The first time I interviewed Maya Angelou, in 2002, I got hammered. What was supposed to have been a 45-minute interview in a hotel room near Los Angeles had turned into a 16-hour day, much of it spent in her stretch limo, during which we’d been to lunch, and she had performed. On the way back from Pasadena she asked her assistant, Lydia Stuckey, to get out the whisky.
“Do you want ice and stuff?” Stuckey asked.
“I want some ice, but mostly I want stuff,” said Angelou with a smile, and invited me to join her.