See: Crazy From the Heat: Part One

When David Lee Roth loosed his autobiography, Crazy From the Heat, upon the world last year, he set aside one full page to thank his editor, Paul Scanlon, who cut the Diamond One's opus down from a whopping 1,200 pages to a mere 403.

Surely, this was one of the great intellectual losses of the 20th century - until now. GettingIt heard that Diamond Dave was hard up these days, so we offered him a case of bourbon whiskey, a crate of papayas, and a one-legged Nepali whore in exchange for his old PC. Dave took us up on the deal, and after scouring his hard drive, we are proud to present the lost chapters of Crazy From the Heat.

I've never been a junkie, never been a drunk. I prefer to think of myself as a modern shaman who's able to access past lives and emotions through altered states of consciousness. Like there was this one time in New Guinea when I swallowed a python's adrenal gland and washed it down with mucous from the salivary ducts of a black rhino. I remember passing out and seeing a huge white light off in the distance. I walked toward it for what seemed like days, frothing at the mouth, howling, real primate stuff. Three weeks later some roadies found me in a tree surrounded by pygmies I'd taught to play Gary Glitter songs with nothing but acorns and coconuts. Now that's Rock 'n Roll!

Hey look, for me it was always a black thing. Of course, I'm Jewish, so it's more like a Sammy Davis, Jr. kind of a thing. I get high, sing a little bit, maybe toss off a few karate kicks and I get high some more. It's all in good fun. You won't catch me shooting up Drano and blowing my head off with a shotgun. That's Seattle stuff, total shoe-gazer. I see guys getting into bands with their girlfriends now, and I'm thinking -- what gives? Who do they pick up after the show, a marriage counselor? I guess when you're shackled to some tattooed wildebeest with a nose ring hard drugs seem like a solid option. As for me, I'll take a six-pack of Dom Perignon to go, Jack, and don't forget the onion rings.

There was this one time on tour with Black Sabbath. Ozzy calls me up at four in the morning, says he can't sleep and would I like to do some methamphetamine. Now I might not be a genius, but I figure there won't be a lot of sleeping going on so I brush my teeth just to be sure and I hurry on down to his room. As soon as he sees me he doses me with liquid acid, must be 20 hits or more. Then we start snorting biker's speed, poppers, floor wax, anything. By now my heart is beating like a kettle drum so I down a couple of Quaaludes, some roofies, inhale on a rag soaked in ether and top it off with a formaldehyde joint. Time stands still and in one sick and final moment I break on through to the other side and there is Jim Morrison reading poetry to Joan Baez while she sucks on his toes.

I says, "Jim, it's me, David." He says, "David, I've got three things to say to you -- buy fast, blast first and leave a mutated corpse." I says, "Jim, that doesn't make any fucking sense." He says, "Why do you think they call it dope, anyway?"

By Junior Downey
Junior Downey is the author of Greedy Media: The Blind Leading the Retarded and a past recipient of the PEN/Faulkner award for bad writing.