages in short-lived halfhearted romances while pining for Ally. She winds up staying in a squat house in New York City when the roadie gig ends, and finally begins cleaning up her act. But upon eventually returning home to San Francisco, Jim finds that things have changed in a way she can't reconcile. It's only then she realizes the ultimate rush can't be found in sex, drugs, violence, or even Ally-the source of her rapture is something else entirely.… (more)
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"That's when the orange syringe cap on the street looms godlike. It disappears in a blur under wheels and feet. It rewinds and plays back again and again thirty times, the same piece of plastic, block after block, burning bush, big as shit, alert alert right there in the street, saying, Hi, you need to get fucked up."
Also the ending seemed a little weak. Would she get the stripper, would she meet someone else? No, she biked off into the sunset. Lame. Part of it takes place in NYC, when she's a roadie with a lesbian punk band, the rest is in San Francisco. It captures the scene pretty well I think, from a totally drugged out point of view anyway. I think this type of heroine (no pun intended) is needed in literature, but I wish someone could take it a little further than this book does. As it is, it is a colorful look at the life, with a weak plot and a 'cool' chip on it's shoulder.
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