I’m sitting at a bar halfway down Naked Lunch, high on William S Burroughs, when it dawns on me. There is no naked lunch in Naked Lunch. I pick up my phone to google it and stumble upon a video of a very dapper Burroughs dining with a freakishly pale Andy Warhol. They’re talking about chicken fried steak at the table, and I feel like I’m in the middle of an old Tarantino film, and the video ends. It ends with Nico singing Chelsea Girls at the Chelsea Hotel long after the rest of the Chelsea girls have died, and I feel gratified somehow that I stumbled upon these eight minutes caught on film, and herein lies some of the magic of Naked Lunch.